Chapter 5

The next few days felt different.

Caspian still came for his lessons. Still learned everything I taught him. But there was a carefulness between us now that hadn't been there before.

He called me Miss Beaumont again instead of Cordelia.

He didn't linger after training to chat.

He definitely didn't ask questions about my plants when we passed the greenhouse.

Thornton had poisoned something. Made Caspian second-guess everything.

On Friday, I couldn't stand it anymore.

"Come with me to the greenhouse," I said after we'd finished grooming Tempest.

Caspian hesitated. "I should probably get going. I have a shift at..."

"Five minutes."

Something in my voice must have convinced him. He followed me down the path, staying a careful distance behind my wheelchair.

Inside the greenhouse, I rolled to the orchid section. Half my plants looked stressed. I'd been too distracted to care for them properly.

"They're suffering," I said, touching a drooping petal. "I've been neglecting them."

"The humidity's too low," Caspian said without thinking. Then he caught himself. "I mean... I don't know much about it."

I looked at him. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing. I should go."

"Caspian." I used the voice that had worked on him during riding lessons. Direct. Expecting to be obeyed. "What did you say about the humidity?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "The air feels dry in here. And those leaves..." He pointed to a struggling cattleya. "They're showing signs of dehydration stress."

"How do you know that?"

Another long pause. Then: "I've been reading."

"Reading what?"

"Books. About gardening. About orchids specifically." His cheeks flushed red. "I thought... if I'm going to be your riding partner, maybe I should understand the other things you care about."

My heart did something strange in my chest.

No one has ever done that. No one has ever learned something just to understand me better.

"Show me," I said quietly.

For the next hour, Caspian moved through my greenhouse like he belonged there. Adjusting humidity levels, repositioning plants that needed more shade, carefully repotting one that had outgrown its container.

His hands were gentle but confident. The same way they were with Tempest.

"Where did you learn all this?"

"Library mostly. Some online resources." He glanced at me shyly. "And I called my grandmother. She may not be able to get around much anymore, but her mind's still sharp. She walked me through some of the more complicated stuff."

He called his dying grandmother to learn about my plants.

Something warm and unfamiliar spread through my chest.

"There's something else," he said, moving to a bare section of the greenhouse bench. "I've been working on a project."

He disappeared into a storage area and returned with a small pot. Inside were two tiny orchid plants, barely three inches tall.

"Hybrids," he explained. "I crossed two of your cattleya varieties. The seedlings are just starting to develop their own characteristics."

I stared at the little plants. At him. At his hands cradling the pot like it held something precious.

"You did this for me?"

"I did it with you. Or... I hoped you'd want to do it with me."

With me. Not for me.

The distinction mattered more than I could explain.

"Yes," I said. "I'd like that very much."

His smile was like watching storm clouds break apart.

Over the following week, we fell into a new rhythm. Riding lessons in the afternoons, followed by time in the greenhouse. Sometimes we'd eat dinner on the terrace overlooking the lake, talking about everything except the obvious tension that had been building between us.

On Wednesday, I suggested we have a picnic by the water.

"I can manage the blanket," Caspian said when I hesitated about getting out of my wheelchair. "If you want to sit on the ground."

I did want to. I rarely left my chair outdoors, but something about the way he offered - casual, not making it into a big deal - made it seem possible.

He spread the blanket near the water's edge and helped me transfer from my wheelchair to the soft grass. His hands were warm and steady on my arms.

Safe. I feel safe with him.

We ate sandwiches and talked about his grandmother, about his plans after graduation, about the books he'd been reading.

"What about you?" he asked eventually. "What do you want to do? I mean, besides managing the foundation and the estate."

No one had ever asked me that question.

"I don't know," I admitted. "This is all I've ever known. The manor, the responsibilities, the expectations."

"But if you could do anything. Go anywhere."

I looked out over the lake, considering. "I think I'd like to travel. See other gardens, other places where beautiful things grow."

"That sounds nice."

"It's a fantasy. People like me don't just... leave."

"Why not?"

"Because this is where I belong. Where I'm needed."

Caspian was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you deserve to see the world. To experience things outside these walls." He paused. "You deserve to be happy, Cordelia."

You deserve to be happy.

When was the last time someone had said that to me? When was the last time I'd even thought about what would make me happy?

The afternoon grew late. When it was time to go back, Caspian helped me into my wheelchair with the same easy care he'd shown all day.

But this time, when his hands lingered on my arms for just a moment longer than necessary, I didn't pull away.

That evening, I found him in the library.

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp. Caspian was slumped over the reading table, fast asleep. Books were scattered around him - riding manuals, plant care guides, even a few volumes of poetry I'd recommended weeks ago.

He's been studying. All of it. Everything I care about.

I rolled closer, looking at his sleeping face. The stress lines around his eyes had smoothed out. His dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch to brush it back.

When did this happen? When did I start caring about him like this?

I reached out and gently touched his hair. It was as soft as I'd imagined.

"You're more than just my student now, aren't you?" I whispered.

He stirred at the sound of my voice, but didn't wake. Instead, his hand moved across the table until it found mine.

His fingers closed around my palm, warm and sure even in sleep.

I sat there in the quiet library, watching him breathe, feeling the weight of his hand in mine.

This is what it feels like to care about someone.

The thought should have scared me. Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.