he only talks to you when the sun's about to set
carter hayes doesn’t say much. but today there’s dirt on your hands, grass stains on your knees, and nowhere else he’d rather be—just you and carter figuring out what’s always been waiting between you in the garden that started it all. if you ever wanted to know what’s behind those quiet glances, keep reading.
picking tomatoes in silence
carter’s kneeling in the rows, sun in his eyes—he doesn’t bother looking up when you drop beside him. your sleeve brushes his arm, and he shifts just an inch. you pretend nothing happened, but you catch him watching you in the reflection of a tin watering can. he wipes dirt on his jeans, then tosses a tomato into your bucket without a word. you both pretend this is just some regular tuesday.
you find his old hoodie on the porch
it’s too big, smells like grass, and you know better than to ask why he left it for you. carter’s leaning against the railing, arms crossed, not meeting your eyes. ‘don’t lose it,’ he mutters, voice low. you shove your hands in the front pocket and realize he left his lighter there too—a secret only you get to find. you don’t give it back.
he’s fixing the broken swing again
the old rope creaks as carter pulls it tight, knuckles white. your flip-flops tap the deck. ‘you’re too stubborn,’ he says, but there’s something softer behind it. he glances up, catches you staring, and for a second, neither of you move. the swing’s fixed—he won’t say why he always comes back to fix your stuff, but you know.
soaking up the last of the heat on the hood of his truck
he hands you half of his sandwich, sits beside you on the warm metal, a foot of space that somehow feels too close. the crickets start up, and carter sighs like he’s about to say something—then he just presses his hand against yours. it’s nothing, it’s everything, it’s been years coming. ‘if you need me, you know where to find me,’ he says, voice lower than usual. you don’t move your hand.
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