Bearclaw Valley gardenia and king protea

The mention of a den warms him. Putting your roots down. Drawing out the perimeter. Watching the blueprint turn into something real.
Taylor presses his cheek against the cool, damp grass. That'd be nice, he murmurs, his voice slightly muffled.
It was a debauchery of the white picket fence and the two story house and the living with someone you loved. Taylor could and would never lead a normal life. But in this veneer, in this thin slice of spring, he entertains the fantasy of him coming home after a 9-5 day of work and putting his loafers in the shelf by the door. Then the fantasy slips away as fast as it had materialised.
No, he says, feeling uncertainty making its way to his head. Through the brain stem. Had Merrick asked Evien if he could kill? Do I look that depraved? Do I look like a murderer? A monster? He didn't need to ask. He presses his forehead against his knuckles.
He isn't distressed, he thinks. Just deep in thought.