Nightingale glanced over the rows of plants, assessing their growth with a practiced eye. "I'll program the system to take care of these while we're away," she said, tapping a control panel near the vines. "And lock access to only a few people until that whole situation settles." The room hummed in response as the greenhouse wards came online.
Sebastian wandered toward the tool wall, trying to look useful. The moment he reached for a trowel, he let out a sharp, startled scream. A spider had scuttled across the handle. Nightingale didn't even flinch—she just grabbed a torch from the wall, flicked it on with the ease of someone far too used to this, and incinerated the spider in one clean burst. She flicked the ashes neatly into the soil.
Sebastian shuddered. "I love animals, but bugs? Entirely different story. A bug took me out once—once. And unlike that superhero who climbs walls, I didn't get powers. I got death."
Nightingale rolled her eyes, because he told that story every single time she had to kill a spider for him. Still, she smiled a little as she checked the environmental panel, tapping in humidity levels to keep the dragonfruit and peach seedlings stable. The garden lights shifted warm over her skin as she spoke, her tone drifting into nostalgia.
"I remember you saying it was a lot of different types of bugs that got you," she said. "And I remember you rising out of the graveyard after. What was that cheesy line you used…?"
Sebastian cleared his throat and raised one dramatic finger, stepping back like he was about to deliver a whole theatrical monologue. He even adjusted his jacket, straightened his spine, and planted one boot behind him for balance.
"Beware… for you have awakened El Charro Negro!" he boomed, tipping an imaginary black charro hat with a flourish.
A startled flock of tiny pollen-motes puffed off a nearby vine at the volume, drifting through the warm air like shimmering dust. Nightingale slapped a hand over her mouth, trying and failing to hold in her laugh. The sound burst out anyway, echoing off the glass panels.
Nightingale wiped a tear of laughter from her eye as she finally straightened, breathing in the warm, humid air of the greenhouse. "Of all the folklore spirits your family could've used to drag you back from the grave, it had to be him," she said, shaking her head. "El Charro Negro. The cheapest horseman in the underworld. Your folks basically clicked the budget resurrection option."
The surrounding plants rustled in a soft wave, leaves trembling in a way that looked suspiciously like shoulders shaking from suppressed laughter. Nightingale brushed her hand over a set of broad leaves as she walked past, her touch instinctively gentle—like checking on a group of giggling children who'd overheard something they shouldn't have.
Sebastian placed a dramatic hand over his chest, eyes wide with theatrical offense. "I'll have you know I am a premium soul trapped inside an economy package." He tried to sweep around a planter with regal grace, but a vine casually curled toward him, brushing his arm like it was snickering. He flinched so hard he nearly toppled a ceramic pot. A cluster of blossoms shook like they were delighted by his suffering.
"They're laughing with you, not at you," Nightingale teased, though her smirk said otherwise. "You came back with a pulse, a curse, and a permanent spider phobia because your family picked the quickest resurrection plan."
As if on cue, a leaf twitched overhead. Sebastian jumped violently, knocking over a watering can that hit the tiles with a clang. The smaller plants quivered again—absolutely losing it. Nightingale folded over with laughter, gripping her side as she tried to breathe.
Trying to salvage a shred of dignity, Sebastian stepped forward and gently steadied her by the waist. The shift from comedy to intimacy flowed naturally. "Keep laughing, cariño," he murmured near her ear, "but remember—you're the one who fell in love with this budget resurrection."
Nightingale lifted her face toward him, her expression softening in a way she didn't let many see. "Unfortunately," she whispered, smiling, "I did." She leaned in and kissed him—slow, warm, full of certainty—and the entire greenhouse seemed to exhale with her. Vines swayed subtly, petals angled toward the light, the air thickening with a quiet warmth. Sebastian slid his hands up her back, holding her with that careful steadiness he only used for her.
When she finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, he stayed close—foreheads nearly touching. His hand lifted to her cheek, thumb tracing slow circles that softened the space between them. "You're really going to roast my resurrection forever?" he asked, his voice gentled by affection.
"Yes," she whispered, brushing her nose against his. "Because your parents didn't just pick the cheap magic. They picked the spiritual equivalent of microwaved leftovers."
The plants rustled again—definitely laughing.
Sebastian sighed dramatically, then straightened, mischief flashing in his eyes. If the plants wanted a show, he would give them one. He lifted Nightingale's hand and pressed a slow kiss to her knuckles, his movements sudden and theatrical. When he spoke, his Spanish rolled through the greenhouse like velvet.
"Si soy el emperador de los tontos… entonces tú eres mi reina. Porque solo yo tengo ojos para la reina."
If I am the emperor of fools… then you are my queen. Because only I have eyes for the queen.
The translation didn't need to be spoken; it hung in the air as naturally as breath.
Nightingale's reaction was immediate. A deep blush bloomed across her cheeks, warm and vivid. She tried to look away, pretending to inspect a peach sapling, but the plant leaned toward her like it was tattling on her fluster. A couple of vines curled inward, swaying in a way that absolutely resembled delighted children.
Sebastian watched her with a slow, satisfied smile. He ran his fingers up her arm, resting his hand at the side of her neck, his touch warm and tender. "Qué linda," he murmured, still grinning. "Don't hide from me now."
She groaned, half-laughing and half-mortified. "Don't start. You act like that and the plants think we encourage you."
One of the vines actually curled around Sebastian's sleeve, tugging him closer like a child egging on its favorite parent. Nightingale covered her face with both hands. "See? Look what you started."
Sebastian leaned down, brushing a kiss against her temple. "If speaking pretty gets you to look at me like that, cariño… I'll do it in every language I know."
Her blush deepened impossibly. She pressed her forehead to his chest, laughter muffled into his shirt, and the garden lights shifted to a warm, approving gold. The plants swayed gently around them, rustling like applause.
Sebastian held her close, his hand stroking her cheek in a loving, unhurried motion. "You're my queen," he whispered, and for a moment even the vines went still.
Then, with perfect timing, a single blossom quivered—giggling.
And Nightingale started laughing all over again.
Sebastian scooped Nightingale into his arms without warning, lifting her with a smooth motion that startled even the vines. They rustled excitedly, petals fluttering as if cheering. "Alright, niños verdes," he announced to the room, "activate the hologram workers. You all can finish the prep. I'll be in the tent with my wife."
A few of the hologram robots blinked on across the room, flickering into their soft-blue silhouettes. Even they paused, as if baffled by his declaration. Nightingale blinked up at him, cheeks flushed. "What is going on?"
Sebastian grinned, already walking toward the softly lit tent in the back of the greenhouse. "Well," he said with dramatic patience, "I am going to spend time with my wife before the universe finds a new way to block us. Last time it was a cursed mirror. The time before that was a screaming goat. Not risking it again."
The vines shook as though laughing.
Inside the tent, everything shifted—the light, the air, the gravity. The golden lanterns threw heat into the shadows, catching the glow of Sebastian's tattoos as they lit in slow, rippling waves across his skin. He moved like a man who knew exactly what his body could do to hers, exactly how to command space, breath, and attention.
He set Nightingale onto the cushioned chair, his hands sliding away from her waist like he was reluctantly letting go. The chair dipped under her, grounding her just as the music dropped—a deep, seductive beat built for hips, for hands, for bodies tangled close.
Sebastian stepped back only far enough to be seen.
Then the performance began.
He rolled his shoulders first, a smooth wave that traveled down his spine. His hands dragged over his chest, over the glowing tattoos, following the lines as if drawing her eyes across every sculpted plane. The movement was slow but controlled—an intentional display meant entirely for her.
He turned, giving her the full line of his back, the tattoos brightening as the muscle beneath flexed. The motion was deliberate, sensual, almost predatory. He dragged his shirt off in a single, fluid motion, tossing it aside. His body caught the warm lantern light, every contour highlighted in molten gold.
When he faced her again, Nightingale's breath stalled.
Sebastian approached with a dancer's confidence—one slow step, then another, hips swaying subtly to the beat. His eyes never left hers. He placed one knee between her legs, close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough her glow reacted instinctively, rising in soft waves beneath her skin.
He leaned down, bracing one hand on the chair beside her hip.
His breath grazed her ear.
"Don't look away."
She didn't.
He shifted his weight, lifting himself slightly—and then lowered onto her lap, slow, intentional, controlled. The chair creaked softly beneath the combined heat of them. Sebastian rolled his hips once—deliberate, deep, the kind of movement that sent a shiver straight up her spine.
His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, guiding them to his waist, wordlessly inviting her to touch him. When her fingers grazed his skin, he exhaled sharply, the sound low and intimate.
Then he danced.
A full-body rhythm that pressed him into her, then pulled just enough away to make her want him closer again. His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks before gliding down her neck, tracing the glow beneath her skin. He shifted his hips in a slow figure-eight, each rotation bringing the heat between them higher, sharper, harder to ignore.
He tilted her chin upward with two fingers, forcing her eyes to his.
"Keep watching," he murmured.
She did—and he rewarded her.
He leaned back on her thighs, giving her the full view of his torso as he undulated his body, moving with a precision that felt sinful even though it wasn't explicit. The muscles of his stomach tightened, rolled, released. His glow brightened, casting soft silver light over her.
Then he pulled himself forward again, chest pressing to hers, breath mingling, their glows merging for a moment into one warm pulse. His hand slid to the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, guiding her into the rhythm with him.
Sebastian gathered her into his arms with a certainty that made Nightingale's breath stumble. His hands slipped beneath her thighs, lifting her as though her body weighed nothing to him. Instinct guided her; her arms moved around his shoulders, her legs tightening around his waist, her glow rising like a soft flame beneath her skin. The moment he took her weight, something in the room shifted. The lanterns cast deeper shadows, the air thickened with heat, and the music dropped into a slow, heavy rhythm that pulsed like a shared heartbeat.
He didn't carry her away from the dance—he carried her into it. Every step he took made their bodies slide against one another in a way that stirred heat low between them. His tattoos shimmered in silver waves across his skin, illuminating the flex of muscle with each deliberate movement. Nightingale's glow pulsed in answer, drifting up her throat, across her chest, then spilling into the space between them. Their lights mingled at the edges, brushing together like two flames reaching for union.
Sebastian's hips set the pace. Slow. Deep. A controlled, circular grind that spoke a language older than touch. Nightingale tightened her hold on him as their bodies aligned through the motion. Her breath came out in a soft, trembling sigh near his ear, her fingers sliding into his hair as though anchoring herself to him was the only way to remain grounded. There was no humor now, no distance, no hesitation. This was intimacy sharpened to a point—undeniably adult, undeniably intentional.
He moved again, pressing into her with a rhythm that mimicked meaning without ever crossing into forbidden description. The tent around them brightened, their combined glow reflecting off the fabric walls in waves. Sebastian adjusted his hold, lifting and lowering her in a rhythm that made her entire body react to the beat he created. The movement wasn't lewd—it was ancient, ritualistic, the kind of dance their people would whisper about later as the moment two souls fused in practice if not in name.
Nightingale arched against him as he guided her, their bodies sliding so closely together that even the air between them seemed to dissolve. Her glow matched his now—silver and amber weaving together, casting their shadows as one shape against the tent walls. Her forehead met his in a trembling press, their breaths syncing, their chests rising in the same rhythm as the music. Every motion—every roll of his hips, every shift of her weight—carried the unspoken truth of what this dance symbolized.
He held her tightly, as though the world outside the tent no longer existed. She held him back with equal urgency, her body answering his in instinctive, intimate harmony. There was no mistaking what the dance had become. It was sensual and consuming, heavy with meaning, the kind of closeness that lived in the breath between lovers when words were no longer enough.
Their glows surged once—bright, powerful, merging fully before softening into one shared warmth. Sebastian exhaled her name like a vow against her temple. Nightingale's fingers slid down the back of his neck in a trembling caress, her body pressed flush to his as the dance slowed, then deepened, then held.
And for a long moment, the tent held nothing but heat, breath, and the quiet fusion of two souls moving as one.
Some time later, the tent had quieted into a slow, steady warmth. The lanterns glowed low, casting soft gold against the fabric walls, and the last traces of their merged light shimmered faintly in the air. Nightingale lay stretched across the bedroll, sheets loosely gathered around her hips, her skin still warm from their fusion-dance. Her hair—normally braided and controlled—had come undone in dark waves around her shoulders, a soft, tangled halo that marked exactly how deeply she'd given herself to the moment.
A thin curl of smoke drifted from her lips as she exhaled, the scent unmistakable: taccoboo, the iridescent leaf from her home planet, rich and sweet and calming. It glowed faintly at the tip as she drew from it again, relaxing into the softness of the bed while the world outside their tent dimmed to a distant hum.
Sebastian, equally undone and unshielded, sat beside her, bare skin lit by the slow dimming of his tattoos. The lines across his torso flickered softly with each breath—less like magic now, more like the last glowing coals of a fire shared between two people who had nothing left to hide. He watched her for a moment, taking in the mess of her hair, the smoke curling from her fingers, the look in her eyes that said she felt safe with him in ways she didn't say out loud.
"You know," he murmured, offering her a cup of cool water, "for someone who claims they don't like being undone…" His thumb brushed her cheek, slow and affectionate. "You look beautiful like this."
Nightingale took the water and drank, the coolness easing the warmth in her chest. "You say that," she said softly, voice still husky from breath and closeness, "but you're the one who looks like a god crawled out of the embers."
Sebastian laughed under his breath—a warm, low sound—and pressed a kiss to her forehead before standing. He stretched, back arching, muscles rolling under skin still glowing faintly with leftover magic. Then he glanced toward the tent entrance, where the faint rustle of the greenhouse waited.
"It's time," he said gently, turning back to her. "The seeds."
Nightingale exhaled another ribbon of smoke, then nodded. The dance had been the union; the planting was the vow.
Sebastian handed her her slippers, then pulled his own on, both of them still bare but wrapped in the quiet confidence of lovers who no longer needed to hide anything. Their glow dimmed to a soft pulse as they stepped out of the tent together, the greenhouse lights rising as if recognizing the shift in the air.
Side by side—still warm, still marked by each other—they walked toward the prepared soil.
"It's finally time," Sebastian said softly. "Let's finish what we started."
And Nightingale, fingers brushing his, whispered back, "Together."
Sebastian held the tent flap open as Nightingale stepped out into the greenhouse, the cool air brushing along her bare skin and steadying her breath. They wore nothing except the soft slippers from the tent, their bodies still warm from the intimacy they had shared, their breaths slow and even. The greenhouse felt quieter now, calmer, almost reverent—as if the space respected the vulnerability they carried into it.
The hologram workers stood in standby mode along the far wall, respectfully turned away. The plants, however, remained attentive. Leaves angled subtly toward them, soft rustles passing through the vines like quiet whispers of acknowledgment. Nothing magical—just the natural hush of living things responding to presence and purpose.
Nightingale and Sebastian walked together to the prepared bed of soil. The earth waited in simple stillness, dark and rich, the loosened surface ready for their hands. As they knelt, their knees sank gently into the soft soil, their shoulders brushing in a way that grounded them even further. The closeness between them lingered—not heated now, but warm, steady, deeply connected.
Sebastian picked up the small pouch of ordinary seeds and opened it carefully. There was no glow this time—only the soft rattle of dried grains shifting in the cloth bag. When he poured some into Nightingale's hand, her fingers curled around them with quiet intention. He bowed his head slightly, letting her take the lead, honoring her voice in this part of the ritual.
Nightingale inhaled slowly, the kind of breath taken before speaking something true. Her voice emerged low, steady, carrying the weight of reflection rather than magic.
"May these seeds mark the start of a new path. May what lies ahead not break us. May our struggles be no heavier than we can carry."
Sebastian bowed beside her, one hand resting respectfully over his heart. He didn't interrupt; he simply supported her presence with his own, his breathing falling in rhythm with hers.
She continued, her tone softening, almost tender.
"Let the earth take what we offer—our hopes, our burdens, our intentions—and return clarity where we need it most."
Together, they pressed the seeds into the soil, their fingers sinking through the warmed dirt. There was no surge of energy, no dramatic shift—just the quiet, grounding sensation of earth accepting small beginnings. Nightingale smoothed the soil over the seeds with slow, deliberate strokes. Sebastian followed her movements, mirroring the care she showed, adding his hands beside hers.
When the last seed was covered, he sat back on his heels, body relaxed, posture reverent. Nightingale remained kneeling for a moment longer, her hands still lightly resting on the soil as she whispered the final line of the prayer.
"Guide us to where we need to be. And let the way forward be gentle."
Sebastian bowed again beside her, lowering his head in quiet agreement.
The greenhouse did not glow or shift—it simply held them in its natural warmth. A faint rustle passed through the leaves overhead, the kind that comes from a soft breeze or the settling of branches. It was ordinary, and because of that, deeply grounding.
For a long, peaceful moment, the two of them remained kneeling together—bare, vulnerable, slippers in the dirt, hands touching lightly over the soil. Not a magical vow, not a cosmic sign—just two souls choosing intention, choosing hope, choosing each other in the quiet aftermath of intimacy.