She nodded, a quick jerk of her chin, and reached for the door that presumably led to her apartment entrance.
He should let her go. He should say goodnight, walk home, pour himself a drink, and try very hard not to think about the way she'd tasted. Wine and honey.
Instead, he found himself stepping toward the trellis.
"You grew all this yourself?" he asked, reaching out to brush his fingers along one of the rose vines.
She paused, her hand on the door. "Yes. Right after I took… Right after I moved in."
"It's beautiful."
"Thank you."
His hand moved almost without his permission, his fingers trailing along the length of the vine. He could feel the life in it, the dormant energy waiting to be released. The magic that lived in his blood—the same magic that made his vineyard flourish, that coaxed impossible harvests from stubborn soil—stirred in response.
*Show her,*something whispered.*Show her what you can do.*
It was a risk. He knew that. Some humans reacted badly to monster magic, especially when it was unexpected. But she wasn't some humans. She was a woman who had dedicated her life to growing things, to coaxing beauty from soil and seed. If anyone would understand…
He let the magic flow. Just a trickle, really, a suggestion rather than a command. He breathed warmth into the vine, encouraged the sap to rise, whispered to the tightly furled buds that it was safe to open.
The first rose bloomed within seconds.
Then another. And another. The jasmine followed, white stars unfurling along the trellis in a cascade that released a wave of sweetness into the evening air. Within moments, the entire side of the building had transformed from spring potential to full summer glory.
He turned to look at her.
She had stopped moving. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked completely unguarded. There was genuine, unfiltered wonder in her face and something else that made his breath catch.
"How did you—" She stepped closer, reaching out to touch one of the roses. "That's not possible. They weren't anywhere close to blooming. I checked them this morning."
"Satyr magic." He shrugged, trying for casual despite the way his heart was hammering. "We have an affinity for growing things. Especially vines."
"You can just… make flowers bloom?"
"Sometimes. If the plant is willing." He moved closer to her, drawn by the astonishment in her eyes. "They wanted to bloom for you. I just gave them permission."
She was staring at him now, really staring, her careful walls momentarily forgotten. The jasmine-scented air wrapped around them both, and the roses glowed pale pink in the fading light, and she was so close, so impossibly close?—
He reached out to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. It was an impulse, pure and simple, the same impulse that had driven him to make the flowers bloom. He wanted to see her react to his touch the way the vines had reacted to his magic.
Instead, she flinched backwards. The wonder vanished from her face, replaced by something harder. Her walls slammed back into place so fast he could almost hear them.
"Goodnight, Thallos," she said, and her voice was steady, controlled, and utterly without warmth.
"Marigold—"
"Thank you for walking me home. I'll see you at the next committee meeting."
She was gone before he could respond, disappearing through the doorway with quick, purposeful steps. He stood alone in the flower-scented darkness, staring at the trellis he'd brought to life.
*You pushed too fast,*he told himself.*Again. You always push too fast.*
But even as he berated himself, even as he turned and began the walk back to his vineyard, he couldn't quite regret it. Because he'd seen her face when the flowers bloomed. He'd seen the wonder, the delight, the brief and precious moment when she'd forgotten to be afraid.
She was worth waiting for.
She was worth being patient for.
