She turns just enough to put a bit of space between us, her body no longer as open as it was before. Without quite deciding to, I step closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin despite the water. I don’t touch her. Not yet. But my presence is there, steady, unmistakable. “You seem troubled by the thought,” I add quietly. It’s not an accusation but an offering to share her burdens with me.
She deflects at once. “It’s nothing. Just a nuisance. Not worth worrying about. Should we dry off and head inside?”
I pause, studying her a moment longer. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
She turns and wades toward the shoreline. Grabbing her towel, she swiftly wraps it around herself, as though to put a barrier back between us.
I see it not so much in her action, but in the guarded expression she wears.
After drying myself, I rake the towel through my hair.
She glances over and laughs awkwardly.
“What?” I ask.
She steps closer. “Your hair is…” Her fingers lift, hesitating only a second before she rakes them through it, combing it back from my face. “There.”
I return her smile, and then deliberately take her off balance. Bending, I hook her legs in one smooth motion, lifting her easily into my arms. She lets out a startled yelp, hands flying to my shoulders. Her eyes go wide, shock flashing there before something warmer follows.
My intent is to eliminate any wall, mental or otherwise, she intends to put between us.
“Guide me to your bedroom,” I say. “There is so much more I wish to show you.”
She protests halfheartedly, breath uneven.
It isn’t until we cross the threshold of her home that her body softens against mine. Still unaccustomed to this kind of closeness, perhaps—to being in another's arms or coveted so openly. But she yields all the same. And I mean to take great advantage of that compliance.
Following her directions leads me past her well-furnished living room into a decorated hallway and finally to her private space.
It’s immediately clear how personal the space is to her. Because where the rest of the house is a collage of color, a mish-mash of furniture pieces and objects, this is serene.
Bookshelves to my right hold several glass cases. A small bed, barely large enough for us both, dressed in clean off-white sheets and a lavender quilt, with only a few decorative pillows in soft colors. More books are stacked in uneven towers along the floor and sit beside a lantern on the table beside the bed.
Soft light slips through the lace curtains that veil a narrow window, allowing sunlight to filter in. Plants line the far wall, all not merely surviving but thriving.
After I set her gently on the edge of the bed, I wander. In my periphery, I catch her pulling a throw blanket over her legs. I smirk but don’t comment. I have no qualms about nudity, but she clearly does. Something I hope, with time, to relieve her of.
“You like growing things.” It’s an observation, not a question.
“Yes.”
I reach out and brush my fingers along the broad leaf of a ghost orchid, surprised to find it healthy, its pale bloom intact in a world where it should not be. I carefully rub the surface between my fingers. Then I study the thick, twisted growth of a young Welwitschia nearby, its stubborn leaves split and curling, alive through sheer refusal to die.
Both of them should be extinct.
I glance at her again with renewed curiosity.
“These are hard to care for unless you know how.”
She points at a section on the far right of her bookshelf. “Yes, also something I’ve learned through trial and error. Books on herbology have helped.”
I make my way over to the bookshelf. Up close, it’s clear these weren’t gathered for display. They are well used yet cared for. All worn, the titles faded, the binding cracked from frequent use. I pull a few free and flip through them.
Practical Uses of Medicinal Plants.
Gardening Where Nothing Wants to Grow.
