( in a weird way, a warm blanket of comfort washes over her when she hears his words, when that response finally comes crawling from his lips after surveying the range of pots neither in disarray or order. their own order, she supposes. she watches the scenes that dance within his hues, and while she can't picture them exactly as he does, she imagines them. she sees pain, a heavy nostalgia clouding his sights, and then some sort of resolution that brings him sharply back to her.

she knows, that sometimes when he looks at her, she isn't karen. she would never compare to his wife, never be anywhere near the same woman, but she gets it. the tiny pieces that've all fractured, the little glimpses he's afforded to bring back one moment of peace before it's slaughtered before his eyes again. )

Here,

( it comes after a pause, considerably long, chest breathing as steadily as the plants beside her. and then she's slowly making her way back to him, where he's paused before even directly entering the vicinity of colors, vivid even in the moonlight. she keeps her gaze with his, maybe to caution him to the touch that's soon to follow but delicate fingers curling at his wrist. they don't close, but hold enough to give him a lithe tug, guiding him toward the peace lilies. tall and white; a name that speaks for itself. )

It's okay. ( to touch them, to let yourself be delicate, here with me. ) These ones don't need sunlight. They don't really need anything other than tending. Little reminders; water. ( a breeze curls around them, bringing with it various floral notes. )

I come up here every night.