Sawyer wanders over to where I’m standing against a back wall, near a display of hanging plants, watching his friends pose for photos.
He leans with me, bumping my hip with his. “They’re pretty cool, right?”
“They are,” I say, watching his teammates spread out through the shop, filling it with laughter and life. “Thank you for doing this. You didn’t have to, you know.”
“When I brought up stopping by, it was a non-negotiable. They all wanted to come. Funny enough, they’re invested.” He snickers as he shrugs, but there’s something thoughtful behind it. “We’re close. I know with blood family, you show support bybeing there when someone really needs you to be. We’re the same way. This team always believes in showing up for each other, and we do. It’s how we’re built.”
I nod, because that lands somewhere tender.
“You do this, too, you know,” he says, turning to me. “Every day. For Theo. For this place. For people who need it.” His mouth curves, soft. “You’ve built your own little makeshift family here.”
I cock my head to one side. “I guess I have.”
“Yeah you have,” he says simply. “You. Theo. Charlie. Vivian. This.” He gestures around us. “It counts.”
I look around the store, brought to life today by a random drop in from Sawyer and his teammates, and feel gratitude. He’s right, this does count. My little spot, my little family. My team of people who show up for me.
I’m still absorbing his words when I meet his gaze again––and I find him watching me, his expression softer now. More tender than it was a moment ago.
That’s when it hits.
Heat rushes up my neck, settles in my chest. My heart promptly forgets how to behave. It stutters, then trips over itself, like it’s trying to decide whether to bolt or lean in. I’m suddenly aware of my breathing, of how warm I feel, of how much I don’t want him to step away.
Because no one’s ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not with certainty.
This is the part where something clicks into place. Where the flutter could stop being hypothetical, thus turning into a problem.
The realization lands all at once, bright and unsettling, and my body reacts before my brain can catch up. Instinctively I gulp, my lungs needing air. Needing space. Needing to not be standing this close to him when my thoughts have clearly gone rogue. We’re in panic attack territory, and I don’t need that embarrassment today.
I’m in retreat mode, at least in my mind I am, when my shoulder brushes something. I feel a sick feeling in my stomach when I realize I’ve bumped the display. All of my hanging baskets lined up in a row are now in complete danger.
A hanging basket sways…and then tips. It’s like watching a scene in a movie in slow motion, but it’s gut wrenching because you’re pretty sure you know how it’s going to end. Before I fully wrap my head around what’s happening, the string of pearls plant that had been happily living its best life a moment ago spills forward, trailing over my shoulder and down my arm. Long succulent strands drape across me like I’ve been personally attacked, or better yet crowned Queen of the Houseplants and awarded my official sash. Soil dusts the floor. A few pearls swing wildly before settling as the pot crashes to the ground.
I look down at myself, half-wrapped in greenery, deciding that the shop has made its choice to physically manifest my emotional state.
Sawyer is beside me, steadying the other baskets before they can do any more damage. He crouches, hands gentle as he lifts the trailing vines away from my arm while I put effort into picking up a shattered ceramic pot.
“Everything okay?” Charlie calls out.
“I think we’re fine,” Sawyer calls back, plucking a strand of tiny green ‘pearls’ from my hair.
“Oh,” I mutter, frozen in place. “The irony.”
“Hey,” he says softly. “At least you committed.”
“I should be committed,” I snarl under my breath.
“But now, we’re coordinated,” he says, not even trying to hide his grin. “String of pearls for life.”
Sawyer’s fingers work their magic as he frees the last strand, mumbling something about matching tattoos, when my heart does that thing again. It is completely unhelpful and wildly off-task.
Of course this would be the moment I lose my footing.Apparently, falling for this man comes with props. I just wish one of them wasn’t an expensive pot.
We start gathering what is left of the fragile plant, his big hands careful, gentle, like he’s picking up something precious instead of a mess I made.
Our fingers brush. Once. Twice. And suddenly everything feels too quiet. Too close.
What is happening?
