I’m taking my anger out on a pile of innocent cherries, crushing them until they collapse into bloody pulp. I crank the handle of the fruit smasher the way Troy showed me, sweat sliding down my temples, my muscles burning in a way that feels cathartic. With every turn of the press, the frustration bleeds out of me. The juice trickles into the basin below, thick and dark, rising inch by inch.
The cherries split with wet pops, their juice splattering my hands and soaking into the front of my shirt. It smells sharp and sweet, the aroma almost suffocating in the sticky, humid air. I focus on the rhythm: crank, crush, breathe. Crank, crush, breathe.
After that disastrous family dinner, I texted Troy and told him I wanted in on the next batch of cider—that I wanted to get my hands dirty, to learn the process from start to finish. What I didn’t say is that this feels like rebellion. Like defiance. Every crushed cherry is a quiet act of disobedience, a sticky, red middle finger aimed straight at my dad.
The handle jerks beneath my grip.
I frown and shove down harder, but it barely budges, the smooth rhythm gone. Resistance shudders up my arm, metal grinding against something thick and stubborn. I let out a frustrated groan and put my weight into it.
“It’s stuck,” I mutter, trying again.
Troy pushes off the wall with a quiet huff of laughter. “You overfilled the pulp basin.”
I pause, chest heaving slightly. “What?”
“You’re going too hard.” His boots scrape against the concrete as he walks over. “It’s clogging the machinery.”
Before I can step back, he’s by my side, invading every inch of my space. He leans over my shoulder to peer into the basin, one arm braced on the counter beside me. The sudden closeness knocks the air from my lungs.
Heat radiates off him, seeping through the thin cotton of my T-shirt. I catch the scent of his cologne beneath the heavy cherry tang—clean and woodsy and overwhelmingly masculine. It tangles with the memory of the sun-warmed orchard and our stolen kiss beneath the trees, his lips stained red and sour.
My eyes betray me and drop to his mouth.
I remember those lips curved around a grin as he pushed me against the tree, how they tasted like fruit and risk and something that felt a lot like freedom.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, reaching into the machine.
His forearm brushes mine as he scoops out a fistful of crushed cherry flesh. It squelches wetly in his hand before he dumps it into the trash with a dull splat. He does it again, clearing the blockage with efficient movements, completely unfazed.
I’m hyperaware of everything—how close his thigh is to mine, the way his breath ghosts the shell of my ear when he leans in closer.
Suddenly, he reaches for my hand.
I flinch before I can stop myself.
He snickers softly. “Relax.”
His fingers wrap around mine as he guides my hand back to the crank handle. His palm settles over the back of my knuckles.
“You gotta take it slow,” he says quietly, his voice dropping lower now that he’s this close. “You were going too fast before.”
He starts turning the handle slowly, deliberately. I feel the movement before I register it, the steady rotation under our joined hands.
“Like this,” he murmurs, his breath blowing hot against my ear. “Slow and steady.”
My face burns.
His chest presses lightly against my back as he leans in to guide the motion, his other hand braced on my hip. The contact is soft, but I feel it everywhere. My entire body is tuned to him, my nerves buzzing, my brain chanting his name like a prayer.
The machine hums smoothly now, cherries surrendering without protest.
I swallow hard, acutely aware of how this looks. How it feels. Like one of those cheesy romance scenes where a woman spins pottery and a man stands behind her, arms wrapped around her, guiding her hands with absurdly intimate precision. It should feel ridiculous.
Instead, it feels dangerous.
My brain catches up to my body all at once—how close he is, how easily I’m leaning into it, how natural it feels to let him guide me.
I jerk forward and shrug him off, leaning out of his reach. “I’ve got it,” I say quickly. I grab the handle on my own and crank it with stiff, controlled movements.
