Grey lifts his drink and chuckles. “Love you too, sis.”
Greg
“Rose?” I repeat quietly.
Darby stiffens beside me just enough that I catch it. Her shoulders lift and settle again, the motion practiced, controlled, and she exhales while pretending to keep her attention on the patio instead of me.
“Yep,” she says. “My parents were feeling poetic.”
“You don’t like it,” I tilt my head.
“I didn’t say that.” Her lips press together with a twitch.
“You didn’t have to.”
She glances at me sideways, studying my face like she’s deciding whether to make a joke or not. The noise of the party fades into background static. “It bothered me growing up,” she admits after a second. “A lot.”
My chest tightens. “How?”
She shifts her weight, toe dragging against the stone. “Kids are creative. Every rose has its thorn. Stop and smell the roses. Everything’s coming up roses. Didn’t matter what I did—right, wrong, loud, weird, perfect—someone always had a line ready. And then there were the actual flowers. Every birthday. Prom. Special occasions. First dates. Apology bouquets. Always roses. Like the world decided that was my assigned symbol and nobody thought about me.”
I picture her younger, sharp-tongued and bright-eyed, handed the same thing over and over again while being told it was special. The image sits wrong in my gut.
Understanding settles into me—the Valentine’s disdain, the rose jokes, the way she bristles at anything that feels automatic or assumed. It isn’t about flowers at all. It’s about being reduced to something easy.
“I think I’m finally seeing the whole picture.” I say, my voice dropping. “And yet, you still told me to sweet talk my hybrid.”
Her lips curve despite herself. She shrugs, but her eyes don’t leave mine. “Because it isn’t like the others. You’re trying to make something new. A chocolate rose that’ll outshine a sea of ordinary roses.”
I lean closer, my fingers brushing her arm. “So do you.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re not ordinary,” I tell her. “You show up loud and honest and inconvenient, and somehow the whole room shifts around you. You can’t be boxed in, your shine never dulled. There will only ever be one like you.”
Her breath stutters.
“And,” I add, because stopping feels impossible now, “that’s what I love most about you.”
She freezes. Her eyes search my face, checking for hesitation that isn’t there.
Darby exhales slowly, the sound shaky around the edges. “Well,” she says, voice rougher than before, “that escalated quickly.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. She reaches for my hand. And I don’t let go.
Whether she’s ready to admit it now or not, Darby Rose Hale is my forever Wild Rose.
EPILOGUE – FUTURE
Greg
I come in early out of habit more than optimism, coffee steaming in one hand, notebook tucked under my arm. The greenhouse hums softly around me, heaters clicking on and off, rows of winter stock glowing under grow lights that feel too bright for how tired I am. The hybrid sits exactly where it has every day, leaves glossy, stems strong and stubbornly green.
I haven’t even shrugged out of my coat yet when something feels… off.
I lean closer. Then closer still. There are buds. More than one.
Dark, tight curls at the tips of several stems, glossy and swollen and unmistakably not there when I locked up last night. My brain lags behind my eyes, cataloging the data automatically—temperature unchanged, light cycle steady, moisture levels identical to yesterday—before the rest of me catches up and I just stand, staring in awe.
