I smile faintly. She’s been with my family for years—sharp as a whip and terrifying when she wants to be.
Me:
We’ll be there this evening. Make sure there’s food waiting. Something she’ll like.
Mabel:
Understood. I’ll handle it.
I’m about to close the thread when movement catches my eye.
A tiny old woman with a gray bun and a floral cardigan shuffles down the sidewalk, clutching a leash. At the other end of it trots a scrappy little dog with a pink bow.
She glances toward my car. I lift a polite hand.
Her glare could cut glass.
I let my hand drop and mutter, “Guess that’s Olga.”
Fifteen more minutes pass before the building door opens again.
And then—
Sabrina steps out.
She’s dressed simple: a fitted cream sweater that brushes her hips, high-waisted denim shorts that show off miles of long, freckled legs, and white sneakers that somehow make her look both soft and dangerous. Her hair’s loose, catching in the sunlight like fire.
She’s carrying a small duffel, nothing fancy. Just her.
And for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
No makeup. No pretense. Just Sabrina—beautiful in a way that doesn’t try to be.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
I’ve seen models, actresses, women polished to perfection for cameras and business deals. But none of them ever hit me like this.
Like she’s not just beautiful—she’s alive.
I drive us out past the edge of the city where the noise fades into something softer. Miles of open space, winding trails, and blooming gardens tucked into the kind of hidden spot you only find by accident or money.
Sabrina’s been pressed to the window since we turned off the highway, her red hair catching light like flame every time the sun hits it. When we park and step out, she inhales deep—like she’s been waiting to breathe fresh air all her life.
“This is… beautiful,” she says softly.
I glance over at her. “I figured you’d like it.”
“You figured right.” She grins. “You don’t seem like the walking-garden type, though.”
“I’m not,” I admit. “But you are.”
That earns me a side glance and the faintest blush before she starts walking ahead, her hand trailing along a line of blooming hydrangeas.
We walk for a while without saying much. The quiet here isn’t uncomfortable—it’s steady, peaceful.
Eventually, she speaks. “My sister used to love gardens. Ariana. She’s always been softer than me.”
The way she says it makes me slow my pace.
