The next afternoon found Darius back at Amara's gate before he'd fully decided to go there. The sky was a flat, pale blue, the kind that promised heat without mercy. He carried a bottle of water he didn't need and the faint hope that the walk would shake loose the knots in his shoulder. It didn't.
Amara was already in the garden when he arrived, kneeling between rows of peppers and basil, a wide-brimmed straw hat shading her face. She wore cutoff denim shorts again—shorter than yesterday, frayed edges brushing the tops of her thighs—and a thin white tank top, damp with sweat at the small of her back. Her gloves were off, tossed aside in the dirt; her bare hands worked the soil, fingers dark with earth. When she heard his boots on the gravel path, she looked up, hat tipping back to reveal her smile.
"You came back," she said, voice soft with surprise and something warmer.
"Figured the weeds weren't gonna pull themselves."
She laughed—quiet, melodic, the sound settling somewhere in his chest. "They're winning again. Come on."
He stepped over the low fence, kicked off his boots at the edge of the garden bed so he wouldn't track mud everywhere. Socks on the warm soil felt strange—vulnerable—but he ignored it. She handed him a trowel, their fingers brushing. Her skin was warm, callused, alive.
They worked side by side without much talk at first. Pull weeds, loosen dirt, stake a tomato vine that had started to droop. The sun pressed down, drawing sweat along his spine, across her collarbones. The air smelled thick: tomato leaves crushed under fingers, sun-baked earth, the sweet green scent of basil when she pinched a leaf and held it out for him to smell.
"Try this," she said, crumbling the leaf between her fingers. "Fresh. Better than anything in a jar."
He leaned in, inhaled. Sharp, bright, almost spicy. "Yeah. Good."
She smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Told you."
They kept going. After a while she sat back on her heels, wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of dirt. Her tank top clung in places, outlining the soft curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist. She didn't seem to notice—or didn't care. She caught him looking anyway, and instead of turning away, she just held his gaze.
"You're quiet today," she said.
"Always quiet."
"Not always." She tilted her head. "Not when we were kids. You used to talk my ear off about everything—cars, football, how you were gonna join the Marines and see the world."
He pulled a stubborn root, dirt crumbling between his fingers. "World wasn't what I thought."
She nodded slowly. "It never is."
They worked another half hour. The pile of weeds grew. Sweat soaked through his shirt, stuck it to his back. Hers did the same—thin fabric translucent in spots, hinting at the bra underneath. Neither commented on it.
When the sun hit its peak, she stood, stretched her arms over her head, back arching. The motion pulled her tank top up, exposing a strip of smooth stomach, the faint line of a scar from when she fell off her bike at twelve. She caught him looking again, this time let her arms drop slowly.
"Break?" she asked.
"Yeah."
They moved to the shade of the porch. She handed him a fresh jar of iced tea—mint this time, leaves floating at the top. They sat on the steps again, legs stretched out, bare feet almost touching on the warm boards.
She sipped, then spoke. "My dad used to sit out here with your dad sometimes. After they got back from their tours. They'd drink beer, talk low so we couldn't hear. I think they were trying to make sense of it all."
Darius stared at the garden. "Mine didn't talk much. Just… carried it."
"Mine too." She paused. "I used to listen at the window. Not to spy—just to know they were okay. They never were. Not really."
He looked at her then. Really looked. The way the sunlight caught the sweat on her neck, the faint freckles across her shoulders, the way her eyes held memories she didn't let show most days.
"You waited for me," he said quietly.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
She set her jar down, turned to face him fully. "Because you were the only one who ever looked at me like I was more than just the girl next door. Like I was… enough. Even when I wasn't sure I was."
He swallowed. "I ain't the same person, Amara."
"I know." She reached out, tentative, touched the scar on his shoulder through his shirt—light, careful. "But you're still you. And I'm still me. We can figure out the rest."
Her fingers lingered. Warm. Steady. He didn't pull away.
They sat like that until the heat started to ease, until the shadows stretched longer across the garden. When she finally stood, she offered her hand again. He took it.
"Come back tomorrow?" she asked.
He squeezed once before letting go. "Yeah."
She smiled—small, real, hopeful.
He walked home barefoot, boots dangling from his fingers, soil still clinging to his socks.
The ache in his shoulder was still there.
But for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like the only thing he carried.