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Megan just stares at me until I become uncomfortable.

“What?”

“She doesn't want to be bought.”

“I'm not buying her.”

“What did she just fight with her family about?”

Fuck.

Right.

Things.

Ownership.

People deciding what she should have and what they should take. So, I stop sending jewelry.

Instead, the next morning, I leave one perfect Brandywine tomato on her porch.

No note.

No box.

No expectation.

Just something I grew.

Something that's mine because I nurtured it.

Given freely to her.

Around noon, my doorbell rings. When I open it, nobody is there.

But sitting on the porch is a plate.

One thick slice of toasted bread.

Fresh mozzarella.

Basil.

Olive oil.

And one perfect slice of Brandywine tomato.

I stare at it. My Devil practically purrs.

Mine.

“Don't push it.”

But I'm smiling when I take the plate inside.

Because she may still be angry.

She may still ignore me when I wave.