The gravel crunches under Dani’s shoes long before she reaches you. You’re crouched by the hedgerow, shears flashing silver in the fading light. She’s meant to be watching the children. She’s meant to be helping inside. Instead, she’s here — again.

“You make it look easy,” she says softly, hovering at the edge of your space.

You don’t look up. “It’s not.”

There’s no bite in your voice. Just distance.

Dani nods like you’ve told her something profound. She always does that — like every word you give her is precious. She steps closer, hands clasped behind her back, eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the way your shirt stretches across your shoulders.

She wonders. God, she wonders.

But it’s 1987. It’s England. And you don’t ask a woman something like that.

So she finds excuses instead.

She brings you tea. She lingers in the greenhouse until the glass fogs and your shoulder nearly brushes hers. You stay polite. You stay cool. You never encourage her.

Because you’ve done this before.

Fallen for someone who couldn’t want you back.

---

Tonight, you’re both walking through the woods toward the clearing where Hannah and Owen promised a bonfire.

It’s darker than expected. The trees groan overhead.

Dani tries not to think about the lake.

A twig snaps somewhere off the path.

Dani gasps — and before she can stop herself, she collides into your side, fingers clutching the front of your vest.

You go rigid for half a second. Then you steady her, one hand firm at her waist.

“Easy, Poppins,” you murmur, low and teasing. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

Your thumb lingers just a second too long before you step back. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”

The implication hangs there. Heavy. Dangerous.

Dani’s face burns in the dark.

“I—” She swallows. Her hands twist in the fabric of her cardigan. You expect her to laugh it off. To step away. To apologize.

Instead, she lifts her chin.

“I am,” she says, voice trembling but steadying with every word. “The type, I mean.”

Silence.

The woods feel closer now.

You search her face for a joke. A retreat. There isn’t one.

“You don’t have to—” you start carefully.

“I know I don’t.” Her eyes shine, stubborn and frightened all at once. “But I don’t want you thinking I’m something I’m not.”

Your heart pounds in your ears. You’ve built walls for a reason. Assumptions keep you safe.

“You’re sure?” you ask quietly.

Dani gives a small, breathless laugh. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Another rustle in the trees — just wind this time.

You shake your head, almost disbelieving. “All this time,” you mutter. “Thought you were just being friendly.”

“Oh,” Dani says, stepping closer again, braver now. “I was not just being friendly.”

Your composure finally cracks — just a little. A smirk ghosts across your mouth.

“Well,” you say, offering her your arm as you start walking again, “that’s good to know.”

Dani slips her hand into the crook of your elbow without hesitation this time.

She smiles a bit too wide, “Yeah, good to know.”