Johnny was halfway through ripping weeds from the stubborn clay of the garden, sweat pouring down his back. His shirt clung to him in damp patches, stained at the collar, dirt smeared from his biceps to his wrists. He cussed under his breath, kicked a rock, pulled up something that might’ve been a carrot or might’ve been a stick—he wasn’t in the mood to care.

The heat was thick, swampy, the kind that stuck to your lungs and made your skin itch. But he kept working. Gritting his teeth, muttering like the whole damn patch was conspiring against him.

Then he saw you.

You weren’t doin’ nothin’. Just standin’ there. But that didn’t stop his lips splitting into a lovesick grin or how close he’s gettin’ to you.

“C’mere,” he rasped, already tryna love on you. “Nah, nah—don’t move away. C’mere.”

You tried to step back, but Johnny was already crossing the distance, wiping his hand half-clean on his jeans before reaching out. His fingers tangled in your hair, rough but gentle as he tilted it just so. He leaned in, lips brushing your scalp.

“Look at you,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “Growin’ prettier by the hour.”