"It's fine," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "So... what did you want to know about?"
Garrett's smile widened slightly, like he knew I was trying to keep things strictly business and found it amusing. "Everything," he said simply. "Show me your world, Daphne. I want to understand what makes it work."
And despite myself, all my carefully constructed walls, boundaries, and rules about staying uninvolved—I found myself wanting to show him.
"Alright," I said, gesturing toward the garden. "Let's start with the basics."
We walked through the garden in silence for the first few moments, me leading the way down the neat rows of herbs and early spring vegetables. Garrett followed a respectful step behind, his presence warm but not overwhelming. I could feel his attention on everything—the way I'd organized the plants, the trellises I'd built from reclaimed wood, the careful spacing that allowed each thing to thrive.
"You've got a system," he observed, and I glanced back to see him studying a row of lavender with genuine interest.
"Everything needs its own space," I said, kneeling to check the soil moisture around the base of a rosemary plant. "Too close together and they compete for nutrients. Too far apart and you're wasting land."
He crouched beside me, and I caught the scent of him—clean soap and something woodsy, like cedar. It was distracting in a way that annoyed me.
"Makes sense," he said. "Same principle as managing a forest, really. Thinning out the weak trees so the strong ones have room to grow."
I hadn't expected him to make that connection. Most people saw gardening as something quaint, separate from "real" work.But he was looking at my garden like it was a carefully managed ecosystem, which is exactly what it was.
"The soil here is good," I found myself explaining, relaxing slightly despite my intentions. "Acidic enough for the blueberries I'm planning, rich enough for most vegetables. I amend it every season with compost from my own scraps."
"No outside fertilizers?" He asked, voice filled with curiosity.
"Not if I can help it. I like knowing exactly what goes into the ground." I stood, brushing dirt from my knees. "Same with pest control. I plant marigolds and nasturtiums to keep the bugs away, and use companion planting instead of chemicals."
Garrett rose with me, his eyes tracking to the riot of orange and yellow flowers scattered throughout the garden. "Smart. And beautiful."
The way he said it made heat creep up my neck. He wasn't just talking about the flowers.
"The greenhouse is over here," I said quickly, needing to move, to do something with my hands. "That's where I start most things from seed."
I led him to the small glass structure, pushing open the door. Inside, the air was warm and humid, fragrant with the green scent of growing things. Rows of seedlings stretched across the tables in various stages of development, each one labeled with careful handwriting.
Garrett stepped inside, and the space suddenly felt much smaller. He moved between the tables with care, examining the seedlings without touching.
"This is impressive," he said, and there was something in his voice that made me look up. He was watching me, not the plants. "You really built this all this yourself." It wasn’t a question, but a statement of the facts.
"Over time," I said, uncomfortable with the admiration in his gaze. "It wasn't all at once. Five years of trial and error."
"Five years alone out here." His voice was soft.
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes."
"By choice?" I met his eyes then, saw the question beneath the question. He wanted to know why. Why I'd chosen solitude, why I'd built walls so high, why I bristled at the mere suggestion of letting someone in.
"By choice," I said firmly.
He nodded slowly, accepting it without pressing. "Must get lonely sometimes though."
"I have everything I need," I replied, perhaps too defensively.
"I didn't say you didn't." His tone was gentle, non-confrontational. "I just meant... it's a lot of work for one person. Don't you ever want help?"
I turned back to the seedlings, using them as an excuse to break eye contact. "Help comes with expectations. People want something in return—attention, conversation, access. I've found it's easier to just do things myself."
"Not all help comes with strings attached." He said, making me want to curl my lip at him.
"In my experience, it does." The words came out more bitter than I'd intended, and I felt Garrett's attention sharpen. But he didn't push, didn't pry. He just stood there in the warm greenhouse air, giving me space to breathe.
