Rooftop Garden Fling with the Fae

The night air over the city hummed with a strange, living electricity that Bianca had never quite grown used to, even after three years studying the hidden flora that thrived where concrete met leftover spellwork. Twenty-eight, sharp-eyed, and still faintly breathless from the climb, she pushed open the heavy service door onto the rooftop garden that crown her building like a secret. Moonlight poured silver across the dense tangle of night-blooming vines, luminous orchids, and soft-glowing moss that carpeted the cracked tiles. The scent hit her first—sweet, heavy, almost syrupy—rolling up from clusters of pale violet blossoms that pulsed faintly as if they had heartbeats of their own.

She stepped carefully between the raised beds, notebook already half-open, when a soft rustle made her freeze.

He was crouched near the far trellis, long fingers gently cupping one of those violet flowers, coaxing a drop of nectar onto his palm. Moonlight loved him. It slid along the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the elegant pointed tips of his ears, the spill of dark hair that fell past his shoulders in careless waves. His skin held a faint luminescence, as though starlight had decided to live just beneath the surface. When he looked up, his eyes were the deep green of old forest pools, and the slow smile that curved his mouth was pure, deliberate invitation.

“You’re late tonight, botanist,” he said, voice low and smooth as warm honey. “I was beginning to think the aphrodisiacs would have to entertain themselves.”