The certainty in her voice does something to me. Makes me believe it might be true.
"Stay," I say, the word coming out rougher than I intend. "Help me run through the plating one more time."
She hesitates, fingers already reaching for her satchel. "I have a seed distribution meeting at eleven."
"Skip it."
"Rogan—" There's warning in her voice, but also something softer underneath.
"Please." I meet her eyes directly. "I need the honest feedback. Dawn's too kind, the temps are terrified, and Maya just tells me everything looks like a Jackson Pollock painting."
Ivy bites her lip, a gesture I'm learning means she's actually considering something she knows she shouldn't. She checks her watch with the sort of deliberate slowness that suggests she's already made up her mind but needs the ritual of weighing options. Responsibility against whatever this strange, magnetic thing is that keeps building between us every time we're in the same room.
"One hour," she says finally, setting her bag down with the decisive thump of someone committing. "That's it."
"Deal."
We work side by side at the steel prep counter, our shoulders nearly touching. I plate, hands moving through the familiar choreography, and she critiques with the unflinching precisionof someone who's spent years evaluating growth patterns and structural integrity.
"The radish is crooked," she says, leaning in to examine my third attempt at the composed salad.
"It's artfully placed," I counter, tilting my head to admire the slight angle. "Adds visual interest."
"It's crooked. Fix it."
I bite back a smile and fix it, adjusting the paper-thin slice until it sits exactly perpendicular to the plate's rim.
"Better," she says, and I can hear the approval even though her tone stays matter-of-fact. "Now do it again in under a minute."
I do it in fifty-three seconds flat, my hands finding the rhythm, the muscle memory kicking in. She times me with her phone, lips pursed in that particular expression of concentration that makes a small line appear between her eyebrows.
"Acceptable," she says, clicking the stopwatch off.
"High praise from the woman who labels her label maker."
"I have standards."
"I noticed." I start another plate, already shaving two seconds off my internal count. "It's one of your more terrifying qualities."
Our eyes meet. Hold. The kitchen goes very quiet except for Maya aggressively typing in the corner.
Ivy breaks first. Looks down at her notebook. Tucks hair behind her ear.
"I should go," she says, though she doesn't move immediately. Her hand lingers on the surface, fingers drumming once against the stainless steel.
"Probably," I agree, even though some treacherous part of me wants her to stay. Wants to keep trading barbs and adjustments until the light shifts gold through the windows.
"Good luck tomorrow." Her voice goes softer, losing some of that crisp botanical precision. "With the demo. With everything."
"Thanks." I’m uddenly aware I've been fidgeting with a microgreen stem. "For the help. For putting up with my chaos."
She gathers her things with characteristic efficiency, notebook tucked into her canvas satchel, field jacket shrugged on, hair check with one hand. But then she pauses at the door, one palm flat against the frame, and I can see her shoulders rise and fall with a breath I suspect she's been holding.
"Rogan?"
"Yeah?"
She turns, just her head, just enough that I catch her profile in the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. "You're going to be brilliant," she says again, and this time there's something raw in it, something unguarded that makes my pulse kick up in my throat.
