I lift my chin. “You’re very confident for a man who lost the tarragon.”
He takes the wrapped basil and pays.
“I lost a bunch of herbs. I’m recovering.”
“You’re brave.”
“I try not to make a performance of it,” Damien says.
I look away before he can see how close I come to smiling.
The vendor hands me a bundle of basil without my asking.
I glance down. “I didn’t choose that.”
The vendor says, “I did.”
Damien says, “She has excellent taste.”
The vendor looks pleased. “Better than both of you.”
“That would not surprise me,” Damien says.
I pay for the basil because arguing would only make the woman happier.
When I tuck it into my basket, Damien steps slightly aside to let two older women reach the stall. He does not crowd me. He never does. Somehow that makes the space around him harder to ignore.
“You’re working today?” Damien asks.
“I’m always working,” I say.
“I believe that.”
“You say it like an accusation.”
“I say it like recognition.”
That slips beneath the banter before I can stop it.
I look at him.
His eyes are on mine, not amused now, not testing. The market noise moves around us, but for one second, the space between us narrows into something quiet enough to hear.
Then a man behind Damien shouts about apricots, and the market returns.
I shift the basket on my arm. “Are you working today?”
Damien says, “I’m always working.”
“Convenient answer.”
“Accurate one.”
“You stole my line.”
“I improved it.”
I laugh despite myself.
