She snorts. “That was mustard.”
“Still memorable.”
Addison bites her lip, eyes bright with something that slices my chest open — the urge to promise. Promise that I’ll hold the ladder forever, shoulder the boards, fight the gossip, anything to keep this spark burning. But I’ve learned promises only stick if the other person believes them.
So, I show her instead.
“Come down,” I say, pressing a hand to the rail. “I want you to see something.”
She climbs down. I guide her a few steps back, turning her shoulders. The arch glows like a doorway into some fairy-tale dimension. Fireflies drift through the light beams so the whole frame shimmers alive.
Addison exhales. “Dylan, that hummingbird…”
“Thought the bride would like it,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal, even though carving that bird cost me two late nights and half a thumbnail.
“She’ll love it.” Addison tucks her phone away. “But I love it more.”
Something in her tone — a quiver of pride aimed at me — lands harder than the kiss. I have to tuck my hands in my back pockets before they reach for hers again.
She steps closer. “Thank you. For making my job easier. For…” Her voice thins, then strengthens. “For seeing the vision even when I was too worried to see it myself.”
“My pleasure.” And it is, standing here, the orchard choir humming around us, my shoulder throbbing like a low drum, reminding me I’m alive.
She glances at the sky, now a velvet sheet pricked with first stars. “I should drive back before full dark.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I offer.
“Chivalry or quality control?”
“Both. I installed those orchard path lights, too.”
She laughs, links her arm through mine, and we crunch over fallen leaves toward the gravel lot. Every step is a slideshow — her head tilting closer, our boots scuffing in sync, the sweet-smoke scent of distant burn barrels. By the time we reach her hatchback, my pulse has settled into a steady hum that sounds suspiciously like hope.
She unlocks the door, then pauses. “Tomorrow is pie-tasting, remember?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I’ve been carb-loading in anticipation.”
“Good. We need firm opinions on crust flakiness.”
“Firm opinions are my specialty.”
She shoulders in, but I catch the door before it swings shut. “Text me when you’re home safe,” I say, savoring the echo of yesterday’s request.
A soft smile curves her mouth. “Only if you do the same.”
“Deal.”
The door thunks. She starts the engine; headlights spill gold over the apple trunks. I watch until the taillights vanish down the lane, then blow out a breath that gusts steam into the night.
Shoulder aching, lips tingling, heart hammering like it’s found a rhythm worth keeping — I turn back to the arch. The lights twinkle in the distance, steady, sure, and I realize I’m smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. The scoreboard reads exactly what I want it to:
Addison: 1
Dylan: 1
Tie game — and we’re both still swinging.
I grab the tool bag, turn off the lights, and hum my way down the row toward my truck, fairy lights dwindling behind me like the world’s slowest fading yes.
