Dinner passed in a blur of plans and possibilities. Ana detailed the programs she wanted to implement, Vincent offering psychology journal references about trauma-informed approaches, me mentally documenting additional security measures we'd need for her international travel.
After dessert, Ana yawned dramatically. "I should get home. Early meeting with the transition team tomorrow."
I walked her to the door while Vincent cleared dishes.
"It's strange, isn't it?” she said at the door. “Building something new after everything?"
"Strange," I agreed. "But good."
After she left, I found Vincent in the greenhouse, checking his plants one last time before bed. The glass structure glowed from within, a crystal box filled with life. I leaned against the doorframe, watching him.
He moved methodically from plant to plant, touching leaves, checking soil moisture. My therapist with his green thumb, nurturing everything from traumatized assassins to temperamental ferns.
"You're staring," he said without turning around.
"Admiring," I corrected, entering the warm, humid space. "There's a difference."
He glanced over his shoulder, smile playing at his lips. "And what are you admiring exactly?"
I moved behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. "Everything."
Vincent relaxed against me, his head falling back against my shoulder. "Ana's news got to you."
"It's a lot to process," I admitted. "I never thought we'd have this—any of this. I didn't think I'd live this long, let alone see my sister reclaiming her power."
"You helped make it possible," he reminded me, turning in my arms to face me. "By choosing a different path."
I kissed him slowly, pouring into it everything I couldn't articulate—gratitude, wonder, love so intense it still frightened me sometimes. His hands came up to frame my face, holding me with the same care he showed his plants.
The kiss deepened, my tongue exploring his mouth hungrily. Vincent responded instantly, pressing closer, his body aligning perfectly with mine. The humid air of the greenhouse wrapped around us, intensifying every sensation, every scent.
"Here?" he asked against my lips, surprised but not objecting.
I responded by backing him against the central workbench, lifting him onto its edge. Seedlings and garden tools scattered as Vincent grabbed my shoulders for balance, laughing breathlessly.
"Your plants," I murmured, suddenly concerned.
"They'll survive," he replied, pulling me between his legs. "I'm more worried about your patience."
I grinned, hands already working at his belt. "I can be patient when it matters."
His fingers tangled in my hair as I dropped to my knees, looking up at him from between his thighs. The trust in his eyes still staggered me. This man knew exactly what I was, what I'd done, yet welcomed me into his body, his life, his heart.
"Beautiful," I murmured, tugging his pants down just enough to free him. His cock hardened, the flush spreading across his cheeks making him look younger, vulnerable.
I took him into my mouth without preamble, savoring his sharp gasp, the way his fingers tightened in my hair. My tongue traced patterns along his sensitive skin as I worked him deeper, his moans echoing through the glass structure.
"Luka," he gasped, his professional composure completely undone. "I need you. Now."
I rose, capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss, tasting his desperation. "Turn around."
He complied immediately, bracing himself against the workbench, his trust more arousing than any explicit invitation. I pressed against him, my clothed body against his half-naked one, my hands sliding around to work his shirt buttons.
"Leave it," he ordered, voice rough with need. "Just take me."
The raw demand shattered my restraint. I fumbled in my pocket for the small packet of lube I'd started carrying after our office encounter, prepared him quickly but thoroughly, his body already familiar with mine, welcoming me.
When I finally pushed inside, we both froze for a breathless moment. There was a strange poetry to doing it here, surrounded by life and growth. Vincent had planted something in me eight months ago, something that continued to grow despite my damaged soil, my broken roots.
