“This succulent?—”
My eyes widen.
Sawyer looks up, already bracing. “No?”
“That,” I say carefully, “is a cactus.”
He blinks. “Cactus is a succulent.”
“It is atypeof succulent,” I say, teeth clenched. “But you cannot call all succulents cacti.”
He nods solemnly. “I have learned something important today.”
I stare at him. At the earnestness. The way he’s trying so hard not to mess this up. The way his shoulders tense like he’s waiting for a whistle.
And something in me cracks. A laugh slips out. Quiet. Unplanned.
Sawyer’s head lifts immediately. His expression changes—not smug, not teasing. Relieved.
“There,” he says softly. “I was hoping you’d do that.”
“Do what?”
“Laugh. Means I didn’t totally blow it.”
I swallow, a tight feeling in my chest beginning to deepen. I don’t like it. I definitely don’t understand it.
“This isn’t about being funny,” I say, stepping closer, lowering my voice. “People are trusting you. They’re here to learn.”
“I know,” he says. And he means it. “That’s why I wanted to practice.”
I adjust his grip on the pot, my hands steady even though my pulse isn’t. “You don’t need to impress anyone,” I tell him. “Just be you and be careful.”
He looks at me then. Really looks. “You sound like you’re worried about me.”
I straighten, immediately retreating into professionalism. “I’m worried about the workshop.”
“Uh-huh.”
I step back, clearing my throat. “Again. From the top.”
He nods, serious now. Focused. Sawyer sets the plant back on the table and exhales, long and steady, like he’s resetting his breath before a shift change.
“Okay,” he says. “From the top.”
I nod, but my chest is still tight. Too tight. The shop feels smaller suddenly. Quieter. Like it’s holding its breath with me.
“What if no one comes?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
Sawyer cocks his head to the side. “Isn’t it sold out?”
“People have signed up, but…” I gesture vaguely at the tables, the neatly laid-out supplies, the sign-in sheet waiting by the register. “What if they’re only coming because you’re—you.” I wince. “A hockey player. What if they don’t actually care about plants?”
There it is. The thing that’s been needling at me all evening, poking holes in my checklist.
Sawyer doesn’t laugh at my fear. Doesn’t deflect. He steps closer instead.
“Then we make them care,” he says. Simple. Steady. “Together.”
