Natalie straightens and looks at me, and there's understanding in her brown eyes. Like she heard everything I didn't say.
"Without the hard parts," she finishes softly.
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Something like that."
She wanders deeper into the greenhouse, stopping at each section to ask questions. What does this one do? How long until that one's ready to harvest? Can you really make tea from these?
I answer all of them. Find myself talking more than I have in months, explaining the properties of each plant, the best conditions for growth, the way traditional medicine and modern science intersect in ways most people never consider.
She listens like she's actually interested. Not polite interest, not waiting for her turn to speak. Real, genuine curiosity that makes me want to keep talking.
When was the last time someone wanted to hear what I had to say?
"You love this." She says it like a discovery. "I can hear it in your voice."
"Took me a while to figure out." I finish with the echinacea and wipe my hands on my jeans. "After I left the Army, I didn't know who I was without a mission. Tried a bunch of things. Drinking didn't help. Isolation made it worse. Then I started growing herbs and realized I could still heal people without watching them die."
The words come out easier than expected. Maybe because she doesn't look at me with pity. Doesn't rush to reassure me or change the subject.
"I used to teach." Natalie's voice is quiet. "Elementary school. Third grade."
"Yeah?"
"I loved it. The kids were..." She pauses, something painful crossing her face. "Kevin made me quit. Said it wasn't appropriate for his wife to work. That I should focus on making a home for us."
I keep my expression neutral even as anger burns in my chest. "That what you wanted?"
"No. But by then I'd stopped knowing what I wanted. Stopped thinking I had the right to want anything." She shakes her head. "Sorry. That's probably more than you needed to know."
"Hey." I wait until she meets my eyes. "You can tell me anything. Or nothing. Whatever you need."
That phrase keeps slipping out around her. Whatever you need. Like I've appointed myself responsible for her wellbeing.
Maybe I have.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, and I see her weighing something. Making a decision.
"I started writing," she says finally. "After I left. Children's books. Nothing published, just... stories. It helps."
"Can I read one sometime?"
The surprise on her face tells me she didn't expect that question. "You'd want to?"
"Wouldn't ask if I didn't."
Her smile is small but real, and it does something to my chest that I'm not ready to examine.
"Maybe." She turns back to the plants, running her fingers through a pot of lavender. "Someday."
We work together for the next hour. I show her how to transplant seedlings without damaging the roots, how to test soil pH, how to prune herbs to encourage growth. She picks it up fast, her small hands careful and precise.
I try not to notice how natural she looks here. Try not to imagine her in this greenhouse every morning, sunlight in her hair, dirt on her fingers.
Dangerous thoughts. She's healing. She's vulnerable. The last thing she needs is me developing feelings I have no business having.
"Cade?"
I look up to find her watching me, a smudge of soil on her cheek.
