The quiet in the greenhouse had taken on a different texture.
Not peaceful. Not even still. It was the kind of quiet that came just before a decision—the breath before the blade dropped, the hush before a fire caught. Callum had stopped pacing, and I had stopped pretending not to be pacing. We both stood now, suspended in the soft damp air, surrounded by greenery that paid us no mind. The plants here didn’t care about legacy or pride or betrayal. They just kept growing. I envied them for that.
He leaned back against one of the wooden trellis columns, arms crossed, gaze flicking from the misted windowpanes to the orchid leaves curling gently near his shoulder. His eyes were distant, still caught in the web of options we hadn’t quite untangled yet.
“So,” he said eventually, voice low, lik
