“Back already?” he asked, voice lower than before. I liked it better this way, like we were sharing a secret.
“I’m not allowed to go home unless I bring a peace offering to the greenhouse god,” I said, and gestured with the tray of petunias I’d grabbed at random. “Apparently Jojo’s tomato ambitions are now a full-scale mutiny.”
He let out a small snort. “They’re probably cheaper at Miller’s Feed.”
“I’m not here for a deal, I’m here for expertise.” I let my gaze linger on him a beat too long, then looked away. “And maybe to help you with that box.”
He hesitated, then nodded, motioning to a case of ceramic pots half-hidden behind a pallet of mulch. “If you’ve got a minute. I’m supposed to get these to the front, but…”
I closed the distance, rolled up my sleeves. We worked in silence for a few minutes, moving the pots one at a time because the crate was too awkward to carry whole. At first we stood a safe foot apart. By the fourth trip, our arms brushed in the narrow aisle. I felt his body tense—then go strangely still.
“You always work weekends?” I asked, just to fill the static.
“Yeah. Pays more. And the regulars are less…” He searched for a word. “Overbearing.”
“Is that your way of calling me overbearing?”
He shook his head. “No. You’re… different.”
I grinned. “That’s what my parole officer says, too.”
He huffed a laugh, and we both reached for the next pot at the same time. Our hands collided, knuckles grazing, skin on skin for a microsecond. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but the contact was like a live wire.
For a moment we just stood there, shoulders pressed close, both pretending not to notice.
His breath hitched. His pupils, already big in the dim storage light, widened more.
“Sorry,” I said, but didn’t move.
He cleared his throat. “It’s fine.”
There was a beat. My heart hammered so loud I was sure he could hear it. I forced my hands back to work, stacking pots, but the air between us felt suddenly different. Charged.
“You, uh, grow stuff at the ranch?” he asked, just above a whisper.
“Jojo does,” I said. “I mostly break things and get yelled at. But I like dirt. Feels honest.”
That earned a small smile. “Yeah. It’s harder to screw up than people think.”
I looked at him. Really looked, for the first time. Close up, you could see the faint shadow under his jaw where he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. The ragged edge of his fingernails, the old paper cuts on his thumb. He was a study in contradictions—softer than I’d expected, but with an edge, like a knife that’s been sharpened one too many times.
We finished moving the pots in record time. I wiped my hands on my jeans, fished a pen from my back pocket, and scribbled my number on the edge of a crumpled receipt.
“In case you need a hand with any more heavy lifting,” I said, holding it out.
He hesitated. Then he took it, folded it in half, and tucked it into his apron without comment. When he looked up again, there was something like hope in his expression, but it was gone as soon as it came.
A guy in a feed store uniform poked his head around the corner, saw us, and muttered something about inventory. Danny gave a stiff nod and turned to fetch a broom from the back wall.
I should’ve left. I really should have. But something made me linger, watching him as he swept dust from the floor, arms moving in steady, careful strokes.
As he reached up to set a pot on the top shelf, the sleeve of his shirt rode up. There, just above the wrist, was a faintconstellation of bruises, yellow and purple, clustered together like a map of places nobody should ever have to memorize.
My stomach went cold.
He noticed me noticing. For a split second, his whole body went rigid, eyes blank as if he could will me not to see. Then, smooth as a dealer hiding a bad card, he yanked his sleeve back down.
“Those look fresh,” I said, trying to keep my tone even.
