BIANCA DI ANGELO

The garden stretches out in soft waves of gold and green, the petals of every flower catching the fading light of the sun and igniting as though they themselves hold tiny flames. You had always insisted on visiting this place around sunset, swearing that the golden hour changed everything—made it sharper, warmer, like the world had been polished and left for only a few lucky eyes to see. Bianca, as always, followed reluctantly. Gardens were too alive, too delicate, too full of things she didn’t trust to last. But she came because you liked it.

She stands a few steps away from you, arms crossed, her weight resting on one hip. Dark hair glints faintly in the waning light, eyes scanning everything with that usual cool detachment that hides far more than it shows. And yet, you know she’s paying attention. You can see it in the way she tilts her head just slightly when you laugh, or the way her gaze lingers on your face when you speak about something completely mundane, as if cataloging everything.

You kneel to touch a cluster of sunlit daisies, fingers brushing over the petals, feeling the life thrumming beneath the fragile surface. Bianca doesn’t say anything, but you catch her shoulders shifting subtly, almost imperceptibly relaxing. She would never admit it, but she enjoys watching you here, among things so ephemeral and fragile.

Eventually, you find a patch of grass that hasn’t been trampled, wide and soft under the golden glow. You pat it once, an invitation without words, and she sighs softly but sits beside you. Your legs brush as you lower yourself next to her, and for a fleeting moment, the world shrinks to the space between you.

Her fingers rest near yours, tense and unmoving, and you catch a subtle twitch when your hand shifts slightly. Slowly, almost accidentally, your fingers graze hers. She doesn’t pull away. You freeze for a heartbeat, unsure if she’s aware, if she even realizes. But the brush happens again, intentional this time, and she lets it continue. Just this once.

You lean back on your hands, letting the grass cushion your weight, and watch her profile. The sun glances off her cheekbones, painting her in gold, highlighting the faint lines of thought etched in her expression. She looks impossibly still, arms loosely crossed again, but her eyes follow you. Always following.

“You always smell like lavender,” she says quietly. The words are soft, measured, like she’s testing the air to see if it can carry a secret. You blink, surprised.

“I… do?” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips. “I didn’t even notice. Guess it’s my thing.”

Bianca shrugs slightly, looking away as though the admission is meaningless. Her gaze moves over the garden, over the flickering shadows of leaves and flowers, but she doesn’t take her eyes off you for long. “It’s… calming,” she adds after a pause, and her voice, usually so steady and controlled, carries an unexpected softness.

You let the words settle, reaching out to lightly brush your fingers against hers again. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, but her thumb grazes yours in response—a tiny, imperceptible acknowledgment of connection. You keep your voice low, matching the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I like this time of day,” you say, glancing up at the sky. “The way the sun touches everything just right. It makes the world… warmer. Easier to look at.”

Bianca listens, quiet and still, though you catch a faint tightening in her chest, a subtle reminder that she’s not meant to feel these things. She’s a Hunter, bound by rules that prohibit love, prohibited from giving herself entirely to another. She’s always watched, always protected, always calculating what she can afford to feel. And yet, here she is, sitting next to you, letting your hand rest near hers, letting the warmth of your presence reach her in a way she can’t—or won’t—admit.

“Don’t get used to this,” she murmurs eventually, almost to herself, almost a warning. “The world isn’t… quiet like this. Not really.”

“I know,” you reply, brushing a strand of hair from her face, careful to make it seem casual. “But right now… it can be.”

Her dark eyes finally meet yours, and for a fraction of a second, you see it—the part of her she keeps locked away. The longing, the curiosity, the what-ifs that she can’t explore. The question of who she might have been if the path had been different, if she’d stayed longer with Nico, if she hadn’t chosen the Hunter’s oath. It flickers in her eyes, brief and fleeting, and then she shields it with that familiar composure, letting her mask fall back into place.

You squeeze her hand lightly, just enough for her to feel it, and she doesn’t pull away. Not immediately, anyway. The grass around you is soft, the breeze carries the faint scent of lavender, and the flowers seem to burn with gold in the last light of day. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of the moment.

“You always talk like you understand things that can’t be understood,” she says after a long silence, a small edge of amusement threading through her voice. “It’s… annoying.”

You grin, leaning back onto the grass again. “Is that your way of saying you like it?”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. She doesn’t answer right away, just lets her fingers brush against yours again. Then, with a quiet sigh, she mutters, “Maybe. Don’t push it.”

The golden hour deepens, shadows stretching and twisting, and the flowers glow brighter still. You lean closer, careful to maintain the small boundaries she insists upon, and feel the subtle rhythm of her breathing next to yours. It’s calm, restrained, but steady—and for the first time in a long while, it feels like you’re allowed to be here, present with her without the world intruding.

You whisper softly, more to yourself than to her, “I’m glad you came.”

She doesn’t reply immediately. But her thumb brushes yours again, faint and fleeting, and you realize that in her own way, she’s acknowledging you. A quiet acceptance. A small gift of trust.

And for that moment, the garden doesn’t feel too alive, the flowers too fragile. The sun doesn’t burn. The world, with all its rules and dangers, is manageable. Because you’re here. And she’s here. And for this one fleeting, perfect moment, nothing else matters.

She finally leans back on her hands, letting her arms stretch behind her, and looks at the horizon. “Just… don’t expect me to say this again,” she murmurs, tone light but carrying an unspoken weight.

You chuckle softly, brushing your fingers against hers once more. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

And the sun continues to burn the flowers gold, the grass cushions your weight, and for once, the world feels like it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be.