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151 pages, Kindle Edition
Published April 14, 2026
“My mother was fond of roses,” he said at last.
“So was mine. She admired the way they protect themselves. They don’t let themselves be used easily.”
He really was like a plant, I thought. A rose bush. He was prickly, but all he really needed was some care and sunlight. Even the wine helped. I huffed.
He inclined his head towards his good shoulder, a subtle motion that avoided moving his upper chest. “Throbs a bit,” he said in an understated tone. He wasn’t being brave. He would have said if it hurt. But he was also far too used to pain.
Plants didn’t care how you dressed or what you had to say as long as you came with a watering can and maybe some fertilizer. (...) Plants had no expectations. They never wanted more than you could give.
I was lonely. I knew I was lonely, but talking about it didn’t make it better. I had chosen the things that were the most important to me. The business and my father. If finding my people had to be put on the back burner for a little while, then so be it. I refused to regret prioritizing the things I loved.
It was a wreck, overgrown and choked with weeds and not healthy enough to bloom. Abandoned but alive, improbably and stubbornly alive. All it wanted was care, and I could be the one to give it.
"He really was like a plant, I thought. A rose bush. He was prickly, but all he really needed was some care and sunlight."