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DORIAN

D orian didn’t know the first thing about planting roses.

But he knew Autumn liked them.

Not the kind you bought from the grocery store in a crinkly plastic sleeve.

No, she liked the messy ones—wild and overgrown and so vibrant they looked like they’d bled through the seasons just to keep blooming.

She liked them with thorns and scars and tangled roots.

The kind of flowers that didn’t apologize for taking up space.

So he built her a garden.

It started with the idea in the middle of the night—after she’d fallen asleep in his arms, after the air had turned too quiet, and the whisper she’d mentioned had left a frostbite of doubt behind her eyes.

He couldn’t fight her ghosts, not directly.

But he could remind her every single day that she was wanted in the land of the living.

That she belonged here.

With him.

So while she spent the next two mornings pouring over Hollis Blackthorne’s journal, unraveling the house’s history page by haunted page, Dorian slipped out back and got to work.

He cleared the space behind the greenhouse—an overgrown tangle of briar and rock that most folks would’ve ignored. It was shaded by a massive red oak that still dropped acorns like confetti, and bordered on the edge of Echo Woods where the air always felt a little too alive.

But Dorian loved a challenge.

He brought in soil from Missy’s apothecary, charmed to keep spirits from leeching into the roots.

Nico provided enchanted clippers that whispered compliments when he pruned (“Oh yes, trim it just there, you botanical beast.”).

And Markus and Rowan gifted him a crate of bookish garden markers with labels like "emotional healing" and "regret-absorbing rosemary.”

It took him two full days, and he hadn’t told a soul, not even Autumn.

By the third morning, his hands were raw, his back ached, and he’d somehow managed to charm a trail of moonstone gravel into glowing ever so slightly at night.

And still, it didn’t feel enough.

Not until she saw it.

She came out of the house right around noon, mug in hand, curls caught up in a haphazard clip like she’d wrestled with sleep and lost. She wore one of his flannel shirts again—one he hadn’t even realized was missing—and the sight of it on her hit him harder than it should’ve.

“Hey,” she called out, lifting her mug in greeting.

Dorian dropped his tools and jogged to meet her at the porch steps, brushing dirt off his jeans.

“Got a minute?”

Her brow creased slightly. “Yeah?”

“Come with me.”

He didn’t say more. Just reached for her free hand and walked her along the winding gravel path he’d been shaping all week.

The trees overhead rustled like they were holding their breath.

When they rounded the final curve and stepped into the clearing, he heard AUtumn’s breath halt as sudden as her feet had.

The garden spread out before her like a spell made real—rows of herbs and blooming flowers twisting around each other, wild but purposeful.

Colors spilled from every corner: foxglove and feverfew, twilight-colored lavender, blush roses clinging to newly built trellises.

The path wound gently to a hand-carved bench made from cedar and copper piping, nestled under the shade of the oak.

A small sign staked into the dirt read: Autumn’s Peace.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Dorian’s heart thundered behind his ribs.

“I know it’s a little rough still,” he said, voice quiet. “But it’s yours. Thought maybe you could use a place that didn’t need you to fix it. That just… grew for you.”

Autumn stared at the sign, then the roses, then the gentle shimmer of the moonstone path. And then she sank to her knees.

Not like she was overwhelmed. Like she was undone.

Dorian moved to kneel beside her, panic kicking in. “Hey—hey, darlin’, you alright?”

She didn’t answer for a beat. Just let the mug slip from her fingers onto the soft grass and pressed both hands to her mouth.

When she finally looked at him, her eyes were wet.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” she whispered. “No one’s ever… made a place for me before.”

He swallowed hard. “Well. I figure it’s about time someone did.”

She reached for him suddenly—fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him close until their foreheads touched.

He didn’t kiss her. Not yet.

He let her breathe.

Let her feel.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, voice rough with emotion. “No one’s ever… done anything like this for me.”

Dorian pulled her in, anchoring her to the moment. “You don’t have to say anything. This was never about earning it.”

She closed her eyes, exhaling against his chest. “You make it hard not to believe in things.”

He smiled softly, lips brushing the top of her head. “That’s the idea.”

They stayed in the dirt, sun warm on their backs, the scent of rosemary and rose drifting through the air around them. Her hand found his, fingers twining slowly, uncertainly—but she didn’t let go.

And Dorian knew—without a doubt—that he’d keep making room for her, one root, one bloom, one breath at a time.