"Our plans. Intentions. Whatever you want to call them." I pull my notebook from my bag, flipping to a clean page. "Something concrete. So when things get chaotic we can remember what we promised."
Rogan retrieves a pen from his apron pocket, clicking it twice before handing it to me. "You start."
I think for a moment, tapping the pen against the notebook. The blank page stares back at me, full of possibility and weight. What do we promise? What can we promise that won't crumble under pressure?
Finally, I write.
Keep the door open. Feed people. Protect the seeds.
The words look smaller on paper than they feel in my chest. Essential truths. Non-negotiables.
He reads over my shoulder, close enough that I can feel his warmth, and adds his own line beneath mine in his bold, slightly messy script.
Make it taste good. Make it matter. Make it last.
I smile at the characteristic Rogan-ness of it, ambition and heart tangled together. I add another line, my handwriting neater but no less certain.
Trust the mess. Trust each other. Trust the process.
He takes the pen back, fingers brushing mine. Writes without hesitation.
Build slowly. Build together. Build a life.
The page fills with our traded promises. Practical declarations braided with emotional truth. By the time we're done, my hand is cramped and Rogan's leaning heavy against my shoulder.
"This is legally binding now," he says, voice low and solemn in a way that makes me look up. "Ink and witnesses. That's all you need for a real contract."
"We're the only witnesses here," I point out, though my throat feels tight.
His eyes meet mine, steady and warm. "We're enough."
The certainty in those two words settles something deep in my chest. I carefully tear the page free from the notebook, the soft rip of paper loud in the quiet kitchen. My hands are steadier than I expect as I pin it to the corkboard beside his aunt's final note, the one that started all of this, the one that brought him here and eventually brought us together. The two pieces of paper hang side by side now, old promise and new, legacy and future braided like roots.
Keep the door open.
Build a life.
"I think she'd approve," Rogan murmurs, standing close enough that our shoulders touch. His voice has gone soft, reflective.
"I think she'd say we took too long to figure it out," I reply, but I'm smiling. "That we were stubborn and scared and too careful by half."
He laughs at that, the sound warm and unguarded, rippling through the empty kitchen. It's the kind of laugh that means he knows I'm right.
We clean up together after that. Washing bowls in companionable silence, wiping down counters with practiced efficiency, returning tools to their designated spots on the pegboard and shelves. The rhythm is familiar now, lived-in and comfortable. We move around each other without needing to ask who does what or where things belong. He knows I'll hang the towels to dry on the left hook, I know he'll check the burners twice before he's satisfied they're truly off.
Partnership. The word hums quietly between us, written in every small gesture.
When the kitchen is spotless, Rogan kills the lights and we step outside.
The wildflowers are settling into their new home. Pale petals catching the last of the evening light.
"They'll spread if we let them," I say. "By next year they could fill the whole bed."
"Then we let them." He locks the door behind us. "Controlled chaos. My favorite kind."
I elbow him gently and he catches my hand.
We walk home through town. Past the community center where the cooperative paperwork is being finalized. Past Farmer Hank's stall, shuttered for the night. Past the seed library I'm building in the old post office annex.
