“Yes. It’s cool out and you only have your dress with you.”

Before I can open my mouth, he slides a white short-sleeved T-shirt over my head, then a long-sleeved one, then a navy hooded sweatshirt. They all fall to my knees. He kneels in front of me and guides my legs into a pair of gray sweatpants.

“Aiden, do you think this is going a little overboard? Considering that it’s May in Portland, Oregon, not winter in the Arctic tundra?”

“Not at all,” he says, lifting my right foot. He kisses my toe and slides a woolen sock over it. He repeats the process with my left foot and tops off the preparation for the Ice Age by sliding a knit hat over my head until it covers my eyebrows. He steps back, regarding his handiwork with solemn deliberation.

“Are you sure we don’t need a scarf and gloves? Or a biohazard suit?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He smiles and swats my behind. “You’ll do. Come, let’s go fend off the elements.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“I’d still fuck you.”

“That’s rude.”

“But true.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Even better.”

“Aiden, honestly, can I at least take off the hat? I can barely see. I’ll trip.”

“No, you won’t,” he says, picking me up like I weigh as much as the hat, not twice my normal pounds from all the fabric layered over me.

I wrap my arms around his neck. His ever-present tension relaxes and he marches out of the bedroom with purpose.

The moment the night air whips my skin, I’m grateful for my Eskimo attire. The wind is sharper up here than in town. Aiden sets me down by the Aston Martin and opens my door. For the first time since the accident, I wish I had my own car so I could drive instead of giving directions. Hmm, on second thought, then I couldn’t stare at him.

Aiden folds gracefully into the driver seat despite his tall frame, and turns on the ignition. He presses a button on the steering wheel and “Für Elise” fills the car.

My eyes fly to his. He smiles. “It seems appropriate.”

“My mum named me after this,” I volunteer, surprised at how easily the words leave my mouth.

“It suits you. It has a calming quality, I think.”

“Calming? You mean soporific?”

He laughs. “We’ve already established you keep me up at night. So, no, soporific is not appropriate. Where to, Elisa?”

“Down the hill, to the left.”

I listen to the melody as the Aston Martin curves smoothly, its light beams piercing the thick darkness. Every few seconds, my eyes flit to Aiden’s face. There is a different kind of beauty about him now—something that glows underneath. The music changes to the “Moonlight Sonata” as we take the final curve. The closer we get, the louder my heart beats until it drowns even the angelic piano. I keep my eyes ahead where in a few meters, the tall, rose hedges will appear.

“Ah!” Aiden smiles. “The Rose Garden.”

I nod, rolling down the window. The moist May air steals inside, heavy with the scent of early blooms. Aiden parks the car and scans the night with sharp vigilance. It’s so intense that I follow his gaze, half expecting shadows to morph from the darkness. But there is nothing.

He gets out and comes to my window. He brushes his knuckles along my cheek. “Sure you want to be here?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yes.” He frowns as though the answer is a surprise. He opens my door, wraps his arm around me and pulls me to his side. I expect the permanent tension that strains his muscles, but they are half-relaxed, like violin strings after a long concert.

We start strolling to one of the oldest public gardens in the United States. Ten thousand roses and counting. But that’s not the only reason why I come here. I stop under the enormous trellis at the entrance, the way I always do. Christmas lights and soft halogens light up the paths. The rest of the blooms are tucked in the darkness, their petals humming with critters. There is a whoosh of hilly wind, almost like a whisper. I lock my knees, bracing for the crater that ruptures in my chest when I come here. But tonight, it is contained. Not like it does not exist, but like the ember that glows at Aiden’s presence fills it with light, not void.

“You come here alone.” Aiden’s voice is low—a statement, not a question.

“Yes. I grew up with a rose garden. Not as grand as this one, of course. But it smelled the same.”

I take a deep breath, wondering if my lungs know the difference. Aiden breathes in the air, too, as his eyes assimilate the garden. There is something unique about the way he perceives things—as though he is consuming them with all his senses.

“So you come here when you miss home,” he states quietly.

“No. I don’t miss England. I come here when I miss them.”

“Your parents?”

I nod. “This is the only spot I’ve found here that suits them. Come. This way.” I take his hand and start on the mossy, cobblestoned path.

“The path to our cottage in England looks exactly like this except it’s barely two feet wide,” I say, having the odd sense that I am inviting Aiden not to my home, but to my origin.

His sentient eyes scan the path. Then he pulls me to his chest and caresses my lower lip with his thumb.

“Why do you come here alone? I’m sure it’s not because you can’t find the company.”

“We all need a place where we go alone. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, I think that’s true.”

“Do you have an Alone Place, Aiden?”

Walls rise up in his eyes and he stops caressing my lips. “Yes, I do.” His voice has a hard edge.

I wait for him to tell me where it is, but he doesn’t. I don’t push him even though I would give some of my remaining days to know. Things like this are only shared by choice.

“So you know the feeling, then.”

He nods. I reach on my tiptoes and kiss his lips lightly. “Come, let me show you the rest,” I say, following the mossy path.

“Do they have your favorite roses here?” he asks, as we enter the round Shakespeare Garden with its twinkling lights.

“No. Aeternum romantica grows only in East Africa. Portland’s soil would be too wet for it. In truth, I’ve only ever seen it in pictures. But I did see its purple cousin once when it was shipped to England for the Countess of Wessex. My dad was asked to extract the oil from the petals so that the Countess could use it.” I smile at the memory of Dad bouncing on his heels, much like Denton, when the royal summons arrived.

“You’re serious?” Aiden chuckles.

“Oh, yes. He was quite overcome. Before he was locked up to distill the geraniol oil, he managed to get security permission for me and my mum to see the roses.”

I pad along the perimeter of the Shakespeare Garden, stopping at the purple floribunda bush. I sense Aiden behind me like a shadow.

“The Purpura romantica looked similar to this one,” I say. “Except its blooms were smaller and it smelled like honey.” I caress the deep purple petals. Aiden’s fingers cover mine, feeling the petals too.

“Like your eyes,” he says.

I nod. “And my mum’s. And my grandma’s before then. I think it’s why Dad worked so hard to get permission for those roses. He exchanged his annual bonus for some blooms.” I swallow the wave of tears rising in my throat. It does not take the supernatural strength it usually does.

“My mum, Clare, was in seventh heaven. She was very fond of roses—something she inherited from her mother.”

I start leaving the floribunda, but Aiden wraps his arm around my waist and draws me to him. He bends his head, running his nose over my throat to my chin. Inhaling deeply. Then his warm lips press against mine. If I live a million years, I will not be able to describe Aiden’s kisses. This one is slow at first, soft like petals. His lips and tongue fight for dominance over my mouth until they combine forces and I surrender. My arms hang limply on his shoulders, all nostalgia forgotten. Was that his plan? He pulls away, smiling.