Page 113 of When Love Takes Root

Then he looked at me with that steady, grown-man tenderness that kept getting past my defenses.

“No. I’m trying to give us something to water slowly.”

I couldn’t move.

I touched the rim of the pot. “What are we planting?”

He nodded toward the trays. “Your choice.”

I studied the options like I had not nearly dissolved thirty seconds earlier. Basil. Mint. Lavender. Rosemary. Tiny rose cuttings. A small hibiscus starter with two glossy leaves and one shy bud.

My fingers went to the hibiscus.

“Of course,” he said.

“Why of course?”

“Fire recognizes fire.”

I rolled my eyes, but I took the plant.

He chose rosemary.

I looked at the small green sprigs, then back at him. “Rosemary?”

He said, “For remembrance.” My hand stilled near the soil. He looked at the plant, then at me. “And because what came before me still deserves water.”

My eyes burned again.

“Josiah.”

“I’m not trying to make you cry.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

He stepped closer but not too close. “I can choose something else.”

I covered his hand with mine before he could move the plant away. “No. Keep it.”

We planted side by side, our shoulders brushing, our hands dipping into soil, our laughter returning in small pieces. I teased him about being too precise with the dirt level. He told me my hibiscus looked crooked. I told him my plant had personality. He said personality was not a substitute for structural support. I told him that sounded like something a man who alphabetized his tools would say.

He brushed dirt from the back of my hand with his thumb, then lifted my fingers and kissed my knuckles before letting go. No speech. No announcement. Just a small act of tenderness in the middle of potting soil and string lights.

It nearly ruined me.

When we finished, the staff wrapped our pots in brown paper and tied them with twine. He carried both because of course he did, and we made our way back through The Red Garden toward the exit. I looked back once, trying to memorize it.

Josiah noticed. “You okay?”

“I’m trying to memorize it.”

His expression changed, warmth gathering in his eyes. “We can come back.”

The ease of that almost hurt.

We can come back.

Four words. No demand. No assumption. Just room for a future that did not need to be dragged into existence.