Hey guys hope you’re enjoying reading as much as I am writing 😊here's part three of my X-Men OC series— we’re gonna start calling it X-Men Earth091281 for simplicity from now on haha 😂 Anyways… on to the story
Chapter 3–Secret Gardens In Our Minds.
The mansion smells different when you’re moving through it. It’s not just the citrus furniture polish, or the freshly made breakfast that wafts through the air. It also feels different.
Delilah notices the warm sunlight that’s streaming in through the tall expansive windows that overlook the lush grounds— and although the anxiety she felt when she first woke is still there—there’s also something a blooming sort of feeling that starts to seep in the closer Jubilee leads her toward the back of the house. Something ethereal and alive. Something that makes Delilah’s lungs expand like they’ve been waiting for oxygen.
Jubilee skips ahead, her long shaggy pixie cut bouncing along with her. “Okie dokie,” she announces, like a tour guide with a personal vendetta against boredom. “Garden rules. One: don’t pet the koi. Two: don’t ask Beast—Hank—to name every plant because he will and you’ll be here until new years. Three: if you see Logan smoking, no you didn’t.”
Delilah huffs a laugh—short, and surprised, still disbelieving she can.
Storm walks beside her, unhurried. Jean is along Delilah’s other side, close enough to be reassuring but not crowding. Delilah notices it anyway—the way they give her space and still… don’t let her drift. Like guard railing. Or like a safety net.
They pass through a set screen doors and suddenly—Air. Real air. Cooler than the room she woke up in, edged with morning chill and sun-warmed earth. Dew clings to the edges of leaves like tiny glass beads. The light is different out here—softer, filtered through branches instead of bouncing off brick and glass.
Delilah stops on instinct. Her whole body does that strange, involuntary thing—as if something in her recognizes the place before her mind can understand it.
Because the grounds aren’t just nice. They’re lush. Lawns that roll like quiet waves. Flowerbeds arranged with intentional color—deep maroons, vivid violets, crisp cremes.
Climbing roses along trellises. Hedges trimmed into neat lines that soften at the edges where wild ivy tries to take over.
And beyond it all— A line of trees, dense and patient, like an entire forest has been stationed at the property line to stand guard.
Delilah’s throat tightens. She can’t stop staring.
Jubilee beams, watching Delilah watch everything. “I told you. Isn’t it so pretty” she whispers triumphantly.
Delilah swallows. “Is any of this… even for real?”
Jean’s smile is gentle. “Very for real.”
Storm tilts her face toward the breeze like she’s listening to the wind's thoughts. “The grounds are tended with care,” she says quietly. “But they are also… free.”
Free.
Delilah’s chest aches at that word like it’s something she forgot was possible.
They follow a stone path that curves between garden beds. Delilah’s gaze catches on every small detail—the way the rosemary leans into the sun, the way the marigolds cluster like they’re gossiping, the way the soil is dark and rich like someone feeds it the good stuff.
Her hands flex at her sides. Not because she wants to do anything. Because her body feels… called. Like standing too close to an ocean and feeling the tide pull at your bones.
Jubilee walks backward so she can watch Delilah’s face. “Okay, so,” she says, voice dropping into something more honest, “don’t freak out, but you’re probably gonna feel weird out here.”
Delilah blinks, her brows furrowed with confusion. “Weird how.”
Jubilee shrugs. “Like—plants are loud to you. Or quiet. Or… something. I dunno. Mine are fireworks, so everything is like pop pop pop all the time.” She wiggles her fingers for emphasis. “But when I first got here, even I was like, ‘Oh. This place is… different.’”
Delilah’s gaze drifts to a row of roses. They’re pale peach, almost cream, full and heavy with bloom. The petals curl like soft paper. For a moment, she’s back in her shop, neatly arrangong a bouquet. Back in the tight, familiar little world where every flower had a story in her head even if she didn’t say it aloud.
Delilah steps closer without thinking. The rosebush doesn’t move. It doesn’t surge or snap or lash out. It just exists—alive and calm. But Delilah feels it anyway. She doesn’t hear it, no. Not with her ears. With something under her skin. A faint hum of life, steady as a pulse. Her breath catches.
Jean shifts slightly, watching her carefully. “You should take your time,” Jean says softly.
Delilah nods once, eyes fixed on the roses. “It feels like—” she starts, then stops, unable to explain.
Storm’s voice is quiet. “Like being understood,” she offers.
Delilah’s eyes sting. Because yeah, yes. Yes, it does.
Delilah swallows and forces a shaky exhale. “In the city, it’s like everything is… exhausted, like you have to fight to breathe,” she whispers. “Even the plants. Like they’re surviving out of sheer willpower and spite alone.”
Jubilee’s face softens. “Yeah. The City can be… intense. I know it’s a lot.”
“It’s— it’s… is it different here?” Delilah asks, her deep dark eyes wide.
“Yes, but in a good way.” Rouge answers warmly with a kind and genuine smile.
Delilah crouches slowly beside a bed of purple pansies, orange daisies, and yellow marigolds. Her knees are stiff. She reaches out carefully, then stops—hesitating—fingers hovering inches away from the petals.
Touching feels dangerous now. Like her hands are loaded weapons she never asked to carry.
Rouge notices the hesitation. She doesn’t push. She just says, quietly, “You don’t have to touch anything if you don’t want to.”
Delilah laughs once, breathless. “It’s ridiculous, it's just a bunch of pansies. They’re just flowers. I’m used to touching anything and everything around the shop. they can’t even prick you.They don't have thorns.” Her eyes sting as she feels hot tears prick at the corners of her lashes.
Storm crouches too, not as low, just enough to be with her on her level. “And you may again,” she says. “When you trust yourself.”
Delilah’s throat tightens. Her fingers tremble. Slowly—so slowly—Delilah lets her fingertips brush the edge of a leaf. Nothing explodes. No vines surge. No petals erupt into a bloom. Just… Warmth. Not physical warmth. A presence. A soft recognition that ripples through Delilah’s chest like the plant is sighing in relief.
Delilah inhales sharply. She doesn’t pull away this time.
Behind her, Jubilee goes very still, like she’s waiting for something dramatic.
Jean’s gaze is steady—calm, anchored, ready to intervene if Delilah spirals.
Storm watches like a horizon: patient, endless, unafraid.
Delilah closes her eyes. And for the first time since the shop— She lets herself feel it without trying to stop herself. Without fear, without restraint. The plant’s life is simple but strong. It wants sunlight. Water. Soil. Time. It doesn’t want to hurt anyone. It doesn’t want to be a weapon. It just wants to grow.
Delilah’s breath shudders. Because she understood that. That’s all anyone wants.A tear slips down her cheek, uninvited.
Rouge’s voice comes out in a soft whisper, softer than Delilah’s ever heard it. “You okay?”
Delilah nods, still touching the soft orange petal. “I think…” Her voice breaks. She clears her throat. “I think it’s the first time I’ve been able to breathe in days.”
Jean’s face softens like she’s felt that exact sentence before. Storm’s hand hovers briefly near Delilah’s shoulder—not quite touching—just there, a quiet offer.
Delilah opens her eyes again. The garden is the same. But she isn’t. She rises slowly, pulling her hand away with care. The flowers do not change. But Delilah swears the blossoms look a fraction fuller, as if they leaned toward her while she wasn’t watching. Her stomach flips.
“Did I—” Delilah begins, voice small.
Jubilee’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god. You did the thing.”
Jean tilts her head, studying the roses. “You didn’t force anything,” she says gently. “If anything… you soothed it.”
Delilah presses a hand to her own chest like she can hold herself together that way. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to—”
Storm’s expression is calm, sure. “Meaning and effect are not always the same,” she says. “But you are learning the difference, you have done nothing wrong Delilah.”
Delilah swallows. “It feels like they can hear me.”
Jean’s gaze flicks briefly to Delilah’s hands, then back to her face. “Maybe they can,” she says softly. “Maybe they always could.”
Delilah’s heart stutters. Because that thought— That thought is almost worse than being afraid.It means she’s been carrying this quietly her whole life without knowing what it was. It means every time she whispered to a dying plant and it perked up, it wasn’t luck. It means the world has been responding to her in ways she never understood.
Jubilee claps her hands once, bright again like she refuses to let Delilah drown in her own thoughts. “Okay!” she announces. “Next stop: greenhouse.”
Delilah’s head snaps up. “There’s a greenhouse?”
Jubilee grins with the intensity of a villain revealing their master plan. “Girl. There are multiple.”
Delilah follows them down the path, still shaky, still raw—but something inside her has shifted. Not confidence. Not comfort. But curiosity.
They pass the previously mentioned koi pond. A stone bench under a willow. A small grove where the trees are arranged in a circle like they’re keeping a secret. And then—
Glass.
A structure ahead that catches the sunlight and throws it back in bright shards. Tall panes, curved roof, metal frame. Humid air spilling out even from this distance, rich with the scent of soil and greenery and flowers so intense it almost tastes sweet.
Delilah slows. Her pulse kicks up—not from fear this time.From recognition. From longing.
Jubilee reaches the greenhouse door and throws it open with a flourish. Warm air rushes out, wrapping around Delilah’s skin like a soft blanket.
Inside, the world turns into a sea of different shades and hues of green.
Palm leaves the size of Delilah’s torso. Ferns with lush and overgrown fronds, unfurling layers, each leaflet crisp-edged and evenly spaced. New growth curls at the tips in tight, coiled fiddleheads, tender and vibrant, promising more life to come. The older fronds hold their shape—supple, not brittle—moving slightly with the warm, humid air. Hanging vines spilling from rafters. Hibiscus blooming in impossible colors. Rows of seedlings in trays like baby miracles waiting to happen. Delilah’s breath catches.
Storm’s gaze warms. “Ah,” she murmurs.
Delilah takes one step into the greenhouse. Then another. The door clicks gently shut behind her, not locking—just closing out the cold. Warmth wraps around her. Green surrounds her. And for the first time since she woke up in that strange bed— Delilah thinks, maybe, she can learn to live in her own skin. Even if it scares her. Even if it changes everything. Because the garden doesn’t recoil from her. The garden remembers her. And it welcomes her anyway.
The air inside the greenhouse hums. Not loudly. Not insistently. Just… present. Like a held breath that never quite exhales.
Delilah doesn’t move at first. She lets the warmth settle into her bones, lets the moisture bead against her skin, lets the green press in from every side until there’s nowhere for the panic to ricochet. The glass overhead refracts the sun into soft prisms that scatter across leaves and soil, turning everything luminous and unreal.
She feels… seen. Not like she was being watched, examined. Instead she felt: understood and recognized.
Her shoulders ease a fraction. Her jaw unclenches.
Jean lingers just behind her now, giving Delilah space but not absence. Storm remains near the entrance, a quiet guardian. Jubilee has already wandered ahead, crouched beside a bench of succulents like she’s greeting old friends.
“No rush,” Jean murmurs. “You don’t have to do anything.”
Delilah nods, swallowing. Her fingers twitch at her side; her fists curl, uncurl.
“I’m not—” she starts, then stops. She tries again. “I’m not trying to make anything happen.”
Storm’s reply is immediate, calm as rainfall. “Then nothing will.”
That settles something in Delilah’s chest.
She drifts forward slowly, shoes brushing the stone floor. Each step feels deliberate, reverent, like entering a cathedral built of chlorophyll and patience. She pauses near a table crowded with young plants—seedlings just strong enough to hold themselves upright, leaves no larger than her thumbnail.
So small. So delicate. So brave. Delilah crouches again, breath shallow. She doesn’t touch them. She just… looks.
And the sensation returns—not a surge, not a pull, but a gentle awareness. The seedlings don’t reach for her. They don’t need to. They simply exist in the same rhythm she’s breathing in now. Sun. Water. Time.
Her throat tightens. “I used to apologize to them,” she says quietly, surprising herself. “When I had to cut them. Or when one didn’t make it. I know that sounds stupid.”
Jean shakes her head, just slightly. “It doesn’t.”
Delilah smiles weakly. “I told myself I was just… personifying them. Coping with the quietness in the shop and the long hours. But now it feels like—” She falters, searching. “Like they heard me. Even then.”
Storm steps closer, close enough now that Delilah can feel the steady warmth of her presence. “Listening & or Speaking does not always require words,” she says. “And kindness has a certain frequency that is universally understood.”
Delilah exhales, shaky but real. She lets her fingers rest against the edge of the table. She looks at the plants. The wood. Grounding herself first. Nothing spikes. Nothing flares. Encouraged, she brushes one fingertip against a sprout.
The response is subtle enough that someone else might miss it entirely—a near-imperceptible lift, the faintest adjustment toward the light. But Delilah notices it. She's not controlling them, they’re responding to her.
Her eyes fill again, but this time the tears don’t burn, they warm. They slip free like summer rain finally allowed to fall after a long drought.
“Oh,” Jubilee whispers from somewhere nearby, awed. “Yeah. That’s the good stuff.”
Delilah laughs softly through the tears. “They’re not afraid of me.”
Jean smiles, gentle and sure. “Why would they be?”
Delilah straightens slowly, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her breath is steadier now. Her pulse no longer racing. The fear hasn’t vanished—but it’s quieter. Manageable. Like something she can sit beside instead of drowning in.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this,” she admits.
Storm’s gaze is kind, unwavering. “For now? You exist with it. You listen. You learn its boundaries—and your own.”
Jean adds softly, “You don’t have to decide anything today.”
Delilah nods. That helps more than she can say. She takes one last look around the greenhouse—the ferns unfurling with patient confidence, the vines looping lazily overhead, the seedlings daring the world to let them grow.
Something inside her blooms at Jean’s words… hope, a second chance, a place to grow…
For the first time since the bell rang in her shop—since her life began to blossom differently— she believes, just a little, that whatever she’s becoming doesn’t have to destroy what she’s always been.
It might just… let her bloom.
To be continued…
