The greenhouse let us go gently—its warmth retreating with the reluctant sigh of moisture against glass, the fragrance of crushed mint and sweet rot dissolving behind us like the last breath of a dream we weren’t entirely ready to wake from. The corridors of Ashwood, by contrast, received us with their usual austerity. Polished stone beneath our boots. Cold air thick with hierarchy. The subtle pressure of unseen eyes. It was like stepping from some forgotten pocket of sanctuary into a world sharpened at every edge.
Callum and I didn’t speak at first. Not out of tension, but reverence. The plan between us—newborn, delicate, still flickering with the tremble of risk—deserved quiet. It was a secret not yet ready to be spoken aloud too many times, lest it lose its shape or turn against us.
T
