“So,” he asks, leaning lightly against the tree trunk beside me, “why’re you over here instead of in the midst of everything?”
I pick at the rim of my paper cup. “Crowds aren’t… they aren’t my favorite.”
“Ah.” He nods. “You get quiet when you get overwhelmed?”
I blink.
He says it as if it’s not a flaw. It’s just… information. A detail. Something to understand, not fix.
“I guess,” I murmur.
He nudges my shoulder gently. “Nothing wrong with that. I get loud when I’m overwhelmed.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I talk too much. Make too many jokes. Try to distract myself.”
That… tracks.
“You seem comfortable.”
He lets out a single breathy laugh. “That’s what I want people to think.”
I look at him then.
Behind the grin, behind the mischief, behind the easy charm… there’s a tiredness there, too.
The wind shifts, carrying the smell of rain and the sharp whisper of pine. Jesse notices it too, and he looks up at the clouds, squinting.
“Storm’s getting closer,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.” The tension under my ribs tightens. “My bees felt it this morning.”
“Smart little things.”
“Smarter than us,” I agree, smiling faintly.
He grins. “I believe that.”
We stand there, just the two of us beneath the pine tree, the potluck bustling on the lawn like a different world entirely.
His shoulder is nearly brushing mine. His voice is warm and easy in my ears. And my heart is beating far too loudly for someone who is definitely not falling for her neighbor.
“So,” he says after a moment, rocking back on his heels, “if I asked you to come sit with me and the twins, would that be?—”
“Yes,” I blurt.
His eyebrows shoot up.
My hands fly to my face as heat floods me from scalp to toes. “I mean, yes, that would be okay. I’m not, ugh. I’m not usually this direct.”
He laughs gently. “I like direct. Makes my life easier.”
Before I can think of a reply, two small voices shriek from across the yard.
“Daddyyyyyy!”
Jesse flinches. “That’s either the sound of joy or the sound of imminent disaster.”
