Chapter 4: The Garden Confession
The morning light came soft and golden, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows in sheets of pale warmth. The house smelled of coffee and something sweet—Isla was making pancakes, the sizzle of batter hitting the griddle drifting down the hallway like a promise. June woke slowly, her body unfurling from sleep in a series of small, involuntary jerks. Her pigtails were a disaster—tangled, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other—but her smile was immediate when she saw May's face on the pillow beside her.
"May," she said, her voice a croak. "May, May. Morning."
May's eyes fluttered open, red-rimmed and heavy. She'd been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying the voice message in her head on a loop. But she smiled anyway, the way she always did. "Morning, baby. Did you sleep good?"
"Junie slept good. Junie dreamed of frogs. Big frog, little frog, frog on May's head." She giggled, a high, bubbling sound. "Frog hat!"
May laughed—a real laugh, surprising herself. "A frog hat? That sounds very fashionable."
"Very, very fashionable." June tried to sit up, her body lurching, and May was there in an instant, easing her upright, smoothing the hair back from her face. June leaned into the touch, her eyes closing. "May smell like coffee."
"I haven't had any yet. That's Isla." May's thumb traced the line of June's jaw, gentle, featherlight. "Are you hungry?"
"Hungry, hungry, hungry. Pancakes?" June's eyes went wide and pleading. "Pancakes with honey?"
"Pancakes with honey, absolutely." May kissed her forehead, lingering. "Let's get you cleaned up, and then we'll go see what Isla made."
The morning routine was a well-choreographed dance. Sasha appeared with a warm washcloth, Priya with a comb. They worked together—Sasha washing June's face, Priya untangling the knots in her hair with patient fingers, May holding June's hand and murmuring soft reassurances. June hummed the whole time, a tuneless little melody that shifted and wandered.
"Isla making waffles?" June asked as Priya sectioned her hair into two high pigtails.
"Pancakes, silly," May said, her voice brimming with affection. "You asked for pancakes."
"Pancakes. Waffles. Pancakes. Both good." June nodded sagely. "Junie likes food."
"She really does," Sasha said dryly.
They got her dressed—a soft yellow sundress with tiny white daisies printed across the fabric—and settled her into her chair. The battery was full, the cup holder stocked with her sippy cup of juice. May pushed her down the ramp and out into the garden, the glass door sighing shut behind them.
The sensory garden was alive with morning. The lavender was in full bloom, its purple spikes heavy with dew, and the bamboo rustled in a breeze that carried the scent of jasmine. The koi pond shimmered, the fish surfacing in lazy ripples, their orange scales catching the light like sparks. Wind chimes sang from the pergola, their notes bright and silver.
But May's steps were heavy. She pushed the wheelchair along the stone path, her shoulders hunched, her silence a wall between them.
"May?" June's voice was small. "May, look. Fish!"
"Mm." May didn't look. Her gaze was fixed on the ground, on the stones beneath her feet, on the memory of a stranger's voice.
"May look!" June insisted. "Pretty fish! Orange fish! Fish go blub blub!"
May stopped the chair near the pond. She stood behind it, her hands resting on the handles, her knuckles white. She stared at the water, at the fish, at the reflection of the sky rippling across the surface.
"May," June said again, her voice softer now. "May still sad?"
May's breath caught. She didn't answer for a long moment. Then she moved, slowly, carefully, kneeling beside the wheelchair in the damp grass. Her knees sank into the soft earth. She took June's hand—those small, clumsy fingers with their limited control—and pressed it to her cheek.
"I'm just scared, baby." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Scared someone will hurt you again."
June's brow furrowed, that familiar puzzle crease appearing between her eyebrows. She thought, her lips moving soundlessly, her free hand twitching at her side. Then her face brightened.
"Junie has rabbit."
May blinked. "What?"
"Rabbit. Junie's rabbit. May pet rabbit, feel better." June nodded enthusiastically, her pigtails bouncing. "Rabbit soft. Rabbit warm. Rabbit loves May. Rabbit make May happy."
May's confusion lasted only a second. Then understanding dawned, and a flush crept up her cheeks. "June… you want me to…?"
"Pet rabbit!" June said, beaming. "Rabbit under Junie's clothes. Rabbit is Junie's secret. Only May knows. Only May can pet."
May's throat tightened. She looked at June's face—open, trusting, shining with the simple certainty of a child who has found the perfect solution to a problem. There was no shame in her eyes, no hesitation. The rabbit was real to her, a comfort, a gift.
"You want to help me feel better," May said, her voice thick.
"Rabbit make May happy. Then May not sad." June reached for May's hand with that jerky, uncoordinated motion, grasped her wrist, and tugged. "Here. Pet rabbit."
May hesitated. The world had been ugly, that voice still ringing in her ears, all those words about brokenness and disgust. But this—this was the antidote. June's clumsy generosity, her complete and total trust. May's fingers trembled as she slid her hand down the front of June's pants.
The hair was there, as wild and untamed as June herself—a thick, coarse bush that felt almost alive under May's touch. It was warm, dense, impossibly soft against her palm. She stroked it gently, reverently, and June sighed, a deep, contented sound that seemed to come from somewhere ancient.
"See?" June's eyes were half-closed, her body relaxing. "Rabbit soft. Rabbit warm. Rabbit loves May."
May's tears spilled over, hot and unexpected, tracking down her cheeks and dripping onto the grass. She kept stroking, her touch feather-light, and the tears came faster. Not from sadness, not exactly. From the sheer overwhelming force of being loved like this—uncomplicated, unconditional, pure.
"Junie," she whispered. "My Junie."
"May happy now?" June reached out, her hand finding May's hair, her fingers tangling in the strands. "May not cry?"
"These are happy tears, baby." May laughed, a wet, broken sound. "I promise. They're happy."
"Good." June's smile was radiant, blinding. "Junie's rabbit make May happy. Junie happy too."
May pulled her into a hug, careful of the wheelchair, careful of June's body, wrapping her arms around her and holding her close. She buried her face in June's neck, breathing in the scent of her—jasmine and vanilla and something else, something June.
"You're my whole world," May said, her voice muffled. "You know that?"
June nuzzled into her neck, her lips brushing May's skin. "Junie world is May."
The pond rippled. The wind chimes sang. The koi swam in lazy circles, oblivious to the two women kneeling in the grass, holding each other like the world was ending.
And for a long moment, it was just them—the garden, the light, the love.
But the world was still out there, of course. The phone buzzed in May's pocket—Sasha, probably, with news about the troll. The investigation would continue, the report would be filed, and somewhere, hours away, a man with a burner email was waking up to a suspended account and a growing list of consequences.
But that was later. Right now, there was only this: May's hand in June's hair, June's heartbeat against her chest, the rabbit a warm secret between them.
"Breakfast," May said finally, her voice steady again. "You wanted pancakes with honey, and Isla's going to be furious if they get cold."
"Pancakes with honey!" June's face lit up. "And waffles?"
"You can't have both, silly."
"Why not? Junie has two hands. One hand for pancakes, one hand for waffles."
May laughed, truly laughed, the sound bright and clear in the morning air. "You're impossible."
"Junie is possible!" June insisted. "Junie is here, so Junie is possible."
She was right. She was absolutely right.
May stood, wiped her eyes, and took her place behind the wheelchair. She pressed a kiss to the top of June's head as she pushed her back toward the house, where the smell of pancakes and honey drifted through the open door, warm and welcoming.
"May," June said, as they bumped up the ramp.
"Yes, baby?"
"Junie loves May. Rabbit loves May too. We both love May very, very much."
May's heart squeezed. "I love you both too. More than anything."
"More than pancakes?"
"Even more than pancakes."
"Wow." June's voice was filled with genuine awe. "May loves Junie very, very much."
Inside, Isla was plating the pancakes, Sasha was on her phone, and Priya was setting the table. The morning was bright, the house was warm, and the troll was a distant, fading echo.
But May knew, with a certainty that settled in her bones, that she would never let that voice touch June again. She would protect this woman—this impossible, wonderful, rabbit-having woman—with everything she had.
The pancakes were drizzled with honey. June's laughter filled the kitchen.
And for now, that was enough.