The air is crisp, biting at my nose, but the scent of the damp soil is grounding—a real, earthy smell that reminds me of my grandmother’s backyard in San Francisco.
I check the leaves beneath the fabric. They look a little shocked by the sudden freeze, their edges curling inward, but the vibrant green is still there.
Hardy. Resilient. Much like the rest of us in Fox Hollow.
Straightening up, I wipe my cold hands on my thighs and survey the rest of the small patch. The Brussels sprouts seem fine, and the herbs in the boxes near the back door have survived the night under the overhang.
It’s a quiet victory, but it matters. This garden is my sanctuary, the place where I go when I need to decompress.
The back door swings open, letting a wave of warmth and the smell of coffee spill out into the yard.
Knox steps onto the porch, his breath puffing in the chill air. He’s dressed in running gear, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the temperature.
“Everything survive?” he asks, stretching his quads, his movements precise and efficient.
“Looks like it,” I reply, turning to face him. “The kale took a bit of a hit, but it should recover. How was the run?”
“Cold. Wet. The trails are slush.” Knox walks over to the outdoor tap and turns it on, splashing water on his face to cool down. He wipes it off with the hem of his shirt, revealing a slice of toned stomach. “Fallon still asleep?”
“Last I checked. He had company.” I nod toward the closed curtains of the downstairs bedroom.
Knox lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “Of course he did. The man is a fucking horn dog. We have a full service today, and he decides to play hostjusqu’à toutes les heures.”
“He’s entitled to a life, Knox. It’s not like he’s late yet.”
“It’s late for us,” Knox counters, but his tone lacks real heat. He checks his watch, a sleek, minimalist thing that probably costs more than my car. “Today was his day to open. If he’s not up in twenty minutes, the prep won’t be done.”
We walk back inside together, the heavy door sealing out the winter air. The space we share is enormous—a former warehouse that we converted years ago into our shared living quarters.
It’s a sprawling, open-concept dream, with high ceilings, exposed brick, and gleaming stainless steel that separates the domestic area from the professional kitchen.
It feels good to be in here. This building is ours. We just made the final payment on the mortgage last month, a milestone we celebrated with a bottle of expensive scotch and a rare moment of silence between the three of us.
Every inch of this place, from the reclaimed oak tables to the custom ventilation hood, holds a memory of our struggle and our success.
“I made coffee,” I tell him, heading toward the large kitchen island. “It’s fresh.”
Knox grabs a mug from the cabinet, pouring himself a cup black. He takes a sip, his eyes closing briefly as the caffeine hits his system. “Merci.I need it.”
“I can handle opening,” I offer, leaning against the counter. “I need to go to the market anyway. With the snow coming down, I’m betting the delivery truck will be delayed. I want to pick up fresh berries before they’re gone.”
Knox considers this, his mind already ticking through the logistics of the day. “If you go to the market, I’ll open. I can start the stocks and get the mise en place organized for the lunch rush. That leaves Fallon to handle the close and the deep clean.”
“He’s going to hate the close shift again,” I warn.
“He should have thought about that before he brought a stranger home on a Tuesday,” Knox mutters, though a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “It’s only fair.”
Just then, the door to Fallon’s room creaks open. He shuffles out, looking like a disaster. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, his chest bare. The morning light catches the ink on his skin.
On his left, the ocean comes alive in blues and grays—the lighthouse standing guard on his shoulder, the waves crashing down his arm, the compass pointing true on his forearm. On his right, the land and his family claim him—herbs, the oak branch of strength, and the five interlocking rings that bind him to his siblings. And over his heart, the driftwood tree grows, that small, empty space in the center waiting for a mate who hasn’t come along yet.
Behind him, a woman I’ve never seen before steps out. She’s wearing one of his T-shirts, looking around with wide, curious eyes.
“Morning,” Fallon grunts, his voice rough with sleep. He scratches his stomach, yawning widely. “Coffee?”
“In the pot,” I say.
Fallon walks over to the fridge, bypassing the coffee for a moment to grab a blue Gatorade. He hands it to the woman with a sweetness that belies his intimidating appearance. “Here. Hydrate. You had a long night.”
