Astrid didn't knock anymore.She walked into Ida's greenhouse like someone returning home from war — silent, raw, and hungry for something only one person could give.
Inside, the heat was alive.Thick with jasmine and soil. Tomato vines heavy with fruit. Condensation trickling down glass like sweat down a spine.
And Ida —On her knees in the center of the floor, bare thighs in the dirt, shirt sticking to her skin, tending to something green and delicate.
She didn't look up.
Just said, low:"Close the door. You'll let the heat escape."
Astrid did.And stepped barefoot across the damp wood slats until she stood behind her.
The scent of compost and citrus clung to Ida's shoulders. Her back arched just slightly as she reached for a vine.
Astrid couldn't stop watching how she moved —Like she'd been taught to pleasure the earth.
"You're not wearing underwear," Astrid said softly.
"I never do here."A pause."Too much comes alive."
Astrid knelt behind her.
Placed her hand at the curve of Ida's hip.
"Show me how you do it," she whispered.
Ida turned slightly. A smile tugged at her mouth — not playful. Knowing.
"You want to learn gardening now?"
Astrid kissed her spine.
"I want to learn the way you bend."
They didn't undress each other.There was no need. Everything already felt peeled back.
Ida leaned forward, elbows deep in the soil, hips raised, her dress rumpled around her waist like petals wilting open.
Astrid slid her hands up Ida's thighs, trailing earth and steam behind her fingers.
"I've never wanted to taste someone's sweat before," she said.
Ida laughed, breath catching."That's because no one ever worked for it."
Astrid worked.With her hands.Her mouth.Her breath, thick and reverent against the seam of Ida's desire.
And when Ida moaned —It wasn't pretty.It was guttural. Wild. Something ancient waking up and roaring through the vines.
Later, tangled in a sun-warmed sheet near the side window, Ida traced a pattern onto Astrid's stomach with a dirt-smeared fingertip.
"You're staying," she said quietly.Not a question. A fact.
Astrid didn't reply.
Because she knew Ida was right.
"Does it ever get confusing?" Astrid finally asked, eyes half-closed. "This kind of… openness?"
Ida propped her chin on Astrid's ribs.
"You mean the way we love?"A pause."The way we share love?"
Astrid nodded.
Ida's voice was soft but unflinching.
"It only gets confusing if you think love belongs to you. It doesn't. It passes through you."
Outside, the rain began again — light, almost musical.
And inside the greenhouse, two women laid still.
Steam from the soil curled around their skin, curling into the ceiling, until the air was thick with the scent of longing fulfilled.
Not finished.Just breathed.