Chapter 2: Grapes, Daydreams, and Taking It Slow

His voice was tight, and he hovered like a mother hen. I just laughed and kept climbing.

I clung to the ladder and looked down at him, reasoning, “You’re still getting better! Besides, I have to go up and pick the bunch that looks best to me.”

I wiggled my fingers at him, then reached up, feeling the cool shade of the arbor. The air smelled sweet and earthy.

The ladder wasn’t even that high—the grape arbor wasn’t as tall as the fence I used to climb as a kid.

I looked down, flashed him a grin, and kept going. No fear.

I wasn’t scared, but Chris, holding the ladder, looked more nervous than me.

His knuckles were white on the ladder, and he kept glancing up at me like he expected disaster.

Sitting at the top, I could see him looking up, brows slightly furrowed, face serious.

For a second, I thought about teasing him, but I didn’t want to make him worry more. Instead, I focused on the grapes.

Suppressing the urge to tease him, I looked up and picked a bunch of grapes.

They were heavier than I expected, cool and smooth in my hands.

After looking around, the first bunch I’d noticed was still the best.

There’s something about first instincts—you just know when something’s right. I smiled to myself.

Some things are just fate—if the first glance feels right, you don’t need to overthink it.

I held the bag and picked the heavy bunch, cradling it in my arms, and couldn’t help but want to try one right away.

I peeled one, my hands shaking with excitement. The skin came off easily. Pale green inside.

I popped it in my mouth, expecting sweetness.

As soon as I tasted it, it was so sour my eyes squinted shut.

I nearly choked. My lips puckered, and I had to stifle a laugh. Chris looked up, concerned.

These grapes—looks can deceive.

I shot Chris a look. He was trying not to smile. I stuck my tongue out at him.

They look amazing, but they’re secretly sour inside.

Life lesson: don’t judge a grape by its cover.

I didn’t dare chew much, just swallowed it whole, then peeled another.

I was determined to find a sweet one, even if it killed me.

This time, I handed it to Chris below.

I leaned over, holding out the grape. “Your turn. Let’s see if I just picked the dud.”

He was stunned for a moment, reaching out to take it.

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure what the rules were. I just grinned wider.

Was I just helping to peel a grape?

Isn’t that what people do in old love stories? I felt a little ridiculous, but also a little giddy.

This is about romance—don’t you get it?

I leaned down, waving the grape in front of his lips.

“Don’t let go—if you drop me from up here, I’m gonna get hurt.”

I tried to sound stern, but my heart was pounding. Chris’s eyes widened, and he held the ladder even tighter.

Chris really didn’t dare let go.

He looked up at me, then at the grape, then back at me. Finally, he opened his mouth. I popped it in.

I watched his face, searching for a reaction. Would he wince like I did?

“Is it sweet?” Hugging the big bunch in my arms, I watched his face, trying to see if he was wincing from the sourness.

I held my breath, waiting for the verdict.

But no.

Chris’s face was calm, not a hint of discomfort, his eyes relaxed, serene as a summer breeze.

He swallowed carefully before replying, “It’s sweet.”

He said it so sincerely I almost believed him. I narrowed my eyes, suspicious.

Are these grapes just picky?

I don’t buy it!

I quickly peeled another and popped it in my mouth.

Maybe I just had bad luck. I braced myself for another sour punch.

Ugh, sour…

Nope. Still sour. I scrunched up my face. No poker face here.

So sour my face twisted and I bared my teeth.

I made a noise that sounded like a dying cat. Chris finally laughed, a real, full-bodied laugh.

Covering my face, I looked at Chris in embarrassment.

He was still smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It was the kind of smile that made you want to smile back, no matter what.

His usually thoughtful face instantly softened.

He looked so different when he smiled—lighter, happier. I wanted to see that smile more often.

That smile, unexpectedly, left a bit of sweetness in my heart. Go figure.

I felt my cheeks flush. Maybe the grapes weren’t sweet, but this moment was.

Somehow… it didn’t seem so sour anymore.

I let out a breath, feeling lighter than I had in days.

I smiled too, holding out the bunch to him. “Since it’s sweet, you eat the rest.”

I tried to sound bossy, but my voice was soft. Chris just shook his head, still smiling.

He took it and set it on the patio table, then steadied the ladder again.

He moved with a quiet confidence, like he was used to taking care of things.

I’d climbed up from the other side and should have climbed down that way, but Chris was on this side.

I paused, weighing my options. My heart thudded in my chest.

Why not take advantage?

I bit my lip, feeling bold.

I made up my mind, turned my back, and carefully started to climb down.

I took it slow, making sure he was watching. My plan was set—one little slip, and he’d have to catch me.

I’d already planned that when I reached the second rung, I’d pretend to slip and fall back into his arms.

My palms were sweaty, but I kept going. This was my moment.

Love’s something you have to chase—it doesn’t just land in your lap.

I reminded myself of that, steeling my nerves.

But before I could fake a slip, my back was gently supported. Chris held the ladder with one hand and supported me with the other, reminding me, “Savannah, watch your step.”

His voice was soft, but firm. I froze, caught off guard.

Well… still.

I wanted to pout, but he looked so earnest I couldn’t. I just sighed and kept climbing down.

I stepped onto the ground.

I tried to act cool, but inside, I was a little disappointed.

Frustrated.

I crossed my arms, glaring at his back as he put the ladder away. He didn’t even notice. Typical.

I watched him, wondering if he’d ever get a clue.

I shot his back a few glares.

So unromantic!

Maybe I’d have to spell it out for him one day.

Chris came back holding a pitcher and a plate.

He balanced them like a pro, not spilling a drop. I watched, impressed.

Like a magic trick, in the blink of an eye, the pastries and sweet tea were all ready.

He set everything down with a little flourish, like he was hosting a tea party.

On the plate were all kinds of pastries, stacked together. Just by the smell, I knew what they were.

The sweet scent filled the air, making my stomach rumble.

After all, I’d been smelling them the whole way here.

I tried to act nonchalant, but my eyes kept drifting to the plate.

The golden square was pumpkin pie, the creamy round one was cheesecake, the red flower-shaped one was strawberry tart…

Each one looked better than the last. I wanted to try them all.

It was a feast, and I was starving.

My eyes lit up, but remembering these were gifts, I was too embarrassed to dig in.

I tucked my hands under my thighs, willing myself to be polite.

But Chris pushed the plate toward me. “We don’t keep a lot of sweets in the house, and if they sit too long, they’ll go stale. Savannah, please help me eat some?”

He smiled, nudging the plate closer. My resolve crumbled.

How could I not help?

I had to help!

I grabbed a lemon bar, then a brownie. I tried to eat daintily, but I’m sure I looked like I hadn’t eaten in days.

I have no other strengths, just a big heart. Always happy to help.

I grinned at Chris, crumbs on my lips. He just laughed, pouring me a glass of sweet tea.

Mmm.

So good.

The pumpkin pie was silky. The lemon bar, tart. The cheesecake, creamy. I closed my eyes, savoring every bite.

I puffed my cheeks, eating happily.

I must’ve looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care. Chris looked amused, watching me with a soft smile.

Chris smiled as he set the glass by my hand.

His hand brushed mine, sending a little jolt up my arm. I pretended not to notice.

I left one piece for Chris, sliding it his way.

I picked the best-looking slice of cheesecake and held it out, trying to look casual.

“The cheesecake isn’t too sweet—try it?”

I offered it like a peace treaty. Chris leaned in, his eyes never leaving mine.

He gently put down his glass, didn’t refuse, and leaned over to eat it from my hand.

My breath caught. For a second, everything else faded away.

I…

I really didn’t mean anything by it this time!

Okay, maybe I did. Just a little.

Still…

My cheeks burned. I looked away, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

Chris seemed to have figured it out.

He smiled, just a little, like he was in on the joke.

But he didn’t react, just lowered his eyes, took a sip of tea, and calmly thanked me, “Thanks, Savannah.”

His voice was gentle, almost shy. I felt my heart skip a beat.

I blinked, looked at my fingertips, and withdrew my hand to hold my glass.

My hands shook a little, so I took a big gulp of tea to steady myself.

Before today, I never thought I’d ever sit with him under a grape arbor, sipping sweet tea together.

It felt like a scene from one of those old movies my grandma loves—timeless, peaceful, perfect.

It felt like time had suddenly slowed down, like we were going to spend our whole lives together.

For a moment, I let myself imagine it. Growing old together, laughing in this garden every fall.

Tea finished, pastries eaten, I got curious about the small room beside the persimmon trees—a little shed, with an open window showing a desk and bookshelf, clearly his study.

I’d always wondered what went on in there. Maybe he wrote poetry. Or kept a secret journal. My curiosity got the better of me.

“Can I see your study?”

I tried to sound casual, but I was practically bouncing with excitement.

Chris didn’t refuse and opened the door.

He hesitated just a second, then pushed the door open, letting me step inside first.

You could tell his family had once been old-school, well-rooted.

The room smelled like old paper and cedar. The books were arranged by size, some with faded covers, others looking brand new.

By the only open window stood a wooden desk, with white paper spread out and his unfinished notes.

A mug of pens sat on the corner, and a little lamp cast a pool of warm light. The whole place felt lived-in, but special.

His handwriting is so much like him: clean and flowing. Not sharp, but steady, with its own restraint.

I ran my finger over the page, careful not to smudge the ink.

I got the urge to ask him to write a few words for me.

I turned to him, grinning, “Write something for me?”

As for what…

“Just write Savannah Carter, my name.”

I wanted to see what my name looked like in his handwriting. Maybe I’d hang it up in my room, just for fun.

Chris instinctively wanted to protest. I knew what he was about to say—something about it not being proper.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. I raised an eyebrow, daring him to argue.

“I’m asking you to write, and I’ll sharpen your pencil for you.”

I grabbed the old sharpener from the desk, giving it a few spins. The pencil wobbled, but I pretended I knew what I was doing.

You know that romance trope where the muse leans over the artist? Today I’m making him live it.

I fluttered my lashes, playing the part. Chris rolled his eyes, but I saw the smile tugging at his lips.

It’s just that his pencil sharpener looked like it had been used for years, a little cracked.

I made a mental note to buy him a new one. Maybe one shaped like a football, just to make him laugh.

When I get back, I’ll find a few to give him. Even though I don’t love reading, I’ve never lacked these things.

I’ll pick out a fancy one, maybe even engrave his name on it. It’s the little things that matter.

My pencil sharpening was half-hearted and obviously uneven. I was confident, but I had no idea what I was doing.

The tip broke twice, but I just shrugged. Chris laughed, taking over.

Fortunately, Chris didn’t mind. He rolled up his sleeves and took up the pen.

He looked so focused, his brow furrowed in concentration. I watched, entranced.

He wrote slowly, pausing to think before each line, focused and careful.

Each letter was deliberate, almost tender. I felt my heart flutter.

I clumsily held the sharpener in one hand, supporting my chin with the other as I watched him.

I probably looked like a lovesick teenager, but I didn’t care.

The afternoon sun favored him, slanting through the half-open window onto his face. Light and shadow distinct, casually outlining his figure—bright and full of life.

The way the light caught his hair, the quiet way he worked—it was a picture I wanted to remember forever.

I know he’s a diamond in the rough, and just needs a ray of light to shine even brighter.

I wanted to be that light. To be the person who saw him, really saw him, even when no one else did.

I want to be his light.

I made a silent promise to myself, right then and there.

He put down the pen and I snapped out of it, blinking at the paper with my name on it.

He slid the page over, and I stared at it like it was a treasure map.

I’m no artist, and I don’t know much about penmanship, but I like his writing.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was honest. Just like him.

Especially when it’s my name.

Seeing my name in his handwriting made it feel more real. Somehow.

I can almost imagine such beautiful writing on our marriage license.

The thought made me blush, but I didn’t look away. A girl can dream, right?

When the ink dried, I carefully folded the paper and put it away, teasing him, “When I get back, I’ll have it framed and hang it by my bed, so I can see it when I wake and before I sleep, and think of you every time.”

I winked, just to see if I could make him blush.

Maybe all my dreams will be of him, too.

I said it lightly, but I meant every word.

Chris’s hands paused as he arranged the papers, and he smiled helplessly. “Savannah, don’t tease me.”

He tried to sound stern, but I saw the pink in his cheeks. Gotcha.

Is this a joke?

I’m pouring out my heart.

I wanted to say more, but I held back. Some things are better left unsaid, at least for now.

Sigh, when will this blockhead finally open up?

Maybe I’d just have to keep being patient. Good things take time.

Leaving the backyard, I looked at the grape arbor a few more times, casually commenting, “Your garden is wonderful everywhere, but it’s missing a swing under the grape arbor. In storybooks, lovers always meet by a swing, sparks flying, ropes swaying—go figure.”

I spun around, pretending to search for a swing. Chris just shook his head, but I caught the smile tugging at his lips.

I forgot the joke as soon as I said it, but I remembered to give him the fabric I’d brought.

I rummaged in my bag, pulling out the bundles. “For your next project,” I said, handing them over.

If nothing else, I take responsibility for what I do.

I gave him a look, daring him to argue. He just laughed, shaking his head.

If I’m bold enough to tear his shirt, I’m bold enough to make it up with a few yards of fabric.

That’s the Savannah Carter guarantee.

Chris declined at first, but in the end couldn’t resist my insistence, and ended up holding several bundles of fabric.

He looked a little overwhelmed, but I could tell he was touched.

I stepped into the car, turned back to say goodbye.

I leaned out the window, waving. The sun caught his hair, making it glow.

Over the stacked fabric, Chris’s gaze was clear and bright, but when I looked over, his eyes softened with a hint of a smile.

He always smiles so warmly.

That smile could melt the iciest heart. I felt myself grinning back.

I smiled too, winked at him, and said, “Chris, let’s take it slow.”

My voice was soft, but sure. I meant it.

Let’s get to know each other, understand each other, and fall in love—slow.

No need to rush. Good things are worth waiting for.

You and I—we have a long future ahead.

I watched him as we pulled away, hope blooming in my chest.

I stayed at the Maple Heights Community Health Center for ten days.

Ten days in a room that smelled like antiseptic and wilted flowers. I counted the ceiling tiles. Memorized the cracks in the plaster. By the end, I could recite the nurse’s shift schedule by heart.

Felt like as soon as one bug was gone, I’d catch another, just from lying around so long.

Every itch, every sneeze, I imagined the next round of bad luck. I’m not superstitious, but I started knocking on wood just in case.

By the fifth day, I’d already told Savannah I wanted to go home, but she refused every time.

She’d show up with a new excuse every day—doctor’s orders, paperwork, rest. I knew she was just worried, but I was going stir-crazy.

Fine. She came to see me every day anyway.

Her visits were the best part of my day. She’d breeze in, filling the room with energy, and for a while, I could forget I was a patient.

Rumors in town have been wild lately. Even while I was stuck in bed, I could hear some of them. Small towns, right?

Maple Heights is small. The walls are thin, and so are people’s lips. I heard the nurses whispering, the orderlies laughing. I tried to tune it out, but some words stick.

They say Savannah Carter is keeping a pretty boy at the health center, doting on him, the two of them laughing it up every day.

It was almost funny, if it wasn’t so ridiculous. I’d never thought of myself as anyone’s ‘pretty boy.’

Call me what you want. But “boy toy”? That’s too much.

I’m not exactly the type you’d see on a magazine cover. And Savannah—she deserves better than that kind of talk.

Honestly, it insults Savannah.

She’s nothing like the rumors. She’s honest, straightforward. She doesn’t play games. Never has.

When it comes to love, she’s pure and straightforward. It’s just other people making up nonsense, painting her as wild and reckless.

I hated that for her. She’s got a good heart, and people twist it into something ugly.

It got to her.

I could see it in the way she frowned, the way her laughter faded a little too quickly. It ate at me.

She’d been frowning since getting in the car, looking troubled. Finally, she looked at me with those big, sad eyes and asked, “Do I have the kind of face that screams troublemaker?”

I wasn’t ready for the question. She looked so vulnerable, I wanted to reach out and hold her.

I looked up and shook my head.

No hesitation. She’s not a troublemaker—she’s the light in a dark room.

Of course not.

I wanted to say more, but words felt clumsy.

She’s stunning—bold, passionate, like the brightest color in an unfinished painting.

She stands out, even when she tries not to. There’s a fire in her, something you can’t ignore.

It’s a kind of radiance I’ve never seen before.

I’ve met plenty of people, but none like Savannah. She makes everything feel sharper, more alive.

But the light I want to cherish? It just gives others an excuse to hurt her.

It’s unfair, but that’s how small towns work. They build you up just to tear you down.

Rumors wear a false face. Underneath, it’s just jealousy and spite.

People see someone happy, and they want to ruin it. I wish I could shield her from it all.

There are plenty of fancy words I could use to comfort her—I’ve read enough books. But words can only do so much.

But when it came to truly praising her, I couldn’t bring myself to use empty flattery. I just said, simply, “You’re… really beautiful.”

It was the truth. Nothing more, nothing less.

Savannah is certainly beautiful—the most striking girl I’ve ever seen.

But it’s not just her looks—it’s the way she lights up a room, the way she makes you feel like you matter.

She’s also easy to please. One simple compliment, and she relaxed and smiled.

I watched her shoulders drop, her eyes brighten. It was like watching the sun break through clouds.

When we passed Oakwood Avenue, Savannah stopped the car, sent Jessie to fetch some things, and soon the backseat was full of fabric and pastries.

I watched, amused, as Jessie struggled with the bags. Savannah fussed over the boxes, making sure nothing was squished.

The pastries were from Sweet Molly’s, wrapped in red wax paper—convenient and clean, but not very airtight. Not that it mattered. They never lasted long.

The smell filled the car, making my stomach growl. I caught Savannah sneaking a glance at the boxes.

I saw Savannah twitch her nose and swallow.

She tried to play it cool, but I could tell she was tempted.

From that, I understood.

She’s always thinking ahead, always planning. These pastries weren’t for her—they were for my family.

They weren’t for her; they were for visiting my home.

She wanted to make a good impression, and I knew it mattered to her. Maybe more than she let on.

But the poor girl had to endure the temptation the whole way.

She kept fidgeting, glancing at the boxes like they might disappear.

When getting out of the car, she was quick, landing before it even fully stopped. I could only withdraw my hand, which I’d wanted to offer to help her, and followed behind.

I’d meant to be a gentleman, but she beat me to it. Typical Savannah.

She didn’t even give me a chance to be a gentleman.

She’s always one step ahead, never waiting for someone else to act.

Instead, she stood by the car, looking up and offering her hand to help me.

I hesitated, unsure if I should accept. Old habits die hard.

I paused, keeping my composure. “Savannah, this isn’t exactly proper…”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice wavered. She just grinned, undeterred.

Savannah was impatient, grabbed my hand, and complained, “C’mon, my arm’s getting tired.”

She didn’t give me a choice. I smiled, letting her help me down.

I mean, I’d already declined. Might as well accept.

Sometimes, you just have to let people care for you.

I let her help me down carefully.

Her grip was steady, her touch gentle. I felt a warmth spread through me.

As soon as we walked in, Josh helped Mrs. Harper out to greet us. I knew Mrs. Harper would be upset, and sure enough, she looked about to cry as soon as she saw me, checking me over from head to toe.

Mrs. Harper has always been like a second mother. She fussed, her voice trembling, and I did my best to reassure her.

We’ve had hard times, but this was the worst injury I’ve ever had, so her worry was natural.

She’d patched me up after every scraped knee and broken heart. I owed her that much.

“How’d you get hurt? You okay now?”

I could see the fear in her eyes. I hated worrying her.

The way I got hurt was too weird—best not to let Mrs. Harper know.

No need to give her more to fret about.

I reassured her lightly, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Harper. I’m almost good as new—it wasn’t anything big.”

She studied my face, then nodded, satisfied.

After years of watching me handle things, Mrs. Harper trusts my judgment, so she believed me.

She’s seen me through worse. I think she knew I’d be okay.

“And you are…?”

She turned to Savannah, her eyes sharp but kind.

I hadn’t introduced Savannah yet.

I fumbled for words, unsure what to say.

But I didn’t know how.

How do you introduce someone who means more than just ‘friend’?

Her world is so far from ours.

She’s sunshine. I’m rain. But somehow, we fit.

Savannah probably realized this too, and quickly said, “Hi, Mrs. Harper, I’m Chris’s friend. Savannah.”

She said it with a smile, her confidence unwavering. Mrs. Harper seemed to approve.

Mrs. Harper had worked for my mom for years. She’d seen plenty. I knew she guessed Savannah was someone special.

She’s got good instincts. She didn’t push, just welcomed Savannah in.

But a guest is a guest.

And she treated Savannah right, immediately inviting her in.

I was grateful. Savannah looked relieved.

“Well, Savannah, come on in and sit.”

The house felt warmer with Savannah there. I saw Josh peeking from the kitchen, curiosity written all over his face.

I followed, seeing Josh carrying several boxes of pastries. He’s young, his feelings written all over his face, grinning ear to ear.

He looked at Savannah like she was a celebrity. I tried not to laugh.

“Chris, Savannah brought Sweet Molly’s pastries—they smell amazing!”

He bounced on his toes, barely containing his excitement.

I couldn’t help but laugh at his greedy look. “Have some dignity.”

He stuck out his tongue, then disappeared into the kitchen.

Truth is, I wasn’t much better—sighing like a kid who can’t have cookies.

Mrs. Harper was already making tea, humming under her breath.

I told Josh, “Go get a plate for the pastries and make some sweet tea.”

He saluted, running off. I shook my head, smiling.

Just as I finished, I heard Mrs. Harper inviting Savannah to stroll in the backyard.

I panicked, worried she’d overwhelm Savannah with questions.

I hurried in to stop her. “Mrs. Harper, you go rest. I’ll show Savannah around.”

She gave me a knowing look, but didn’t argue. I led Savannah outside, feeling oddly nervous.

Honestly, there’s not much to see in the backyard. Nothing compared to what she’s used to. She’s seen fancy gardens. Ours is just a veggie patch.

But Savannah looked around like it was the Garden of Eden.

When my parents were home, my dad tended the yard, planting maple trees outside the study and flower beds further out.

He had a green thumb. I tried to keep it up, but it’s never quite the same.

The maple grove was peaceful. I cut it back and planted two persimmon trees instead. Now, after a few years, they bear plenty of fruit.

The persimmons are my pride. Every fall, I pick them for Mrs. Harper to make jam.

The grape arbor is something I built in the past couple years. Used to be a patch of radishes.

It was a mess at first, but I figured it out. Now it’s the best part of the yard.

The trumpet vines on the fence I left alone, and now they’re covered in fiery orange flowers.

The colors brighten even the grayest days.

There’s also a small patch of colorful peppers and scallions in the corner.

I like having something to tend to, something that grows.

My backyard is lively in all seasons. Even in winter.

Sometimes, when I’m studying alone in the little shed, I look up and see these bright colors, and the hard days don’t seem so bad.

It’s a small comfort, but it matters.

Savannah looked around carefully and said to me, “Your garden is really something.”

I blushed, not used to praise.

“Just something I mess with in my free time—not as good as other people’s.”

I shrugged, hoping she wouldn’t see how much it meant to me.

I’ll admit, I didn’t plan it out. Just planted things as I liked.

It’s more about feeling than planning.

But she seemed to find it charming and kept on, “I think it’s awesome, way better than those fancy but useless gardens! Not only can you look at your garden, you can eat from it too!”

Her enthusiasm was contagious. I found myself smiling, too.

Just as she mentioned eating, I followed her gaze to the grape arbor.

She was clearly interested. I tried to play it cool, but I was pleased.

These grapes were from my uncle—full and pretty, but only a few years old. Probably not very tasty.

They look good, but taste is another story.

But Savannah was very interested, staring at the grapes, her intentions obvious.

I could see the wheels turning in her head.

“These grapes should be ripe by now, right?”

She sounded hopeful. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

I answered honestly, “They’ve been bagged for over two weeks.”

I tried to sound confident, but I wasn’t sure.

Ripe, but probably not good.

I braced myself for her reaction.

“Then…” She finally turned to look at me, all enthusiasm. “Let me help you try one first, so you’ll know if they’re ready.”

She was determined. I gave in.

Fine, let her have her fun.

She’d do it with or without my permission.

“I’ll pick them for you.”

I set up the wooden ladder under the grape arbor, but before I could roll up my sleeves, Savannah was already three steps up.

She moved like she’d done it a thousand times. I held the ladder, heart in my throat.

She moved so fast, I didn’t react in time.

I tried to keep up, but she was unstoppable.

Afraid she’d get hurt, I quickly held the other side of the ladder and tried to coax her down, “Savannah, this is kinda dangerous. Let me do it.”

She just laughed, ignoring me. I held my breath.

She wouldn’t budge, insisting, “You’re still getting better! Besides, I have to go up and pick the bunch that looks best to me.”

I knew I couldn’t win this argument.

I couldn’t argue, and she was already at the top, seriously picking.

She looked so happy, I didn’t have the heart to stop her.

She finally picked the biggest bunch.

I watched, ready to catch her if she slipped.

I was still nervous, but she wasn’t scared at all, even started peeling grapes up there.

She looked like she belonged there, sunlight in her hair.

She quickly popped one in her mouth, then…

Winced from the sourness.

I tried not to laugh, but it was hard.

I knew it wouldn’t taste good. This year I didn’t plan to eat them as fruit; Mrs. Harper said they’d be good for wine, so I bagged them.

I felt a little guilty, but she didn’t seem to mind.

After tasting, I thought she’d give up, but she peeled another.

She’s stubborn. I admire that.

Before I could finish being surprised, the peeled grape was at my lips.

She leaned down, daring me to take it.

I see.

This girl…

She’s fearless, always pushing boundaries.

Amused and helpless, I reached out to take it, but she dodged and brought it to my lips.

She likes to keep me on my toes.

She even scolded, “Don’t let go—if you drop me from up here…”

I tightened my grip on the ladder, heart pounding.

She hadn’t mentioned being scared before, but now uses it as an excuse.

She’s clever, always finding new ways to surprise me.

Helpless, I ate from her hand.

It was awkward, but sweet. I tried not to blush.

Her leaning was too risky; I was afraid she’d fall.

I kept one hand ready, just in case.

Savannah looked serious, not a hint of teasing, even asked, “Is it sweet?”

She looked so hopeful, I couldn’t tell her the truth.

Of course it’s not sweet.

But some things are sweeter than they seem.

But there are other kinds of sweetness.

The moment was sweet enough.

“It’s sweet.”

I stayed calm, very natural.

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. I just smiled.

She was suspicious, peeled another for herself.

She’s nothing if not persistent.

Winced from the sourness, clutching her jaw, looking dazed at me.

I couldn’t hold back—I laughed.

She was so cute, I couldn’t help but smile.

Her face lit up, and for a second, everything felt right.

Savannah didn’t mind—she smiled once she recovered.

She’s tough. I admire that.

Her eyes curved, brighter than the trumpet vines.

I could get lost in those eyes.

She handed the bunch to me. “Since it’s sweet, you eat the rest.”

I took it, setting it aside. I’d save them for later—maybe make jam.

I put it on the patio table and steadied the ladder for her to come down.

I watched her carefully, making sure she didn’t slip.

She’d gone up from the other side, but came down my side—her little plan obvious.

I saw right through her, but played along.

She was already itching to act.

She’s always moving, always planning her next move.

But I didn’t give her the chance, gently supported her back and helped her down. “Savannah, watch your step.”

She looked a little disappointed, but I pretended not to notice.

Partly, my back still isn’t 100%—if something happened again, it could mess up my future.

I have to be careful. I can’t risk another injury.

Better to play it safe.

She pouted, but I just smiled.

Once she was on the ground, I put the ladder back.

Mrs. Harper was waiting, pitcher and plate in hand.

At the arbor, Mrs. Harper handed me a pitcher and a plate of pastries. I took them to the grape arbor.

I set everything down, calling Savannah over.

Savannah’s eyes lit up, clearly tempted.

She looked at the pastries like they were treasure.

But she probably remembered these were gifts and was embarrassed, just looking at them longingly.

I nudged the plate closer, hoping she’d take the hint.

I pushed the plate to her, coaxing, “We don’t keep a lot of sweets in the house, and if they sit too long, they’ll go stale. Savannah, please help me eat some?”

She hesitated, then dove in. I watched, amused.

Now she could eat without hesitation.

She didn’t hold back, trying a little of everything.

She ate happily.

Her cheeks puffed out, eyes closed in bliss. I poured her a glass of tea, setting it by her hand.

Unlike with the sour grapes, when she eats something delicious, she half-squints her eyes, cheeks puffed, and her gold earrings bob up and down.

She looked so content, I couldn’t help but smile.

She thanked me with a grin, her lips dusted with powdered sugar.

She ate so fast, not afraid of choking.

I kept an eye on her, just in case.

The pastries are rich and filling, so I told Josh to only bring one of each, afraid she’d overdo it.

I didn’t want her to get sick. She’d probably eat the whole tray if I let her.

There were only five or six on the plate, but she still left one for me.

She always thinks of others, even when she’s indulging herself.

She really cares about me.

It’s the little things that matter.

“The cheesecake isn’t too sweet—try it?”

She held it out, her eyes shining.

I put down my glass, didn’t reach out, just leaned over and ate the small round cake from her hand.

Our eyes met, and for a second, the world faded away.

A faint cream flavor, not too sweet.

It tasted better because it was from her.

Very good.

I nodded, smiling.

After a sip of tea, I pretended nothing was unusual, calmly thanked her, “Thanks, Savannah.”

She blushed, looking away. I pretended not to notice.

She held her glass, a faint blush on her face.

She’s bolder than most, but still shy when it matters.

Don’t be fooled by her usual bravado and teasing—if I take one step forward, she’ll blush.

It’s endearing.

She may be bold and passionate, but at heart she’s smart, straightforward, and adorable.

I wouldn’t trade her for anything.

If I rashly promised her forever now, it would be unfair to her.

She deserves more than empty promises.

Besides, I’m not ready yet.

I have to be sure. For both our sakes.

In my plan, this needs to be taken slow.

Good things take time.

I want one day to truly stand by her side, free from rumors, so everyone sees us as a perfect match.

I want to be someone she can be proud of.

I don’t want to be someone who just leans on Savannah; I want to be the breeze that lifts the clouds, always by her side.

I want to be her equal, her partner.

The afternoon was quiet. Being alone was almost too peaceful. Made me imagine the future.

I let myself daydream, just for a moment.

After finishing her tea, Savannah had another idea.

She’s always thinking ahead, always curious.

“Can I see your study?”

I couldn’t refuse. I led her to the little shed by the persimmon trees.

The study is beside the persimmon trees; I opened the door for her.

The room was small, but filled with memories.

This was my dad’s study, unchanged. The bookshelves are the Lane family’s greatest legacy after our hard times.

No matter what happened, we never sold the books.

They’re part of who we are.

Savannah wandered around the study, then looked at the notebook on my desk.

She ran her fingers over the pages, curiosity shining in her eyes.

Half-finished notes, from before homecoming weekend.

I’d meant to finish them, but life got in the way.

She suddenly wanted me to write a few words for her.

She looked at me, eyes bright. I couldn’t say no.

My handwriting is just habit, not worth showing off.

I’m no artist. But for her, I’d try.

But she insisted. “Just write Savannah Carter, my name.”

I hesitated, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

That’s even less proper.

It felt too intimate, but she didn’t care.

We come from different worlds.

But maybe that’s what makes it work.

Even though her name’s been circling in my heart a thousand times, I can only call her Savannah.

I wanted to write more, but I kept it simple.

“I’m asking you to write, and I’ll sharpen your pencil for you.” She grabbed the sharpener, her tongue poking out in concentration. I smiled, watching her struggle.

She didn’t care about anything else, grabbed the sharpener, and started working.

Her determination was adorable.

Not to mention technique—even the way she held it was wrong.

I tried not to laugh.

Fine. I took the pencil, fixing the tip. She watched, pretending not to care.

As long as she’s happy. That’s all that matters.

I couldn’t refuse.

I took out fresh paper, picked up the pen, and focused on each letter.

I wrote slowly, wanting it to be perfect.

Three short words, but I took my time.

I paused, making sure each letter was just right.

After all, it’s for her, so it has to be special.

I wanted her to know she mattered.

But occasionally, as I paused, I’d meet her focused gaze—so intent, as if her eyes held only me.

Her attention made my hands shake. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

Maybe the beauty of the moment isn’t in the act itself, but in the admiring gaze of the one beside you.

I looked up, meeting her eyes. She smiled, and my heart skipped a beat.

I gently put down the pen, afraid to break the spell.

I slid the paper over, hoping she’d like it.

But she snapped out of it and looked at the still-wet ink.

She studied it like it was a work of art.

My writing is neat, but it’s not art—not worthy of her careful attention.

But she seemed pleased, tucking the page into her bag.

She joked, “When I get back, I’ll have it framed and hang it by my bed, so I can see it when I wake and before I sleep, and think of you every time.”

I blushed, imagining it.

I was stunned, drawn into her daydream.

She makes everything sound possible.

If she really hung it by her bed, she’d have to think of me morning and night.

I wondered if I was worthy of that.

But it’s just a fantasy; in Savannah’s room, even masterpieces can’t be hung, let alone my scribbles.

I laughed, shaking my head.

I smiled helplessly. “Savannah, don’t tease me.”

But part of me hoped she meant it.

I wish it weren’t a joke.

Maybe one day, it won’t be.

When I saw Savannah out, she stood at the backyard gate, looking back, and couldn’t help saying, “Your garden’s great, but it’s missing a swing under the grape arbor. In storybooks, lovers always meet by a swing, sparks flying, ropes swaying—go figure.”

I made a mental note to look up how to build a swing. Maybe next spring.

A swing? It’s a good idea. She always has the best ideas.

I wonder if there’s a YouTube tutorial for building one.

Probably. I’ll check tonight.

When Savannah was leaving, she took several bundles of fabric from the car. I hadn’t realized they were for me.

I was surprised, touched.

She said the fabric was from Finch’s Fabrics.

That place is expensive. She spared no expense.

The fanciest place in town—a single yard can cost a fortune.

I felt a little guilty, but grateful.

I couldn’t accept it easily, and tried to refuse, but she just tossed them into my arms and left.

She doesn’t take no for an answer. I admire that.

She got into the car, then remembered to say goodbye.

She leaned out the window, waving. I waved back, fabric bundles in my arms.

I looked at her through the gap in the fabric, meeting her bright smile.

She smiled, and for a second, everything felt possible.

She said, “Chris, let’s take it slow.”

Her words echoed in my mind long after she left.

The car drove off, leaving only her words echoing.

I stood there, watching until the car disappeared. The future felt wide open, full of promise.

There’s a long future ahead.