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Just for a second.
Then I look away.
Immediately.
I bend back over the soil, pressing my fingers into it harder than necessary, letting the grit scrape against my skin.
He’s not looking at you.
Even if he is?—
It doesn’t matter.
It can’t.
“Cutter.”
The word is quiet.
Close.
Too close.
I freeze.
Slowly, I lift my head.
He’s there.
Closer than he should be.
Always closer than he should be.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
My pulse stutters, then steadies.
“Working.”
His gaze drops to my hands, to the soil, to the uneven line I’ve carved without realizing it.
Then back to me.
“Are you?”
I straighten slightly.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“You’re distracted.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
The certainty in it grates.
