Page 4 of Hollow

“Your grandmother’s design was basic. I’ve expanded it over the years.” A pause. “With your father’s approval, of course.”

“Of course.” I stuff my hands into my cardigan pockets, suddenly aware of how my fingers feel like ice cubes. “Mrs. Fletcher mentioned you work with medicinal plants.”

He narrows his eyes slightly, assessing. “You’re ill.”

Not a question and not delivered with that awkward pity everyone gives me. Merely a straight observation, like he’s commenting on the weather. I appreciate it more than I should.

“What gave it away? My ghost-girl complexion or the fact that I’m dressed for the Arctic in June?” The sarcasm just comes out. It feels like forever since I’ve talked to someone who wasn’t treating me like a specimen or a sob story.

Unexpectedly, his mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile but definitely not a frown. “Neither. It’s in your eyes. That look people get when they’ve been hurting for a long time.” He steps backfrom the doorway. “Come in if you want. It’s warmer inside.”

I hesitate. A little warning bell goes off in my head. Strange man, isolated greenhouse, all the horror movie red flags. Dad would lose his shit if he knew I was here, but I’m so cold, and the promise of warmth is too tempting.

I stumble slightly over the raised door frame and instinctively shoot out my hand to steady myself, accidentally brushing against his arm. Holy shit, he’s warm. Like human furnace warm. I pull back quickly, mumbling an apology. He doesn’t acknowledge it, simply moves farther into the greenhouse, giving me space to enter on my own terms.

What am I doing here? I barely know this guy, but something about his bluntness, the way he doesn’t tiptoe around me like I’m made of spun glass, pulls me in more than any fake kindness ever could.

The greenhouse envelops me in humid warmth, like walking into a living, breathing thing. The air feels thick and alive, full of soil and green things and other smells—sharp, herbal scents I can’t name. Rows of plants grow in what looks like organized mayhem, some I recognize, others completely foreign.

One corner has been turned into a simple living space. A narrow cot with messy blankets sits against the glass wall. A small wooden table holds a camping stove, a French press, and a stack of books with dog-eared pages. Clothes—mostly black and gray—hang from hooks on a metal rack. A guitar leans against a trunk that probably holds the rest of his stuff. The space is minimal but intentional. Not a homeless aesthetic, more like someone who’s figured out exactly what he needs and nothing more.

“This is impressive.” I try to sound casual. “What are you growing in here?”

“Whatever the island offers, plus things I’ve brought from other places.” He goes past me to a workbench cluttered with tools and equipment. A stone bowl sits next to small jars filled with dried leaves and powders. “Some for looks, some for healing. Most serve both purposes.”

“And these medicines… Do they work?”

He gives me a measuring look, like he’s deciding how honest to be. “Depends on who you ask.”

“I stopped believing in miracle cures somewhere around my third clinical trial.”

Something shifts in his expression. Respect, maybe. Like I’ve passed a test I didn’t know I was taking. “Good. We’re on the same page then. I don’t do miracle cures.”

“I’m Briar, by the way,” I say, realizing he’s only called me Ms. Waters. “Since we’re already discussing my medical history.”

His laugh catches me off guard. It’s low and genuine, transforming his whole face. “Briar.” My name sounds different in his mouth, like it’ssomething more interesting than it is. “It’s a good name for someone so resilient.”

“That’s one way to put it.” I look around, wanting to change the subject. I step closer to examine a plant with delicate purple flowers. “What’s this one?”

“Monkshood. Pretty, right?” He moves beside me, close enough that I can feel heat radiating off him. “Don’t touch it, though. Toxic as hell. People used to use tiny amounts for heart problems back in the day. Too much, and you’re dead.”

“You’re growing deadly plants in a greenhouse you sleep in?”

His smile turns wicked. “I keep knowledge in a greenhouse I sleep in. The difference between medicine and poison is often just dosage.” He plucks a leaf from a different plant, crushes it between his fingers, and holds it out. “Smell.”

I lean forward cautiously, inhaling the sharp, clean scent. “Mint?”

“Corsican mint. Good for digestive issues, headaches.” His eyes track over me, not in a creepy way, more like he’s reading something. “You’re shivering even in here. Poor circulation comes with autoimmune issues, doesn’t it?”

Self-conscious, I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. “A symptom of my condition.”

“I could make you something for that. Not a cure,” he adds, seeing my expression. “Just something to help with symptoms.”

“Why would you do that?”

He shrugs one shoulder, the movement fluid and casual. “Why not? This place takes enough from people.” He turns away, moving to a shelf of glass bottles. “Your grandmother got it. That’s why she made the maze. So even in all this fog, you could always find your way back.”

“You knew my grandmother?”

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