"Are you going to stand in the doorway all day?" I ask.
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or amusement. "My brother used to do this. Stand at the threshold, afraid to come in."
"Why afraid?"
"I don't know. Dmitri never liked soft things. Gardens, flowers—he thought they were weaknesses." Misha pauses. "I think he was afraid if he got too close, he'd start wanting them."
"And you?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then he steps inside, crossing the threshold like it costs him something.
"I used to come here all the time. When I was young. My mother would bring me, teach me about the plants." He moves slowly down the aisle, his eyes scanning the debris and decay. "I haven't been inside since she died."
"Seventeen years."
"Seventeen years," he confirms.
I watch him move through the space, touching leaves and stems with surprising gentleness. His hands are large, scarred, capable of violence I've only glimpsed. But here, among the dead and dying plants, they're careful. Tender, almost.
"She wrote about you," I say. "In the journal. I didn't read much—just the inscription. But there were sketches. Notes."
He stops beside the fern I've been nursing. "She was always writing. Always drawing. She said it helped her make sense of things."
"Did it?"
"I don't know. I was thirteen. I didn't pay attention to what she was trying to make sense of." His voice is rough. "I wish I had."
The regret in his words is so raw that I feel it in my own chest. I know that feeling—the ache of things unsaid, chances missed, understanding that comes too late.
"You couldn't have known," I say quietly. "None of us can know what's coming."
He looks at me then, really looks, and the intensity of his gaze makes my breath catch. There's something different in his eyes today. The ice is still there, but there's heat beneath it now. Something molten and barely contained.
"She would have liked you," he says.
"You don't know that."
"I do." He takes a step closer, and suddenly the greenhouse feels smaller. "She would have liked your stubbornness. Your refusal to be managed. Your—" He stops, shakes his head. "She always said the best things in life were the ones that refused to be tamed."
Like the wildflowers he brought her, growing through cracks in stone.
"Is that what you think I am?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Untamed?"
"I think you're the most stubborn woman I've ever met." Another step closer. "I think you've been through hell in the past week and you're still standing. Still fighting." His eyes drop to my hands, dirt-stained and calloused now. "Still trying to grow something beautiful in the middle of all this ugliness."
My heart is pounding. I can feel my pulse in my throat, my wrists, the palms of my hands. He's close enough now that I can smell him—cedar and smoke and something darker, something that makes my stomach clench.
"I need to keep working," I manage.
"Let me help."
"What?"
"I can help." He shrugs off his sweater, revealing a simple black t-shirt beneath, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way the fabric stretches across his chest. "Tell me what to do."
I should say no. Should send him away, maintain the distance that keeps me safe. But the words won't come.
"There's a pot over there," I hear myself say. "Heavy. I couldn't move it by myself."
