"Then you showed up with a bag of fertilizer and a complete disregard for laminated documents, and my grass got pecked and my shirt got shredded and I caught a tree tonight, Junia. I haven't felt that alive since the warbands."
The bucket creaks. She's leaning forward.
"You hate chaos."
"I'm terrified of it." My hands settle on my knees. Bandaged palms up. "But I'm more terrified of another eleven years where the most exciting thing that happens is my edger needs a new blade."
I lean toward her. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off the flannel. Close enough that when I speak, the sound has nowhere to go except directly to her.
"I don't want a truce, Junia."
Her breath catches.
"I want a permanent ceasefire. Full terms. No more citations. No more quarantined plants. Your chaos on my lawn, my structure in your garden, all of it tangled up together until Valerius can't tell where your yard ends and mine begins."
The darkness hums. Rain and wind and the three-inch gap and the sound of two people breathing six inches apart.
"That's a lot of commitment from a man who alphabetizes his fertilizer."
"By nitrogen content, actually."
Her laugh is small and warm and lands somewhere in me like a seed finding soil.
CHAPTER 9
JUNIA
"Your runes are glowing."
"They do that." He's matter-of-a-fact about it.
"Through the bandages."
"They do that too." He nods.
"Is it an orc thing?"
"It's a proximity thing." His brow lifts endearingly.
Oh.
The glow pulses brighter. Soft green light catches his jaw, the ridge of his brow, the heavy shelf of his cheekbone. His eyes reflect it back, two points of amber in the dark, locked onto me with an intensity that makes the flannel feel paper-thin.
"Proximity to what?"
He doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. The glow answers for him, brightening another fraction, painting the cluttered garage in dim emerald. I can see his face now. All of it. The hard lines and the sharp tusks and the scar that hooks under his left ear and the expression he's wearing, which is not the expression of a man who alphabetizes fertilizer by nitrogen content. It's raw. Open. Terrified, just not really of falling trees.
He asked for a ceasefire. A permanent one. My chaos on his lawn, his structure in my garden. Everything tangled together.
My pulse hammers in my wrists, my throat, the soft dip behind my ears. The flannel sleeves hang past my fingertips and I bunch the fabric in my fists because my hands want to reach for him and I need a second. Just one second to breathe.
But the air in this garage doesn't cooperate. It's thick with rain and motor oil and green light and whatever invisible thing crackles between us when we're close. It has crackled since the first day. Since the fertilizer cloud and the spotless boots and the laminated list. Since he vaulted a six-foot fence with steel shears. Since he caught a tree.
For me.
"Yes."
The word comes out soft. Barely a sound. More breath than sound. But the garage is small and dark and quiet except for the rain, and he hears it.
