He grinned. “Especially that part.”
I let out a long breath, feeling my heart hammer. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
I nodded slowly, realizing I was as scared as he was. It was why I got so mad at him, why I wanted to stay mad at him, to protect myself.
“Fifi?”
I nodded, knowing I had to give this a shot and quit trying to find excuses. “Okay.”
He smiled, slow and wide, and so real it cracked something open in my chest.
And just like that, something between us clicked back into place, not perfectly or seamlessly, but like a door being gently nudged open again.
I reached out, elbowing his arm with mine. “But just so we’re clear, you’re helping me clean the coop.”
He groaned. “I knew there was a catch.”
I smirked. “Only fair. I’ve had to emotionally wrangle a zebra and a man in flannel this week.”
Ben leaned down, brushed his lips over my cheek, and murmured, “You make it look easy.”
And somehow, in that moment, it did feel easy.
Messy, yes. Terrifying, sure.
But easy.
Because maybe falling didn’t always have to feel like crashing.
Maybe it could feel likechoosing.
“I’m just saying,” I told Ben as we stood side-by-side, staring at the chicken coop like it was the entrance to an escape room designed by chaotic gremlins, “no matter what happens in the next thirty minutes, there will benohard feelings.”
He squinted at me. “That sounds like something someone says before they commit a felony.”
“No, no. This is more like a social contract. A chicken-based non-disclosure agreement.”
Ben crossed his arms. “What is about to happen?”
“I’m just mentally preparing you for the fact that our chickens are slightly feral and very dramatic. They don’t like change, loud noises, or men who smell like cologne and out-of-town emotional baggage.”
Ben gave me a flat look. “That’s very specific.”
“They can sense things,” I whispered, stepping toward the coop.
To his credit, Ben followed.
The coop itself was an architectural triumph of janky carpentry and stubbornness, built by my dad in 2004, reinforced by every sibling since, and still somehow standing despite a roof that sagged like it needed a therapy session.
I opened the hatch door and immediately regretted all my life choices.
Lottie, our fluffiest hen, stood in the doorway like a gatekeeper to Henrietta, fluffed up to twice her size and glaring like I’d interrupted a secret ritual.
“Hi, girls,” I said sweetly. “This is Ben. He’s here to help clean.”
One of the chickens hissed.
