I find Lucas talking to the ficus on a morning when I wake up earlier than usual.
I'm drawn from my bedroom by the smell of coffee and the soft murmur of a voice I can't quite hear.
The penthouse is golden with the first light of dawn. Everything is quiet and still. I've gotten up to get water while still half-asleep. My unicorn pajamas are soft against my skin. My hair is a disaster. I don't care.
And there he is.
Lucas Grey, my impossibly proper assistant, is kneeling beside the ficus. His suit jacket is draped over a nearby chair. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His hands are in the soil—checking moisture levels, adjusting something I can't see.
And he's talking.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a low, steady murmur—the kind of voice you might use with a frightened animal, or a child, or something fragile that needs reassurance.
"You're doing well," he's saying. His voice is soft. Warm. "The new leaves are coming in strong. The yellowing has stopped. You just need time now. And patience. And consistency. Those are the things that matter."
I stand frozen in the doorway. If Lucas knows I'm here, he gives no sign. He continues his quiet monologue, his hands moving gently through the soil.
"Vivian is worried about you. She checks on you every morning. Did you know that? She stands right here and looks at your leaves and worries. She doesn't think I notice." A pause. "But I notice everything."
My heart stutters. Lucas notices me noticing the ficus. Lucas notices everything.
"She's different now," he continues softly. "The old Vivian would have replaced you. Bought a new plant. Something healthier, something that required less effort. But this Vivian wants to save you. She believes you're worth saving."
His hands still in the soil.
"I understand how that feels," he says quietly. "To be worth saving."
I can't breathe. I can't move. I'm frozen in the doorway, watching Lucas Grey confess his heart to a houseplant.
"I should tell her. What she means to me. How long I've waited. But I don't know how. I've spent so many years being invisible—efficient and professional. I don't know how to be anything else."
The ficus doesn't respond. But Lucas nods anyway, like it has given him some kind of answer.
"You're right. Fear is not an excuse. I'll tell her soon. When the time is right."
He stands up slowly. Brushes the soil from his hands. Reaches for his suit jacket.
And then he sees me.
He freezes. His hand stops mid-reach. His ears—already pink from his conversation with the ficus—go from pink to red to crimson in the space of a heartbeat.
"Ms. Chen," he says. His voice is carefully neutral. Carefully controlled. But his ears are screaming. "I didn't hear you approach."
"Vivian."
A pause. "Vivian."
I step into the room. The ficus stands between us—green and silent, its yellow-edged leaves catching the morning light. It looks better than it did yesterday. Stronger. Like Lucas's care is already working.
"You talk to my plant," I say.
His ears go from crimson to something approaching purple. "I read that plants respond positively to sound vibrations. Soft speech may promote growth. Kevin's research suggested—"
"You said I was worth saving."
He stops. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out. His ears are the brightest I've ever seen them—glowing and impossible to ignore.
"I was talking to the ficus. Plants don't repeat conversations."
"I'm not a plant."
"No. You're not."
We stand there for a long moment. The ficus between us. The city waking up outside the window. Everything feels fragile and important—like the wrong word would shatter something neither of us knows how to name.
"How long?" I ask quietly. "You said you've waited. How long?"
His jaw tightens. His hands clench at his sides. For a moment, I think he won't answer—that he'll retreat behind his walls and pretend this moment never happened.
"Six years," he says finally. "Three months. Twelve days."
My breath catches. "You've been counting."
"I count everything. It's what I do."
"That's not why you've been counting."
He doesn't deny it. His ears are still crimson. His eyes remain fixed on a point somewhere above my shoulder. He's terrified—not of me, but of this. Of everything he's hidden for so long finally being seen.
"Lucas."
"Yes?"
"Look at me. Please."
Slowly—carefully—he lowers his gaze until his eyes meet mine. Dark. Uncertain. Completely unguarded. I've never seen him like this. Without his walls. Without his careful neutrality. Just Lucas. A man who has been waiting for someone to see him.
"I don't remember the old Vivian," I say. "I don't remember who she was or what she felt or why she kept everyone at a distance. But I know she was lonely. Scared. And I know she didn't see what was right in front of her."
I take a step closer. The ficus is still between us, but the distance feels smaller now. Manageable.
"I'm not her. I see things she didn't see. I notice things she ignored. And I see you, Lucas. How hard you try. How much you care. How long you've waited for someone to notice."
His ears are purple now—a shade I've never seen before, a shade that probably doesn't have a name.
"Vivian," he says. His voice is rough. Strained. Nothing like his usual controlled tone. "I don't know how to do this. I've spent six years being invisible. I don't know how to be seen."
"Then we figure it out together. Like we've been doing. One moment at a time."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then—slowly, carefully—he reaches out. His fingers brush mine. Just barely. Just for a second.
"I talk to the ficus every morning," he says. "Before you wake up. I tell it about my day. About you. About everything I can't say out loud."
"I know. I heard you."
"You weren't supposed to hear."
"I'm glad I did."
His fingers curl around mine. Warm. Steady. Terrified and brave at the same time.
"I don't know what comes next," he says.
"Neither do I. But I want to find out. With you."
The ficus stands between us—green and silent, its new leaves catching the light. It's healing. Slowly. Patiently. One day at a time.
Maybe we are too.