“But?”
“But I couldn’t stop.” He glances at me, then back at the road. “The warm alpha. The gardener who brings soup and buildsthings and never asks for anything in return. That’s supposed to be me, right?”
“What gave it away? The fact that he’s literally a gardener?”
“The part where he brings the omega homemade soup when she’s sick.” His voice is quieter now. “I remember doing that. Junior year, when you had mono. I made my grandmother’s chicken noodle recipe. Lucas drove me to your house so I could leave it on the porch.”
My throat aches. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything, Cara.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. Like remembering every detail of someone for a decade is just what you do. “I remember you in Mrs. Patterson’s English class, arguing about symbolism in The Great Gatsby until she had to physically stop you. I remember you at prom in that blue dress, dancing with all three of us like we already belonged to you. I remember the way you laughed when Nate tripped during the three-legged race at the fall festival.” He swallows hard. “I remember a lot.”
The silence stretches between us, filled with a decade of memories I wasn’t there for.
“Theo...”
“I know. I know it’s a lot.” He turns onto a smaller road, the truck bouncing slightly over unpaved ground. “I’ve had a decade to think about what I’d say if I ever saw you again. Rehearsed whole conversations in my head. And now you’re here and I can’t remember any of it.”
“What do you remember? From the rehearsals?”
“That I missed you.” His hands tighten on the wheel. “Every single day. For ten years. I missed you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I say nothing, and we drive in silence until the trees open up and I see where he’s taking me.
A greenhouse. Glass walls gleaming in the winter sun, surrounded by snow-covered grounds. Several smaller outbuildings cluster nearby—a potting shed, what looks like a workshop. A small sign reads “Holt Nursery - Closed for Season.”
“This is yours?” I ask.
“Built the main greenhouse myself. Bought the property from the Hendersons when they retired six years ago.” Theo parks and kills the engine, but doesn’t move to get out yet. Snow dusts the glass panels, softening the edges. “Everyone thought I was crazy—twenty-four, sinking everything I had into a nursery. But this place...” He looks at the greenhouse, and something in his face goes soft. Tender. “It’s where I learned that things could grow. That you could put something small in the ground and watch it become something beautiful. I couldn’t let it go to some developer.”
“That’s why you wanted to show me.”
“I wanted you to see the part of me you missed.” He finally meets my eyes. “A lot’s changed. I’ve changed. But I think... I think you might like who I turned out to be.”
Inside,the greenhouse is a revelation.
Green everywhere—plants climbing the walls, filling tables, hanging from the ceiling in macramé holders. The air is warm and humid, smelling like earth and growth and possibility. Condensation beads on the glass panels, turning the winter world outside into a soft blur.
“Theo.” I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is incredible.”
“It’s my favorite place in the world.” He watches me, hope and vulnerability written all over his face. “In the middle of winter, when everything outside is dead and frozen, this is where I come to remember that growth is still happening. That endings aren’t always endings. Things just go dormant for a while.”
“That’s very poetic for a landscaper.”
“I’m a man of hidden depths.” He grins, and there’s the golden retriever I remember from high school—warm and eager and utterly without guile. “Come on. Let me show you.”
He grabs my hand without thinking. Just takes it, laces his fingers through mine, and tugs me toward the first row of plants. Then he freezes, looking down at our joined hands like he’s not sure how they got there.
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to?—”
“Don’t let go.”
His eyes snap to mine. I squeeze his fingers.
His scent wraps around me—pine and earth and warm cedar—and something in my chest loosens. I feel settled. Content in a way I haven’t felt in years. This is where I’m supposed to be. With him. With all of them.
“Show me everything,” I say.
His whole face lights up. He keeps my hand in his as he leads me through the rows, explaining each plant with the enthusiasm of someone sharing their greatest passion. His thumb traces absent circles on my palm while he talks about root systems and bloom cycles. Every touch sends warmth through me—not just arousal, though there’s that too, but something deeper. Recognition. My body remembering what my heart never forgot.
