He reaches for my hands without thinking, and I let him. There’s no choreography to it. No plan. Just him, swaying a little off-beat, laughing at himself, making space for me like he fully expects I’ll step into it. And somehow, I do.
The distance between us shrinks as the music wraps around us and the moment. He spins me once—clumsy, delighted—and the sound that escapes me is real laughter, the kind that catches you by surprise. His hands hover at my waist, careful, asking without words. When they settle, it feels right. Easy.
For a few seconds, it’s just movement and a measured realization that we’re smiling at each other like we’ve forgotten everything else exists. Like this moment we’ve encapsulated is enough.
We’re laughing, spinning a little, bumping into shelves like we’re twelve and at a school dance, all elbows and bad timing and zero self-consciousness. My chest feels light and warm. Toofull, like something’s tipped over and I’m not sure how to put it back where it belongs.
The music cuts out and we stop.
The sudden quiet feels loud. Intimate. My pulse skids, and I become acutely aware of how close we are—how easily this could tip into something else if neither of us moves. How our hands are still intertwined.
Sawyer’s expression shifts. The playfulness fades, replaced by something softer. Something real settles behind his hazel eyes, like he’s seeing me instead of the moment.
It hits me like a punch to the stomach.
I pull back quickly, probably too quickly, breaking the connection before I can talk myself out of it. “So—right. Where were we?”
He blinks, like he’s just remembering there’s a world outside this space.
“The video,” I say, too fast, my hands flying to my hair, smoothing it. “We have to finish the video.”
The words land between us, practical and flimsy all at once. And somehow, it feels like the most dangerous lie I’ve told all day. Because the last thing I want to do right now is finish a video.
What I want is to stay right here in the quiet, in the almostness of what could be, in the place where neither of us has said anything yet.
Sawyer nods slowly, like he understands something he’s not ready to name either.
“Yeah,” he says. “The video.”
But the way he looks at me tells me we’re both pretending this is just about plants now.
CHAPTER 11
SAWYER
The group chat Liam set up at the start of the season has been lighting up my phone all morning.
It kicks off while I’m still toweling off from my shower, notifications stacking up faster than I can read them. By the time I’m dressed and heading out the door to do my community-outreach hours at the store with Juliette, the chat has fully committed to whatever chaos it woke up choosing today.
I check it once while tying my shoes. Trash talk. A badly cropped meme. A message that makes zero sense unless you were present for a very specific locker-room conversation, which means Liam definitely started it.
I should mute the thread. I know this. I even hover over the option. Instead, I lock my phone and head out, because lately there are two things I’ve learned about myself: I have terrible impulse control, and I don’t like missing anything—especially when I’m on my way to see Juliette.
The chat buzzes again in my pocket, impatient. I get the feeling it’s not going to let me ease into the day quietly, so I flipit open to see what’s new.
Owen:
Dude.
Owen:
Is this you??
He drops a link, and it’s the video I shot with Juliette two nights ago at the store. The stupidly charming, way-too-close shot of me gently watering a plant like it’s a delicate baby animal. The one Juliette posted ten minutes ago.
Ty:
Bro I just watched this twice and I don’t even own plants…yet.
