The next morning dawned hazy and thick, the kind of Texas heat that pressed against the windows before the sun even cleared the horizon. Darius woke to the smell of coffee drifting up the stairs—Mom already in the kitchen, humming something old and low. He lay there a minute, staring at the ceiling, shoulder stiff from sleeping wrong. The journal box was still on the dresser, untouched since the night before. He hadn't opened it again. Not yet.
He showered slow, hot water pounding the scar tissue until it loosened a little. Dressed in jeans and a plain navy t-shirt, boots laced tight. Downstairs, Mom was packing her lunch—leftover chicken, a thermos of tea, an apple.
"Morning, baby," she said, sliding a mug toward him. "You got plans today?"
"Not really."
She gave him that knowing look. "Amara called while you were in the shower. Said if you're free, she'd like company in the garden. Said the weeds are winning."
Darius took a sip of coffee—black, strong. "She say that?"
Mom smiled. "In so many words. She's at her place. Two streets over. You know the way."
He didn't argue. Just finished the coffee, grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, and headed out.
The walk was short—past the same cracked sidewalks, the same pecan trees dropping green husks that crunched under his boots. Amara's house sat on a quiet corner lot, white with green shutters, a wide front porch shaded by climbing jasmine. The yard was bursting: beds of marigolds, zinnias, rows of herbs along the fence. A wooden trellis sagged under the weight of honeysuckle, scent heavy in the air.
She was in the back garden, kneeling in the dirt between tomato plants heavy with fruit. She wore denim shorts that hit mid-thigh and a faded green tank top, hair pulled into a loose ponytail, strands sticking to her neck from sweat. Garden gloves on her hands, a smear of soil across one cheek. When she saw him, she sat back on her heels, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist.
"You came," she said, voice soft, almost surprised.
"Mom said you needed help with weeds."
Amara laughed—quiet, melodic. "She's not wrong. These things are taking over." She gestured to a patch of crabgrass choking the base of the tomatoes. "You don't have to. I just… thought maybe you'd want to get out of the house."
He shrugged. "I'm here."
She handed him a pair of spare gloves—brown leather, worn soft. He pulled them on, knelt beside her. The soil was warm, dark, rich-smelling. They worked in silence at first, pulling weeds, roots coming up with satisfying snaps. The sun climbed higher, heat building, sweat prickling along his spine.
After a while she spoke. "You remember when we used to plant things back here? When we were kids?"
"Yeah. Your dad let us dig up half the yard for that sunflower experiment."
She smiled at the memory. "They grew taller than both of us. He was so mad when they blocked the kitchen window."
Darius tugged a stubborn dandelion, root and all. "Your dad was good people."
"He was." Her voice softened. "He and your dad… they talked a lot. About the service. About coming home. I think that's why I waited. Felt like if I held on, maybe everything would line up the way they hoped it would."
He paused, dirt under his fingernails. "Things don't always line up."
"I know." She looked at him then, eyes steady. "But some things do."
The words hung between them. She reached for a tomato, fingers brushing his arm as she picked it—warm, accidental, electric. She didn't pull away right away. Neither did he.
They kept working. The pile of weeds grew. Sweat soaked through his shirt, clung to her tank top in dark patches. The air smelled like earth, tomato leaves, her skin warmed by the sun.
After an hour she sat back, wiped her face with the hem of her shirt—flashing a quick glimpse of smooth stomach, a faint scar from some childhood fall he remembered her getting. She caught him looking, didn't blush, just smiled small.
"You thirsty?" she asked.
"Yeah."
She stood, offered him a hand. He took it—her palm callused from garden work, grip firm. She pulled him up. They walked to the porch together, steps slow.
She handed him a mason jar of iced tea from the cooler by the back door—sweet, lemony, ice clinking. They sat on the porch steps, legs stretched out, bare feet almost touching on the warm wood. She'd kicked off her sneakers earlier; her toes curled against the step.
"You ever think about what comes next?" she asked quietly.
"Sometimes."
She sipped her tea. "I do. A lot. About the shop. About the garden. About… someone to share it with."
He looked at her profile—the curve of her cheek, the way her ponytail had come half-undone, strands curling against her neck.
"I ain't good at planning," he said.
"I know." She turned to him. "But you're good at showing up."
The breeze stirred the honeysuckle, carrying the scent over them like a blanket.
She leaned in—just a fraction—and rested her head on his shoulder. Careful, testing. He didn't move away.
They sat like that a long time, tea sweating in their hands, sun climbing higher, cicadas rising in the trees.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were soft, unguarded.
"Come back tomorrow?" she asked.
"Maybe."
She smiled. "I'll take maybe."
He stood. She walked him to the gate.
At the sidewalk he turned. "Thanks for the tea."
"Thanks for the help."
He nodded once, then walked home.
The streets were quiet now, heat shimmering off the asphalt.
In his chest, something loosened—just a little.
Not fixed.
But moving.