May 17, 2026

Hothouse - A Paranormal Romance (Episode 2 of 4) - "Propagation"

Hothouse - A Paranormal Romance (Episode 2 of 4) - "Propagation"

The garden is no longer being subtle. Paths reroute to force Daphne toward Matt. The jasmine releases intoxicating waves of scent whenever they're in the same room. And when she finally admits what she's feeling—that she can sense every plant's spring desire, and it's becoming indistinguishable from her own—the orchids bloom so dramatically that denial is no longer possible.Matt suggests the potting shed as neutral ground. It isn't. When they finally kiss, the dormant fall bulbs wake up and bloom six months early, surrounding them in an impossible spring.Two hours later, Daphne emerges covered in pollen, and the garden is radiating satisfaction. She's staying for the May Day festival. She might be staying longer than that.

The garden has never been happier.

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Caloroga Shark Media. Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly. This

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is Hothouse, Episode two, propagation. It's been three days since

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the vine incident, and I've developed a strategy. The strategy

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is avoid Matt entirely. This is complicated by the fact

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that we're the only two people on a five acre property,

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and he keeps showing up places the kitchen, garden when

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I'm checking the tomatoes, the tool shared when I'm looking

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for a trowel, the cottage porch when I'm having my

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morning coffee, because apparently he thinks it's reasonable to bring

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me fresh scones from the bakery in town, like some

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kind of domestically competent Disney prints. You don't have to

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keep feeding me, I tell him. When he appears on

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day four with a basket of muffins Vera always forgot

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to eat when she was adjusting to the garden. He

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sets the basket on the porch railing. The empathy takes

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a lot of energy. You need to keep your blood

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sugar up. I'm fine, you had coffee for dinner last night.

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How do you know that the garden told me? I

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stare at him. The garden told you not in words.

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But when you're hungry, the plants near the cottage get

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agitated restless, he shrugs. I've learned to read the signs.

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This is deeply invasive. The garden is spying on me

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and reporting back to the hot gardener. I should be

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out aged. Instead, I grab a muffin because I am

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in fact starving, and the damn thing smells incredible. You're

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adapting faster than vera expected, Matt says, watching me eat.

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Most empaths take weeks to feel anything beyond a general awareness.

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You're already responding to individual plants. Lucky me. It's not luck,

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it's compatibility. The garden likes you, he pauses. It likes

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you a lot. I think about the vine that tripped me,

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the flowers that bloom when I think about him, the

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dream that told me to find him and let the

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garden bloom. The garden has weird taste. The garden knows

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what it wants. There's something in his voice, a warmth

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or a warning or both. I look up from my

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muffin and find him watching me with an expression I

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can't quite pass. Interest maybe, or concern, or something more

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complicated that I don't have the emotional bandwidth to analyze

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the roses. Climbing the cottage trellis unfurl three new blooms

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right there, right in front of both of us. Responding

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to whatever I'm feeling, Matt glances at the roses, glances

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back at me. I should get to work, he says,

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and leaves before I can think of a response. The

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problem with avoiding someone on a botanical garden is that

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the garden has opinions about your avoidance. I discover this

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when I try to take a walk through the woodland section,

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the calmest part of the property, the place where the

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plants are patient and quiet and not constantly trying to

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set me up with their caretaker. The path won't cooperate.

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I don't mean it's overgrown or difficult to navigate. I

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mean it literally won't let me go the direction I want.

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Every time I try to walk toward the woodland garden,

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I find myself turned around the path somehow, depositing me

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back at the entrance to the greenhouse. I try three times.

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Three times I end up at the greenhouse door. The

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fourth time I stop and address the garden directly. I

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know what you're doing. Silence, innocent botanical silence. I'm not

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going in there. He's in there. I can feel him

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in there. This is true. The empathy has expanded over

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the past few days, and now I can sense not

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just the plants, but the people who spend time with them.

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Matt leaves traces wherever he goes, a warmth in the soil,

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a vitality in the leaves he's touched. Right now, he's

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somewhere in the back of the greenhouse, probably doing something

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competent and attractive with his hands. The garden pulses with encouragement. No,

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the path shifts, not dramatically. I don't see it happen,

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but suddenly the woodland root is gone, entirely, replaced by

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a clear walkway leading directly to the greenhouse entrance. This

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is harassment. The jasmine by the door releases a wave

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of scent so intoxicating I actually sway on my feet. Fine, Fine,

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I push open the door. The greenhouse in late morning

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is almost too much. The light streams through the glass

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at angles that turn everything golden, and every plant is

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wide awake, photosynthesizing with what I can only describe as enthusiasm.

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I feel them, all the orchids preening, the ferns stretching,

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the vegetables working diligently in their beds, and underneath it

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all that constant hum of spring, the whole building vibrating

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with the need to grow and reproduce and continue the

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endless cycle of life. I take a breath, focus. I

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can handle this. Matt is in the back corner, working

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with a particularly dramatic orchid. He doesn't look up when

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I enter, which should be a relief, but somehow isn't.

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I start walking the aisles, checking on plants, like I

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know what I'm doing. The tomatoes are staking themselves somehow.

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I'm pretty sure they weren't doing that yesterday. The herbs

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are having a good day. The tropical section is humid

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and heavy with fragrance, and I find myself lingering there,

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letting the warmth sink into my skin. You should eat something,

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I jump. Matt has materialized beside me, which shouldn't be

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possible given how loud the gravel paths are. Except apparently

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plant people have silent walking abilities. You already brought me muffins.

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That was two hours ago. The empathy burns through energy fast,

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especially when you're resisting it. I'm not resisting anything. He

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raises an eyebrow. The orcid kids behind him lean toward

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me like they're eavesdropping the path to the woodland. Garden

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re rooted itself, I say flatly three times. The garden

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is literally forcing me to be here. The garden wants

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you to integrate. That's easier if you're near the center

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of its energy. The center of its energy is also

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where you are. I work here, convenient. Matt's mouth twitches, Daphne.

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The Garden is invested in your well being. If it's

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putting us in proximity, it's because it thinks that's good

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for you. The Garden thinks setting me up with the

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caretaker is good for me. The words come out more

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directly than I intended. We both freeze, the orchids lean

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even closer. Is that what you think is happening? His

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voice is careful, neutral, in a way that's clearly costing

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him effort. That's what Vera's notes said. The Garden wants

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the Laurel line to continue. It's been increasingly insistent since

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she told it she wasn't providing an air. I crossed

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my arms, defensive and annoyed and trying very hard not

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to think about what continuing the Laurel line would actually entail.

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I'm single, you're here. The garden is matchmaking. Matt is

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quiet for a long moment. The greenhouse hums around us,

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the plants practically vibrating with anticipation. You're not wrong, he says, finally.

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The garden has been suggestive since you arrived. Suggestive. The

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vine that tripped you wasn't an accident, neither was the

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path re routing. And that he stops, clears his throat

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the jasmine when we're near each other. You've noticed, I

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have noticed the jasmine releases its scent in concentrated bursts

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whenever Matt and I are within ten feet of each other,

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like a Victorian chapper wielding smelling salts in reverse. I've

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noticed the garden is making its preferences clear. He meets

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my eyes, and there's something raw there, something that makes

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my stomach flip. But that doesn't mean anything has to happen.

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You inherited this place. I work for you. If the

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Garden's interference is making you uncomfortable, I can that's not

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I stop start again. I'm not uncomfortable. I'm overwhelmed. There's

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a difference. What's overwhelming you? Everything, the empathy, the constant

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sensation of botanical desire, the way his hands look when

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he's working with the soil, the fact that I haven't

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felt anything in eight years, and now I'm feeling everything

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at once. I can feel what the plants feel, I say,

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and right now in May, what they feel is I

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can't finish the sentence, but the orchids finish it for me,

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suddenly blooming in a cascade that shouldn't be possible, flowers

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opening like they're sighing with relief. Matt looks at the orchids,

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looks at me. Ah, he says, yeah, that must be

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a lot. It is a lot. I laugh, and it

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sounds slightly hysterical. I spent eight years feeling nothing. Now

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I can feel every flower in a five acre garden

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experiencing its desperate spring urge to reproduce. And I'm supposed

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to have a normal, professional conversation with you while the

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jasmine is basically throwing pheromones at us. The jasmine as

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if on que releases another wave of scent. We both

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breathe it in and I watch his pupils dilate. Okay,

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he says, new plan. The new plan is the potting shed.

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It's the most neutral space on the property, Matt explains

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as he leads me across the greenhouse, mostly tools and supplies,

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the plants in their adormant bulbs, waiting for fall. You

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should be able to think straight. Why do I need

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to think straight? Because we need to talk about this,

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about what the empathy means, how to manage it, How

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to he opens the shed door, how to exist on

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this property without the garden driving you crazy. The shard

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is small, dim and blessedly quiet. He's right. The bulbs

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are sleeping, their energy low and patient, nothing like the

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urgent spring vitality outside. I take my first full breath

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since I walked into the greenhouse. Better, Matt asks better.

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He closes the door behind us, and suddenly we're in

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a very small space together. There's a work bench, shelves

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of supplies, barely enough room for two people to stand

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without touching. So, he says, the empathy. The empathy. Fira

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had it too, though not as strong as what you're experiencing.

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She said it was like having another sense, a way

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of knowing what the garden needed before it could tell her.

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It doesn't feel like knowing. It feels like drowning. That's

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because you're fighting it. He leans against the work bench,

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and even in the dim light, I can see the

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way his shirt pulls across his shoulders. You're trying to

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maintain distance, keep your emotions separate from the Garden's emotions.

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But that's not how it works. The empathy isn't something

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you have, it's something you are. That's very philosophic, it's practical.

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The more you resist, the more the Garden pushes back.

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That's why it keeps throwing us together. It can feel

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you trying to avoid the things you're feeling, and it's

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trying to break through the resistance the things I'm feeling, Yes,

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which are what exactly? It's a challenge, a dare. I

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want him to name it, to make it real, to

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take this amorphous, overwhelming sensation and turn it into something

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I can deal with. He holds my gaze. I think

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you know. I want to hear you say it. The

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shed seems smaller than it was a moment ago. The

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air seems thicker. Matt pushes off from the workbench, takes

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a step toward me, and we're suddenly close enough that

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I can feel the heat coming off his body. The

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garden thinks we should be together, he says quietly, and

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based on what the ad did when you admitted you

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could feel spring. I don't think the garden is wrong

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about what you want. What I want is irrelevant. I

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just got here. You work for me. This is completely inappropriate, complicated,

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terrible timing, all of the above. And yet he lifts

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a hand, not quite touching my face, hovering near my cheek,

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like he's asking permission. The jasmine blooms every time we're

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in the same room. The roses opened when I touched you.

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The garden knows something we're not admitting. I should step back.

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I should reassert professional boundaries. I should remember that I

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came here to sort out an inheritance, not to fall

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into bed with the gardener because some magical plants think

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it's a good idea. Instead, I close the distance between us.

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His hand cradles my cheek, his thumb traces my cheekbone,

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and the dormant bulbs in the potting shed, the ones

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that were supposed to be sleeping, start to pulse with energy,

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waking up like they're responding to something they've been waiting for. Daphne,

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Matt says, and his voice is rough. I know we

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should probably, I know I kiss him, or maybe he

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kisses me. It's hard to tell who moves first. We're

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just suddenly there, his mouth on mine, my hands fisting

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in his shirt, the entire potting shed thrumbing with energy

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as every bulb wakes up at once. He kisses like

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he does everything else, patient, thorough, absolutely devastating. His hands

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slide into my hair, tilting my head for a better angle.

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I press against him, feeling the heat of his body

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through our clothes, feeling the garden's approval radiating through the walls.

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The bulbs aren't just awake anymore. They're sprouting. I can

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feel it, hap happening, green shoots pushing up through the soil,

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responding to whatever we're generating. Matt pulls back, breathing hard.

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The bulbs. I know they're not supposed to. I know

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this is really inconvenient timing, because I'd very much like

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to keep kissing you. But if we don't stop, I

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think they're going to bloom. And these are full bulbs.

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They shouldn't bloom until I kiss him again, just to

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shut him up. The bulbs explode. Not literally, nothing dangerous happens,

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but every single bulb in the shed sends up shoots.

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The shoots become stalks, the stalks become flowers, and suddenly

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we're standing in the middle of an impossible garden, tulips

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and daffodils and crocuses blooming around us in a riot

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of spring that's six months ahead of schedule. We break apart,

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staring at the chaos we've created. That's new, Matt says, faintly.

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You said the shed was neutral. It was new before you,

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before we He runs a hand through his hair, dislodging

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a petal that's somehow landed there. The empathy responds to

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strong emotions. Apparently strong includes kissing. Kissing. Yes, we're both

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breathing hard. The flowers are still emerging slower now, but

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the energy in the room is undeniable. I can feel

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my pulse everywhere, can feel the garden's satisfaction pressing against

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my awareness, like a cat who's finally gotten the cream.

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Matt looks at me. There's a smudge of soil on

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his cheek and petals in his hair, and he's never

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been more attractive. We should probably talk about this, he says,

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probably figure out what it means, set some boundaries, be

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reasonable adults about the situation. All very sensible. I'm going

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to kiss you again instead. Oh thank god. We don't

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leave the potting shed for two hours. We don't do

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anything beyond kissing. We're not completely irresponsible, but the kissing

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is comprehensive. Against the workbench, against the wall, on the floor,

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surrounded by spring flowers that definitely shouldn't exist. By the

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time we finally emerge, I'm flushed and disheveled and covered

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in pollen, and the shed looks like a botanical explosion.

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Matt surveys the damage. I have no idea how to

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explain this. Do you have to explain it to anyone?

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The garden will know? As if on que the jasmine

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by the greenhouse releases a triumphant wave of scent, it

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already knows. I say, it's been waiting for this. Vera

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was sick for the last year, not able to tend

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things properly. The garden has been he searches for the

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word lonely, I think, and worried about the future. When

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you arrived, it saw a chance to secure the line

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by throwing me at you by encouraging a connection it

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thought would be good for everyone. He takes my hand

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and it feels natural, like we've been holding hands for years,

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not hours. The garden isn't trying to manipulate you. It's

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trying to take care of you. This is just its

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very unsubtle way of showing it. I think about that,

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about the vines that trip, the paths that reroot, the

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jasmine that releases its scent at strategic moments, About a

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garden that's been tended by Laurel women for generations, that's

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grown used to their presence, that grieved when Vera got sick,

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and then grieved again when she died. The garden is

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matchmaking because it loves me. I say, the garden is

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matchmaking because it loves the Laurel line, and you're the

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last one. Matt squeezes my hand. But also, yes, because

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it loves you. It's been in love with you since

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you walk through the greenhouse door. I could feel it happening,

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the whole property lighting up, like it had been waiting

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for you its whole life. Something shifts in my chest

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and unfurling like a flower opening, and you, I ask,

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are you just following the Garden's lead. He turns to

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face me properly, taking both my hands. I've been trying

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to be professional since you arrived, he says, you're my employer.

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You're grieving, even if you don't realize it. You're overwhelmed

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and confused and dealing with a magical gift you didn't

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know you had. The last thing you need is your

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caretaker developing feelings. But but he lifts one hand, traces

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the line of my jaw. You walked into the greenhouse

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and the whole place started singing. The orchids wrote sonnets

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about you. The roses have been showing off NonStop. And

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every time you look at me with that determined expression,

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like you're going to solve me like a math problem.

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I don't look at you like that. You absolutely do,

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and it makes me want to be unsolvable. He leans in,

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presses his forehead to mine. I'm not following the garden's lead, Daphne.

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The garden and I just happen to agree about what

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we want, which is you here happy outside the entire

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property size with satisfaction. I feel it like a wave,

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five acres of botanical approval washing over me, wrapping me

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in something that feels absurdly like a hug. The May

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Day Festival. I say, what about it? You said Vira

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never missed one, that people come from three counties. I

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pull back so I can see his face. I want

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to be here for it. I want to help you

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run it. That's three weeks away. I know you're staying.

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I look around at the property, the greenhouse glinting in

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the afternoon sun, the cottage with its climbing roses, the

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potting shed where fall bulbs are blooming in May because

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we kiss too hard. The garden I can feel humming

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at the edge of my awareness, pleased and hopeful and

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incredibly embarrassingly invested in my love life. I'm staying, I say.

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The jasmine releases so much scent that we're both slightly

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dizzy with it. Matt laughs and pulls me close, and

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the garden blooms around us like it's never going to stop.

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Next week on Hot House, the May Day Festival approaches,

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Daphne's empathy reaches new heights, and the garden has one

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more intervention planned.