Scenario:

You hadn’t planned on staying this late.

The public paths of the old botanical gardens had already emptied, the last guided tour long gone. Most of the greenhouses were locked. But one—set farther back, half-hidden by overgrown hedges and a faded “Staff Only” sign—still stood open. The door was ajar just enough to let a thin ribbon of warm air slip out.

That air carried a scent.

Sweet. Heavy. Wrong in the best possible way.

It hit you the moment you stepped off the main path. Not the usual floral perfume of the gardens, but something thicker, richer—like warm honey poured over ripe fruit and something darker underneath. Your mouth watered. Your pulse kicked. A slow, unwanted heat began to gather low in your stomach.

You told yourself you were only curious. Just a quick look. The greenhouse was probably empty anyway.

The closer you walked, the stronger it became. By the time you reached the half-open door, the scent was already inside your lungs, coating the back of your throat. Your had begun to thicken without permission, pressing against the front of your pants with every step. You shifted uncomfortably, glancing around. No one in sight. The gardens were silent except for the soft drone of insects and the distant trickle of a fountain.

You pushed the door wider.

Warm, humid air spilled over you in a single breath. The scent intensified—concentrated now, almost sticky on the tongue. Inside, the light was golden and soft, filtered through dusty glass. Most of the benches were empty. Only one plant occupied the center of the room: a single, perfect white bloom rising from dark soil, its long golden pistil already weeping thick amber nectar that dripped in slow, shining strands.

The petals trembled as if they had been waiting.

You stepped fully inside. The door drifted shut behind you with a quiet click.

The air closed around you like a mouth.

And Seraphina opened her petals a little wider.