The garden air is calm now. Soft, warm with the weight of afternoon. The sun sits high, but beneath the shade of the old oak tree, the light breaks into quiet fragments, scattered across the grass and stone.

White roses line the edges of the garden—carefully planted, precisely spaced. Their petals catch the sunlight, clean and bright, holding it without excess. The morning dew is gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of earth and something soft blooming in the heat.

The stone path cuts clean lines through the garden, leading toward the house—everything placed exactly where it belongs.

I sit on the couch beneath the shade, leaning back with my eyes closed, relaxed. The cushions are cool against my skin. A book rests in my lap—leather-bound, its pages smooth and well-kept.

I’m not reading it. Not really.

My finger taps lightly against the page. A quiet rhythm. Slow. Easy. The kind that lets a mind drift.

This garden has always been my favorite place.

Here, there are no minds to read. No thoughts pressing against mine like hands against glass. Just the whisper of leaves. The distant call of birds. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything of me.

My hair shifts in the breeze. A soft smile touches my lips. For a moment—I forget. Then—

I feel it. Before I open my eyes, I know. Him.

The air changes. The light shifts. Something settles into the space between the roses and the shade, and the silence that was mine becomes something else.

Shared. Broken. His.

My smile fades.

I told him not to disturb me.

My eyes open slowly. I don’t turn my head or acknowledge him. My gaze stays fixed on a rose in the distance—white against green, trembling in the breeze like it’s trying to tell me something.

"What are you doing here?"

His footsteps are soft, careful. The grass barely whispers beneath his shoes as he steps forward and stops in front of me—close enough that his shadow stretches across the ground, long and thin in the afternoon light.

I look at him.

My gaze moves from head to toe—slow, unhurried—taking in details I don’t want to notice. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

The notebook in his hands. The pen clutched too tightly between his fingers, like it might slip away. His eyes downcast, fixed on the ground—anywhere but me. The pearl necklace rests against his throat, white against pale skin, catching the light with every breath.

He’s still wearing it.

My voice is quiet. Flat. The kind of quiet that comes before something breaks.

"Didn’t I tell you not to disturb me?"

He looks up.

His expression is sad. Not dramatic. Not pleading. Just... sad. The kind that lingers—like a sky before rain, heavy with something unshed.

He opens the notebook and writes quickly, his pen moving in small, hurried strokes. He tears the page and holds it out to me.

I glance down at the note, then back at his face. Then down again. Slowly, reluctantly, I take it.

I’m sorry for disturbing you. Can we talk?

I look at him. "What do you want to talk about?"

He writes another note and hands it to me. His fingers tremble—just slightly, just enough to notice.

About yesterday.

Did I do something terrible when I was drunk?

Another note. Quicker this time.

If I did something, please don’t be angry. I’m not good at drinking. I’m sorry.

I look at him. Really look.

At the way his lashes cast faint shadows across his cheeks. At the slight tremble in his fingers around the pen. At the way he’s trying to fix something he doesn’t even understand.

I let the silence stretch between us.

"Yes."

My voice is flat. Final.

"You did something terrible."

"And I won’t forgive you."

He looks down. The sadness deepens—pulling at the corners of his mouth, settling around his eyes. He writes again, tears the page, and holds it out.

Please forgive me.

I crumple the note in my fist. The paper makes a soft, sharp sound—like something breaking.

"No."

I lower my gaze to the book and turn a page I haven’t read, pretending the words mean something.

He writes again. Another note. Another offering. His hand extends toward me—patient, persistent, unwavering.

I don’t take it.

Instead—

I close my book. The leather shifts softly beneath my fingers as I set it aside on the couch—careful, deliberate.

I stand.

The grass is cool beneath my bare feet, still damp in the shade. I step forward.

Silas looks at me. Confusion flickers across his face—his brow tightening, his lips parting slightly.

I move closer.

The note slips from his fingers, falling to the grass between us—white against green.

Our eyes lock.

I stop—close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown irises. Close enough to feel the warmth of his skin.

My voice is low. Almost a whisper. Almost gentle. But the words aren’t.

"You know what this marriage has been like for me." A pause. "You should understand—it’s against my will."

Another pause. "I never wanted it."

"I never wanted you."

Silas doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. He just listens.

"Stop bothering me." My voice hardens. "Or I’ll make you suffer in ways you can’t imagine."

A breath.

"Do you understand?"

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t shake his head. He just stands there—silent, still, watching me with those impossible eyes.

I turn and walk back toward the house. The grass whispers beneath my feet. The roses remain still. The sun burns on, indifferent.

His hand reaches out— and catches my sleeve. Just the fabric. Just the edge. Enough to stop me without touching my skin.

I stop. Calm. Controlled.

I look back at him.

He writes quickly—faster than before, as if the words might slip away if he doesn’t catch them. He tears the page and holds it out to me.

I glance down at the note.

Stubborn.

I’ve already made it clear—I don’t like him. And he’s still trying.

My gaze lingers on the paper—annoyed, tired, heavy with something I don’t care to name.

I take it.

I know our first meeting wasn’t good.

But can we start again?