Where the Wild Things Grow

The garden had grown wild in her absence, or perhaps it had been waiting for her all along.

Becca descended the stone steps slowly, feeling the cool evening air kiss her skin as crimson petals carpeted the ground beneath her feet. The roses had bloomed impossibly thick, their fragrance so heavy it felt like breathing in velvet. Moonlight caught the curves of her body as she moved deeper into the garden's heart, where the flowers grew tallest, most desperate for attention.

She sank into them slowly, letting the petals catch her weight like a thousand silk hands. The thorns knew better than to touch her. They never did.

Her hair fanned out in waves of gold against the deep red, and she arched her back, feeling the way the blossoms seemed to pulse beneath her, alive with some ancient, patient hunger. "You've been thinking about this, haven't you?" she whispered to the night air, her voice low and knowing.

The roses pressed closer, as if answering.

She ran her fingers through the petals near her hip, letting them scatter and fall, each one a promise she hadn't quite made yet. Her eyes drifted closed for just a moment, and in that darkness, she could feel it: the weight of someone's gaze, somewhere beyond the garden walls, watching, waiting, wanting.

"I know you're there," she breathed, her lips curving into the kind of smile that could unravel restraint. "I can feel you watching."

The wind shifted, carrying her words into the shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a gate creaked open. Maybe it had been open all along, and whoever was out there had finally found the courage to step through.

Becca didn't move. Didn't need to. The roses held her like a throne, and she knew the truth that the garden had always known: some things are worth the wait. Some temptations are meant to be savored slowly.

The petals around her seemed to glow warmer in the moonlight, and if you were close enough, if you'd been brave enough to follow her this far, you'd hear her laugh, soft and dangerous and full of invitation.

"Come find me," she said to the night. "I promise I'll make it worth the thorns."

And somewhere in that crimson sea, she waited, patient as a secret, beautiful as a sin you'd never regret.