I tightened my fingers around his, careful not to squeeze too hard, just enough to confirm the connection between us. "As long as it takes," I whispered, answering his unspoken question. "We have all the time in the world."
The corner of his mouth lifted in the closest thing to a smile I'd seen from him yet—a tiny, fragile thing, but genuine.
In that moment, I understood what Bug had tried to explain in his simple way: this wasn't about belonging to each other. It was about belonging together.
And for now, that was more than enough.
Chapter Eleven
~ Liam ~
I stepped toward the garden as the sunset painted the sky in shades of amber and gold. Each footstep felt weighted with purpose and terror. The notepad Percy had given me pressed against my palm, the edges digging into my skin as I clutched it like a lifeline.
I hadn't planned this conversation, hadn't prepared the words I would write, but the need to explain—to make Rooster understand—had been building inside me since our moment of connection in his room.
The garden behind the clubhouse wasn't much—just a small patch of vegetables, some wildflowers, and a few trees providing shade—but it felt safer than being inside. Open spaces. Multiple escape routes. The plants here had already reached out to me in greeting when I'd passed by earlier, their energy curious but welcoming.
I spotted Rooster sitting on a weathered wooden bench, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the dying light. He hadn't seen me yet. I could still turn and disappear into the shadows, return to the safety of silence and isolation that had protected me for fifteen years.
The clover beneath my feet shifted slightly, pressing upward against my soles.Stay. Speak-truth. Safe-here.
I pulled my hood lower over my face—a habit so ingrained I hardly noticed doing it anymore—and continued forward. My breathing felt shallow, trapped in my chest.
My fingers trembled around the pencil Percy had sharpened for me earlier. "For when words are difficult," he'd said, understanding in a way the others couldn't.
Rooster looked up as I approached, his face transforming with a smile so warm and genuine it made my chest ache.He didn't stand, didn't approach, didn't make any sudden movements that might send me bolting for the trees. He simply stayed where he was, leaving the space beside him open.
An invitation, not a demand.
"Hey, baby boy," he said softly. "Beautiful evening, isn't it?"
I nodded, hovering at the edge of the garden. The sunset cast long shadows across the grass, stretching like fingers between us. I took another step, then another, until I reached the bench.
Instead of sitting beside him, I perched at the far end, maintaining a careful distance. The wooden slats were warm beneath me, holding the day's heat. I opened the notepad, the blank page staring back at me like a challenge.
Where to begin? How to explain the broken pieces of my past to this man who had already seen more of me than anyone in fifteen years?
I started writing, the pencil scratching against paper the only sound besides our breathing and the gentle rustle of leaves above.
"I want you to understand why I ran."
I tore out the page and passed it to him, watching as he read the words, his expression open and attentive.
"You don't owe me any explanations, Liam," he said, handing the page back. "But I'm honored you trust me enough to share."
His response gave me courage. I pressed the pencil harder against the fresh page, words flowing faster now.
"When I was seven, my parents found out I could talk to plants. Not with words. With feelings. Energy. The plants answered back. Dad caught me in the garden telling him the tomatoes were getting too much water. They were dying. I could feel it."
I passed him the note, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was the secret I'd guarded most closely, the strangeness that had marked me as different even.
The grass around our bench grew taller as I wrote, straining upward as if listening. The nearby tomato plants turned their leaves toward me, recognizing the story I was telling. I felt their silent support flowing through the soil beneath my feet.
Rooster read my words carefully, his expression thoughtful rather than disturbed. When he looked up, his brown eyes held only interest, not the disgust or fear I'd expected.
"That's an incredible gift," he said simply.
I blinked, uncertain I'd heard him correctly. Gift? My parents had called it an abomination, a sign that something was deeply wrong with me.
