He swallows. “And a bench where you can sit and plant things. Or drink tea. Or do whatever you want.”
My fingers shake over the braille again.
Hello Violet. Welcome home.
Home.
Something inside me melts.
The air shifts, not windy, not cold, just different, like the whole garden has leaned in to listen. Like every leaf and every grain of moss and every hand-carved braille marker is holding quiet so I can hear him breathe.
His fingers tighten around mine, then loosen, then tighten again the way a man touches something precious and still can’t believe he’s allowed to.
“Violet,” he says softly, and God, his voice makes my knees weak. “I wanted to give you a place that’s yours. That feels safe. That feels like…” He stops and brushes his lips over my knuckles. “Like the world didn’t get smaller when you lost your sight.”
My breath catches.
It’s not pity or apology. It’s understanding.
The kind that comes from someone who listens with his whole soul.
I lift our hands, guiding his palm to my cheek. “Jason,” I whisper, “it didn’t get smaller. It just got… different.”
He exhales shakily, brushing the apple of my cheek with his thumb. “You make it sound like that’s a good thing.”
“It can be. It is. Especially when someone builds me a freaking moss-lined braille gazebo.”
He huffs a laugh, choked, warm, disbelieving. “I didn’t know what else to do. I wanted you to have something beautiful.”
“I already do,” I murmur.
He freezes, goes absolutely still. Like the world stopped mid-breath.
“Violet.” My name is nothing more than a breath falling from his lips.
My heart does that fluttery, reckless thing it does only around him. I feel his pulse under our joined hands, fast, strong, terrified in a way that has nothing to do with wolves and everything to do with me.
I lean forward until my forehead touches his chest again, his heartbeat steady against my skin.
“You make my world bigger,” I say into the fabric over his heart. “Not smaller.”
His hands slide up my arms, slow and warm. I lift my chin. “Jason,” I whisper, “it’s okay.”
His fingers cup my jaw so carefully, like he’s terrified he’ll break me, and when he speaks again, his voice is raw enough to scrape the air:
“I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“God, Violet…”
His breath touches my lips. Not kissing. Not yet. Just hovering.
Close enough that I feel him tremble. Close enough that if I lean an inch, everything changes.
“Welcome home, Violet,” he whispers into my hair. “Go on. Explore.”
I feather my fingers over the polished wood. “Garden south entrance,” I read aloud, voice trembling. My other hand finds another set of markers. “Gazebo north alcove. Oh, Jason…”
