Ours.
She said ours.
Not mine and yours. Not her side and my side. Ours, singular, like the property border between us stopped existing somewhere between the beetle swarm and the falling tree and the dark garage where she breathedyesinto the two inches of air between our mouths.
"These plans are permanent," I say.
She stops gesturing. "What?"
"The root integration in Phase One. The pollinator corridor. The vine wrap on the archway. These aren't competition plans. This is a ten-year garden. Minimum. The mycorrhizal network alone needs three seasons to fully establish."
She looks at the cards. Then at me. The gold flecks in her eyes catch the low sun and ignite.
"I know."
"You designed a decade-long garden for a twelve-day competition."
"I designed a garden I want tolive in." Her chin lifts. That defiant jut. The same angle she aimed at Valerius. "If that's a problem, you can write me a citation."
I didn't write her a citation. Instead, we spent the next ten days building it. Phase by phase, shoulder to shoulder, we turned those seventeen laminated cards into a living ecosystem.Powered by the magical shimmerloam we retrieved from the ravine, a decade of root integration and botanical growth manifested in just over a week.
By the eve of the competition, the wild chaos and geometric structure had fused into something spectacular.
We are standing in the center of it as the sun sets, exhausted and covered in soil, when my runes all ignite at once. Green light floods the yard. Paints the archway. Throws our shadows long and tangled across the paradise we built together. The cedar groans under my weight. My arms cage her completely, forearms glowing, tattoos pulsing in rhythm with the heartbeat I can't slow down, green light spilling across her cheeks and turning the potting soil on her skin into something that looks like war paint.
She's trapped.
Between the rough wood and my heaving body, with seventeen laminated phases of a shared future crumpling slowly in her white-knuckled grip.
Her breath comes fast. Shallow. Warm against my throat.
"Flynn."
"Tell me about Phase Fourteen."
"It's the water feature."
"Permanent?"
"Stone-lined. With a recirculating pump." Her gaze drops to my mouth. Snaps back up. "Built-in filtration."
"Long-term investment."
"Very long-term."
My right hand leaves the trellis. Finds the fallen overall strap. Rough green fingers against freckled skin. I slide it back up her shoulder. Slow. Let my knuckle drag along the collarbone.
Her cards hit the dirt.
All seventeen.
"You're staying," I say. Not a question.
"I'm staying."
The trellis creaks behind her. My shadow swallows hers whole.
CHAPTER 11
