—Natasha's POV—
Reality dissolved, then reconstituted itself in hyper-definition. It wasn't a shift in perspective; it was a violent upgrade of every sense, as if I’d been living my life wearing a blindfold and earplugs that were suddenly ripped away. It began with a scent-assault. The humid greenhouse air wasn't just damp; it was a layered tapestry. I could separate the loamy decay of the potting soil from the sharp, clean scent of vermiculite.
I could smell the sweet, cloying perfume of a hidden orchid, the bitter tang of fertilizer, the faint, coppery hint of old water in the pipes. I could smell Enzo—not just his soap, but the clean sweat on his skin, the faint, sun-warmed cotton of his shirt, the unique, slightly metallic signature of his adrenaline as he watched me.
Further out,
