We walked to the back of the property where her little place rested. The ground was uneven, dew drying in patches, the old swing creaking gently even though there was no wind.
Gracie’s spot was peaceful, shaded by the umbrella tree's branches. The solar lights around the garden had fallen, some knocked over by the storm a few weeks back. I had never bothered correcting them, drowned by endless heartache and grief.
I crouched, placing the flowers down, smoothing the soil with my hand. My throat tightened but didn’t close. I whispered something only she could hear.
When I stood again, Dane was already rolling up his sleeves.
“Peter,” he called, “grab the mower. I’ll trim the edges.”
Peter nodded and disappeared into the shed like he’d known exactly where everything was. Minutes later, the sunlit yard filled with the hum of the mower and the sharp buzz of the weed eater. Dust motes rose. Grass clippings flew. The air filled with the scent of summer.
I stepped back, watching them work.
God.
Dane looked…unreal.
Sweat rolled down his neck, tracing the thick curve of his shoulders before disappearing under the edge of his shirt. The tattoos along his arms flexed with every movement, dark ink shifting over tanned skin, disappearing into the sleeves of his tee as he bent, lifted, adjusted. Then, almost casually, he tugged the shirt over his head, letting it fall and tucking it into the waistband of his shorts. The sun hit the planes of his chest and abdomen like liquid gold.
He used the inside of his forearm to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and I couldn’t help but watch. Every motion, fluid, natural, and achingly precise, set a thousand thoughts flickering behind my eyes. The way his muscles rolled under his skin, the sheen of heat and work, the shadowed curve of his arms and chest, it was almost impossible to look away.
My lips parted slightly. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, an ache that had nothing to do with the sun or the effort.
I let my gaze linger for just a heartbeat longer before finally rising. I stepped slowly up the small path from Gracie’s grave, letting the scent of freshly cut grass, the faint salt from the afternoon air, and the warmth of the sun settle over me. My legs felt a little wobbly from awe, from longing, from the sheer pull of him being everything I didn’t realise I’d been missing.
When I reached the porch, I let myself collapse into my grandparents’ old loveseat, the cushions worn but holding memories like a gentle, unspoken promise. The swing rocked softly under me, shifting with the slow sigh of the breeze, and I lifted a glass of cold peach tea to my lips. Sweet. Smooth. Alive. A pitcher and two glasses sat beside my laptop on the small wooden table, waiting for Peter and Dane. Every detail whispered that someone had thought of everything, that the world could be held in these small, perfect arrangements, and I hadn’t seen it coming.
I let myself breathe. Let myself watch. Dane moved through the yard like a force of nature—sunlight catching the sweat on his skin, muscles rolling under tanned, inked arms, power radiating from him in slow, effortless waves. Every movement whispered control, every glint of sweat teased thoughts I had no right to think. And I didn’t care. I couldn’t look away.
He was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that burned, that made my chest hitch, my heart stutter. Beautiful and real. Beautiful andunreachable. The world the work, the grief, the deadlines -faded to shadows behind him. My gaze traced the curve of his back, the way the sun caught the fall of his hair, the way he brushed it back with his forearm, flexing a muscle I wanted to memorise. The line of his jaw, the taut sweep of his abdomen, the power in the bend of his legs as he adjusted the mower—it was all dangerous, all impossible, and all I could hold onto.
Even Peter, older, calmer, with soft spots and sun-speckled arms, had shed layers into shorts and a tee, moving with ease and precision that betrayed years of experience and quiet strength. They flowed around each other naturally, the rhythm of two men who understood unspoken signals, who moved together without effort.
I sank deeper into the loveseat, opening my laptop and letting the words come, letting them flow out of the tight cage in my chest.Love Me With Lies. The title felt weighty, heavy, true. Here, in this shade, with the hum of work behind me, with the sight of these men I trusted and admired, the words finally found air.
I sipped my peach tea, letting the glass sweat against my fingers, the breeze teasing at my hair, the warmth of the sun balanced by the faint cool of the swing beneath me. Awe wrapped around me, thick and intoxicating, a blanket I hadn’t realized I needed.
Awe for what they were doing. Awe for the way Dane moved through my world, bending it, tending it, commanding it with a touch that was both protective and effortless. Awe for the safety, the quiet, the feeling of being truly seen.
Hours melted like honey in sunlight. By the time the yard was trimmed, the edges clean, the grass gleaming, the garden lights standing proud again, Gracie’s little space looked almost new, tended, gentle, alive with love.
My chest ached not with sorrow, not with grief but with something raw and right, a kind of longing sated by the simplest truths: that this place, this care, this strength, this man Dane was here, breathing life into everything I thought I had lost.
And I let myself watch, let myself feel, letting my heart swell and ache, letting the world settle into the way it should be for a moment, at least, in the warmth of sun and sweat, and the quiet power of love finally visible.
A late lunch arrived more like an early dinner. Some delivery service Dane must’ve used because Peter greeted the driver by name. Boxes of food, containers steaming with warmth, cutlery wrapped in linen.
Dane set everything up under the giant umbrella tree. Fairy lights wound through the branches flickered as the shade swayed. The picnic table looked like something from a magazine.
I shut my laptop and walked over.
Then Carrie’s car rolled through the gate.
She got out already smiling, already knowing she wasn’t leaving without the full story.
But to her credit, she sat down with all of us first.
Dinner was laughter. Warmth. Sunlight through leaves.
