“Hi, Meemaw.”
“Don’t ‘hi’ me.”
Fabric rustles as she adjusts something on my shoulder.
“You’re glowing. You’re radiant. You look like you swallowed two sunbeams and a romance novel.”
“Meemaw—”
“And that boy,” she continues in a whisper just for me, “that wolf-boy of yours is walking around here like he built you the Garden of Eden and is waiting to see if you approve of the apple selection.”
Heat rushes up my neck.
“I… he… Meemaw, don’t?—”
“Mm-hmm.” She pats my cheek. “Sweetheart, please. I’ve been alive long enough to recognize a man who is catastrophically in love.”
I sigh happily.
“Oh,” she adds casually, “and Beau nearly killed himself on a lantern, but that’s nothing new.”
Somewhere across the garden, Beau yells, “I can hear you! I already confessed.”
Meemaw ignores him. Her voice softens as she squeezes my arm. “I’m proud of you, Violet.”
My throat tightens.
The cedar beams above us creak gently in the breeze, the scent of rosemary and fresh bread curling around me like warm hands.
“You built something beautiful here,” she murmurs. “Not just the food. Not just the garden. The people. These wolves. That boy.”
My chest aches in the best way.
“It’s our anniversary,” I whisper.
“I know. One year since he almost left us,” she says quietly. “One year since you stood in a clearing and changed fate with your voice alone.”
I swallow hard.
“And one year,” she continues, “since you chose him. And he chose you.”
A tear slips down my cheek.
She wipes it away with her thumb, gentle and stern all at once.
“Tonight,” Meemaw says, “isn’t about what you survived.”
I tilt my head.
“It’s about what you built.”
Behind me, footsteps sound—heavier, familiar, warm.
Jason.
Meemaw lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Go on, sweetheart. Your wolf looks like he’s about to pass out from staring at you.”
My heart stumbles. “Meemaw?—”
