Downstairs, the lounge is chaos – plant pots clustered everywhere, leaves still damp from yesterday’s rain. I did get them all inside, at least.
Now they need to go back out.
“One at a time,” I mutter, grabbing the nearest pot – Mabel, the lavender. “We can do this.”
I’m halfway through carrying her back onto the porch when a voice cuts through the quiet.
“You’re going to wreck your back doing that.”
I nearly drop her.
I turn to find my grumpy neighbour leaning against the fence, arms folded, expression as unimpressed as ever. Dry today. Fully clothed. Still infuriatingly solid and good looking.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He hums, unconvinced, then hops the fence with irritating ease and starts lifting the heavier pots without asking. Efficient. Silent. Almost gentle, despite the scowl permanently etched into his face.
“You look like shit.”
“Wow. Good morning to you too.”
His gaze sweeps over me – quick, assessing – and then pauses. Just for a second. His jaw tightens, like something’s irritated him that he can’t quite place.
My skin prickles.
“Storm pass alright?” he asks, voice rougher than before.
“Yeah. Loud. Messy. I guess Old Pete was right about it coming in after all.”
I huff as I struggle with the oversized pot in my hands, my grip slipping as my palms sweat.
“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters, already stepping forward. “I’ll take a few.”
The words register a beat late.
“I—” I shift my grip on the pot. “I can manage.”
He studies me for another moment, jaw tightening, like he’s weighing something internal. Then he exhales sharply.
I don’t remember agreeing. But one second I’m standing there, braced for an argument, and the next he’s lifting two pots at once like they’re nothing, moving with brisk, efficient purpose. No fuss. No commentary.
I follow, feeling oddly off-balance, like the moment slid sideways when I wasn’t looking.
We work in silence.
He doesn’t look at me much. When he does, it’s brief. Careful. Like he’s avoiding something. The air between us feels tight, stretched thin.
Once the last pot is back outside, he straightens and wipes his hands on his jeans.
“You should take it easy today,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Storms wipe people out.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, though my voice lacks conviction.
He nods once, like he doesn’t believe me but won’t argue.
Then he turns and vaults the fence with the same ease as always, disappearing back onto his side without another word.
I stand there for a moment, unsettled.