“A potato?” he repeats, voice warm and disbelieving.
He steps closer, and I can feel the smile stretching across his face even without seeing it, hear it in the softness of his breath, the way it lifts at the edges.
“My very first one,” I say proudly, lifting it toward him like an offering. “Behold, my tiny earth baby.”
Jason loses it. Full, unguarded laughter rolls out of him, deep and bright and beautiful, the kind that shakes his shoulders and steals my breath because it’s so rare and so real.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, and there’s this warm, helpless affection in his voice that makes my chest ache, “that is the most perfect potato I have ever seen.”
He crouches beside me, hands brushing mine as he inspects it like it’s a priceless artifact instead of a lumpy little garden vegetable.
His fingers linger around mine, not quite touching, but close enough that heat curls over my skin.
“You actually did this,” he murmurs, wonder threaded through every word. “You grew something on your own.”
“I know.” I grin. “I’m basically a god now.”
He lets out another laugh, softer this time, but it shakes all the way through him.
“That tracks. Bow before Violet, goddess of dirt.”
“Damn straight,” I say. “My reign will be benevolent but firm.”
His thumb grazes the back of my hand. Just a light, absent stroke, but it takes my breath away.
“Congratulations,” he says quietly. “I’m… proud of you.”
My heart does a weird, fluttery somersault, because he means it. Because it matters to him. Because my silly little potato is enough to make him laugh like I’ve rescued the moon from the earth.
I swallow around the warmth rising in my throat.
“It’s just a potato,” I whisper.
“No,” he murmurs, leaning in close enough for his breath to brush my cheek. “It’s your first victory.”
And for one fragile, perfect second, I forget that the world outside this garden is dangerous. I only know his laughter, warmth, and his hands so close to mine.
The tiny potato sits proudly in my palm, the first thing I’ve grown on my own without any help. Proof that I can still make something thrive.
Jason’s voice dips, soft and honest, “Violet, this is a big deal.”
“Yeah,” I whisper shakily. “It really is.”
I can’t stop the breathless joy that floods my chest, fills my throat, spills into my smile. “Jason, we need to cook something with it. Something special. Something celebratory.”
“We’re making loaded mashed potatoes,” he decides immediately, no hesitation at all.
“With one potato?” I giggle.
“Okay, half a loaded mashed potato,” he amends. “We can share.”
“We’re going to need a very tiny bowl.”
He leans in and kisses my cheek, soft, warm, smiling against my skin, like he can’t help himself.
“We’ll make it work,” he murmurs.
Our hands are wrapped around one silly little potato that somehow feels like the beginning of a whole new world.
