Quillan went on, a touch of fondness in his tone, unaware of the storm of confusion swirling behind Mira’s eyes.

  “I met him about a year ago, you know. He came knocking one rainy morning, asking if I had the rare plant he needed. Said it was for some research on photosynthesis in extremophiles, or maybe bioluminescence—I forget which.”

  “Photosynthesis,” Adrian corrected, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  “Yes, that.” Quillan chuckled, pouring more tea. “Anyway, he’d asked one of the professors at the university, and the fellow told him—half-joking, mind you—to seek out ‘the crazy plant artist who lives in a Monet painting.’ So here he came, mud on his boots, serious as a monk, eyes like a hawk.”

  Mira let out a laugh, but it was breathless. She tried to reconcile the image of Adrian—the cold logic machine of the debate hall—standing on a porch with mud on his boots, looking for a flower.

  “That… actually sounds about right,” she managed.

  “Since then,” Quillan continued, gesturing toward the trellises, “he’s become something of a partner. I share rare specimens, and he helps me test water quality, track soil pH, even designed a few microclimate sensors. Brilliant work, really. You’d never guess it looking at him fiddling with vines.”

  Adrian looked entirely too comfortable in this soft, green world. “Thanks, I think.”

  Quillan grinned. “You’re welcome.”

  Adrian lowered his hands, the wire slipping gently to rest against his wrist again. He looked up, and for the first time, his amber eyes locked fully onto hers. His voice was calm, dry, and just a touch playful.

  “…Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Mira blinked, her pulse doing a strange little stutter. Seeing him in a suit was one thing; seeing him here, with sunlight filtering through leaves onto his hair, his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, was entirely another. She felt caught, like she’d stumbled into a private room she wasn’t meant to see.

  “Neither did I…” she said.

  Quillan blinked with mild curiosity. “Wait, you two know each other?”

  Mira hesitated, panic flaring for a split second. How did she explain them? Rivals? Enemies? Debate partners?

  “Uh, yeah—we’re in the same class,” she blurted out, grasping for something neutral. “And the same… Rare Plant Club, actually.”

  Adrian gave a small, imperceptible nod, folding his arms loosely. “We’ve worked on a few group projects.”

  “Ah,” Quillan said, clearly amused, “a classroom connection. That explains the mutual surprise.” He clapped his hands once, gently. “Well then, I’ll leave you two to chat while I check the watering system. Mira, don’t let him brush you off with short answers—he’s more interesting than he pretends.”

  He gave them both a sly wink, then turned and disappeared down a narrow, fern-lined path, whistling softly under his breath.

  The silence that fell was instant and heavy, filled with the rustle of leaves and the sudden, overwhelming awareness of being alone with him.

  Mira tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers fidgeting. She needed to break the tension before she did something stupid, like stare at his hands again.

  “Didn’t know you’re also a botanist now,” she said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near accusatory. “What are you doing here?”

  Adrian smiled without turning, his fingers lightly brushing a tendril of vine with a delicacy that made her stomach flip. “Just as you see—a part-time botanist. And you? A wanderer? Already bored with the beehive?”

  Mira’s pout was immediate and defensive. “Don’t ever mention the beehive to me. That happened once.”

  He gave her a sideways glance, his eyes crinkling. “Once is all it takes.”

  “Me and Mr. Quillan,” she said with mock dignity, lifting her chin, “just artist meeting artist.”

  He gave a small chuckle at that. It was a low, rumble of a sound that seemed to vibrate through the humid air.

  She tilted her head, genuinely curious now. “Do you come here often?”

  Adrian straightened slightly, squinting toward a far trellis. “Sometimes. Not very often. Just… right enough to meet an unexpected guest, I guess.”

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  Mira felt heat rise in her cheeks. Was that… a compliment? She quickly plastered on a teasing smile. “What a coincidence, huh. Need any help?”

  He glanced down at his hands, one still wrapped around a long-stemmed vine. “Almost done, actually. Besides…” He looked back at her, dry humor dancing in his gaze. “The fact that you’re standing still is already helping.”

  Mira narrowed her eyes at him. “Hey—what’s that supposed to mean? I’m really helpful, you know.”

  Adrian grinned. “Sure. Spiritually, maybe.”

  Mira rolled her eyes, leaning her head back to look at the crisscrossing canopy of vines to avoid looking at his grin. “What happens here in winter?”

  Without looking away from the cluster of leaves in his hand, Adrian replied, “Most of these plants go into dormancy—kind of like winter-sleeping. They’ll wake up in spring. But I’ll have to help Quillan prepare some coverings, supports, move the more fragile ones inside. Snowfall can be rough. So… still a lot to do today.”

  Mira watched the way he tested the tension of a support wire. “You really help him with all that?”

  He glanced at her, noticing the shift in her tone. “Why not?”

  “I just… didn’t know you did, you know… humanity-type activities,” she said, the tease soft, genuine curiosity winning out.

  Adrian chuckled under his breath. “I’m not a hermit.”

  “Debatable,” Mira muttered with a smile.

  “You don’t have class today?” he asked, adjusting a support string.

  “Canceled,” she said, reaching out to pop a seed pod on a nearby branch, needing something to do with her hands. “Felt like a sign to go wandering.”

  Adrian nodded. “Good call.”

  She looked around the lush enclosure. “Did you walk here?”

  “Yeah,” he said, stepping back to check the alignment of the plant structure. “Not that far if you cut through the old orchard path. Peaceful walk.”

  Mira hummed, trying to picture Adrian Vale, the king of efficiency, strolling through an old orchard. “Sounds… poetic.”

  Adrian shrugged. “Depends on the playlist.”

  She laughed, the sound soft and genuine, and for a moment, the tension eased into something warm.

  “There you two are—chatting instead of working, hmm?”

  Mira jumped slightly as Mr. Quillan approached, holding a sunhat.

  “I hate to ask a guest for help, Mira, especially on your first visit,” he began, “but would you mind giving me a hand? The forecast’s been odd, and they’re saying winter might come earlier this year. I could use help moving some of the more vulnerable plants into the in-house greenhouse.”

  “Oh—of course! I’d love to help,” Mira said, perking up, grateful for a task that didn’t involve just standing there being perceived by Adrian. “Where should I start?”

  “You’re a gem,” Quillan said. “Just pop your things in the house first, then I’ll show you what needs to go.”

  Mira gave Adrian a quick look—part “I told you I was helpful,” part “help me”—before heading toward the house.

  The greenhouse held the heavy, sweet scent of warm earth and greenery. Mira stood at the workbench while Quillan crouched a few steps away, hunched over a tray of lemon verbena; their spindly stems were tipped with curled, withered leaves.

  An hour later, they were sitting in Quillan’s living room. It was a cozy space, smelling of sandalwood and old paper. They sat around a low table, Mira cross-legged, Adrian stretching his long legs out comfortably.

  Quillan poured tea, sighing contentedly. “Lucky to have the two of you here today. I’m getting too old to keep everything in shape, and this garden isn’t exactly shrinking.”

  Mira smiled, blowing on her tea to hide the fact that she was hyper-aware of Adrian’s knee being just inches from hers. “It’s beautiful. Really. I feel like I walked into a different world.”

  Adrian reached lazily for a pastry on the central plate. At the exact same moment, Mira, distracted by her own thoughts, reached for the same one.

  Their fingers brushed.

  Warm skin against warm skin. An electric jolt shot up Mira’s arm, startling her so much she physically jerked back.

  “Oh—sorry—!” she stammered, her face instantly flaming.

  Adrian glanced at her, his hand pausing mid-air. One brow lifted in maddening amusement. “Didn’t know the pastries were so competitive.”

  Mira, flustered and mortified, grabbed a completely different pastry without even looking at it. “You were taking too long,” she muttered, staring intensely at the flaky crust as if it held the secrets of the universe.

  He smirked, picking up the contested pastry and returning his attention to a postcard in his other hand.

  Desperate to recover, Mira dove into the collection of postcards on the table. “They’re so detailed,” she murmured, her voice a little higher than usual. “It’s like you painted them with a microscope.”

  Quillan chuckled. “Close. A magnifying glass, a thermos of tea, and plenty of patience.”

  She hovered over a glowing vine illustration. “This one looks like something from a dream.”

  Adrian, still watching her over the rim of his teacup, spoke softly. “You look like a kid in a candy store.”

  Mira shot him a glare, though it lacked any real heat. “Shush. This is better than candy. It’s—like—if candy taught you the secrets of the forest.”

  Quillan laughed. “You’ve got the spirit, Mira.”

  As the sunlight dipped lower, casting long, golden shadows across the floor, the atmosphere settled. But Mira could still feel Adrian’s gaze on her, heavy and constant.

  Quillan tapped a finger against a sketchbook, then rose to retrieve a small canvas from a drawer. He laid it gently on the table. A dandelion, half-dispersed, frozen in a breath of wind.

  “This one’s recent,” Quillan said softly. “For a charity auction in Kyoto... hospice clinic. They ask artists to send a short reflection with the piece. I’ve tried a few drafts but… nothing quite lands. I was wondering if either of you might help me find the words.”

  Mira straightened, the beauty of the painting momentarily cutting through her fluster. “I’d love to try. It’s beautiful.”

  Quillan smiled, relief washing over his face. “Thank you. I thought… you might understand the tone it needs.”

  He stood up, gathering the empty cups. “I’ll leave you two to it. I need to check on the greenhouse heating anyway.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, just smiled and walked away, the floorboards creaking gently under his steps.