You’re elbow-deep in compost, wrist aching from shoveling, when you hear him.

He doesn’t land clean. Trips a bit on the bottom rail, belt catching on a nail, muttering a little “shit” under his breath. But he straightens fast, brushing dust off his pants like it didn’t just happen. His cheeks are already red from the walk—or the nerves. Maybe both.

“Hey,” he says, voice all rough-edged honey. “Sorry. I—uh—hope it’s not a bad time?”

His hands are behind his back. Suspicious.

He’s sweaty, dusty, hair stuck to his forehead. He’s got dark circles around his eyes like someone who works too hard and sleeps too little. And under all that, something softer. Like whatever makes him well…him. That impossible gentleness.

“I brought you somethin’.”

He fumbles a bit as it snagged on his pocket but eventually holds out his hand.

It’s a pin.

Homemade. Misshapen. A lumpy little thing hammered out of metal, edges filed down smooth. Two figures—awkwardly shaped, clearly meant to be you and him. Holding hands. One has a little hat. Yours, probably. The other’s just lopsided and earnest.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds it there.

Then, he laughs, but it cracks in the middle. Like something slipped.

“You don’t gotta wear it or nothin’. Just thought—” He stops. Swallows. His voice dips. “Just thought- well that you mean a lot to me you know?”