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It’s Harvey who finds out first.
He blinks as he reads through your medical records—freshly transferred from Zuzu City—and then his gaze lands on you, fidgeting on the exam table, longing to be anywhere but here. But you can’t because your annual check-up is overdue, and really, shouldn’t he have read your file before you got to his office?
He calls your name and waits until you meet his eyes. Concern weighs heavy behind thick glasses.
“I don’t think restoring a farm is the best idea,” he says sternly but not unkindly. “I’m not sure if you’re fully aware of how much work it is, but with your condition, I would advise against it.”
“I just get tired easily,” you hedge. “I can work around it.”
“There’s that, yes, but based on your history, I’m hesitant about...”
You fist your cotton pants, trying to maintain a neutral expression as Harvey lists symptoms that you’ve heard a thousand times over. I’m not sure if you’re fully aware —you are. Fully aware, that is. You’ve been dealing with this condition for years, and you knew that running a farm wouldn’t be an easy task. In fact, everything he’s saying ran through your own mind as you tossed and turned in a cramped Zuzu City apartment, wondering whether you should take Grandpa up on his offer.
But how can you explain to Harvey, to anyone, that you have to make this move for yourself? That when you opened up Grandpa’s letter in the Jojo Co break room and saw the opening lines, something finally clicked?
If you’re reading this, you must be in dire need of a change. Yes, you are.
“Harvey,” you start quietly, interrupting his clinical analysis. “I know, okay? All of this. But quite frankly, I’m tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do before I even try.” You take a breath. “I don’t just want to do this, I need to.”
Something in your tone gives him pause, and after a beat of silence, he sighs, taking out a notepad. “Well, then as your new primary care physician, I say that we at least think about preventative care and talk about how to make this possible for you.” He gives you a look over his metal-rimmed frames. “You’ve been working on this darn farm for a good two weeks now without incident, but we don’t know when or how that will change. We’ll check in more often, got it?”
…So I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong.
You grin. “Got it.”
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Compared to the hyperindividualistic community of Zuzu City, the townspeople’s hospitality came as a shock. In addition to making your dilapidated farmhouse livable, you awoke the first morning to a handful of parsnip seeds and rusted tools that have seen better days.
Still, it was both a kind gesture and a luxury considering that you had arrived on that rickety long-distance bus with nothing but a large suitcase and three months’ worth of rent to your name. Robin taught you how to chop down trees, Marnie taught you how to harvest hay, Pierre (begrudgingly) taught you how to find wild seeds, and Jodi taught you how to make natural repellents and keep pesky bugs away. After a good two weeks, your tender hands have started to form callouses, hardening around the handles that are becoming familiar in your grip.
Sure, not everyone welcomed you into the community on your first day—Shane’s grouchy greeting still stings when you think about it—but now, no one jumps when they cross you on paths.
You pat soil over your newly planted cauliflower seeds and tip your watering can over the spot until it’s dark and damp, just like in the video tutorial. The meager corner of four has grown into a decently-sized square of sixteen crop plots, and there’s promising glimpses of green pushing through the dirt.
Sitting back on your heels, you shield your eyes and survey the land that you’re starting to call yours. The rest of the yard is still a work in progress, but wow, what you have done already. The space in front of your house is cleared enough to grow seasonal crops, a pile of firewood is drying next to your porch, and mined stones are stacked sporadically as cairn sculptures. There’s even a makeshift windchime hanging above your door, courtesy of Jas and Vincent’s latest art project.
You spread your arms wide, feeling the sun through your long-sleeved farming shirt, hoping that your grandpa could see you now.
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“Hey. Hey! Get away from there!”
The storm door slams as you jam your feet into work boots and rush onto the field, nearly tripping in your haste. Waving your arms, you continue yelling, but the crow still flies away with your budding strawberries tight in its beak, leaving behind snapped roots and leaf shreds.
Your toe finally catches on uneven ground, sending you crashing onto your knees in the middle of the crops. As if your bruised pride isn’t enough. You stifle a pained cry, digging your fingers into the soil, not caring that the morning dew seeps through your jeans.
This has to be a bad dream. Or an alternate reality or a big old cosmic joke that the universe is playing on you, and if it’s the latter, you would like to tell Yoba that they’re seriously unfunny.
It’s laughable how optimistic you were not too long ago, telling Harvey at your latest check-up that everything was under control. As he had instructed, you kept careful track of your activities and energy levels until you found a schedule that worked around your fatigue; it included enough afternoon naps to keep you going. The structured breaks lulled you into a false sense of security, making you think that going to the Egg Festival and participating in the annual hunt was feasible. Instead, it led to an energy crash that had you housebound for days, effectively throwing your entire routine for a loop.
And the strawberries. You scraped together as much money as possible to buy those darn seeds, adjusting your finances to increase the crop budget, knowing that they would pay in the long run, but now all you have to show for it are—
You look at the damage again, feeling pebbles dig into your palms. Pressure builds in your throat. Your hands shake against earth, itching to rip everything up by the root. What timing . You were going to finally put together a scarecrow today, and tomorrow, you were going to hand Vincent your shiniest strawberry, fulfilling his mom’s Help Wanted request. You even told him to look forward to it when he visited yesterday.
Your eyes slide closed, and you take a breath. A second. A third. The panic in your blood settles, but the deep ache of disappointment stays. The fact that Mayor Lewis fixed up the Help Wanted board shortly after your arrival, the fact that he keeps passing you with comments of Can’t wait to see the farm running again! , the fact that you’re the only one diligently checking the board—it can’t be a coincidence. Everyone is hoping that you return the farm to its former glory.
You turn your face to the sky, letting the sun’s warmth settle over your skin. Grandpa, are you seeing this? What am I supposed to do now? But a part of you hopes that he isn’t watching you fumble his legacy.
After another steadying breath, your eyes flutter open. “Well,” you mutter, heaving yourself to your feet and wiping your hands on worn jeans, “time for soup.”
With your sunhat pulled low over, you stalk into town.
For a variety of reasons, you don’t often confide in others. Sometimes it’s because you don’t want to burden someone else with the depths of your emotions. Sometimes it’s because a single statement is buried beneath twelve layers of context that take forever to explain, and you realize with startling clarity that no one truly understands you. Sometimes it’s because venting is simply not the vibe.
Right now, though, it’s just you, Gus, and the hearty bowl of parsnip soup he’s ladling into your favorite bowl on a quiet afternoon. The Stardrop Saloon is technically open, but no one comes in this early and Emily’s not due to work for another two hours. Gus hums along to the tune easing out of the jukebox as you recount your recent adventures clearing shrubs at the edge of your property, a story that doesn’t feel raw. It’s not easy, you’re telling him between sips of soup that steam your spectacles, to whack at those darn branches all day.
“Aye, I hear you,” he says, handing you a napkin before continuing to wipe down wine glasses.
And that’s the thing about talking with Gus; you do feel heard.
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It’s Alex who finds out second.
You didn’t mean to fall asleep—you never do, really—but you had spent the morning clearing rocks, and the task was so taxing, and you swear you only wanted to take a short break after mining the third large rock. You didn’t think you’d fall asleep so quickly, and that’s how Alex found you on his morning jog. He wanted to swing by to say hello and see if he could be of any help. Instead he found you slumped in your yard, pickaxe frighteningly close to your head.
When you wake up and manage to find your glasses, the medical bay comes into focus, and so does Alex, pacing in the middle of the room.
“And this is normal ?” he demands from an ever-patient Harvey.
“For the farmer, yes,” he replies, glancing at you. His moustache twitches when he notices that you’re awake. “Perhaps I should let the expert speak.”
Alex’s shoes squeak as he spins on his heel and makes his way to your side. You’re tempted to make up some kind of lie—Alex, of all people, would believe it—but one look into his puppy dog eyes and you’re caving, navigating through your medical diagnosis in a way that hopefully reassures him. Yes, it’s normal for you now. Yes, that’s why you don’t use giant tractors or horses. Yes, you smile gently, it absolutely sucks.
He stands there for a moment, contemplating. “Well, if you just need muscle, why don’t I help out?”
You blink. “Huh?”
“It sounds like you need someone to do the heavy lifting,” he says, as if it’s as easy as that. Maybe it is. He flexes, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights with his arms and signature muscle tank, and grins despite your rolling eyes. “For the meager price of lunch and a few breaks every day, you can have the strongest guy in the Valley at your disposal!”
You laugh, wondering why you were ever hesitant at all. Harvey did suggest enlisting extra help, but you resisted against letting more people into your secret. Alex seems to be taking it in stride, though you should be surprised with how diligently he takes care of George.
Then a thought strikes you.
“Wait, Alex...how did you get me here?” Your jaw drops in horror. “You didn’t sprint here with me in your arms, did you? Or drag me through the path?”
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“Oi, Farmer!” Alex’s voice floats through the ceiling, and there’s creaking on the stairs until he’s in the living room, arms full of dusty boxes. “This looks useful. Bunch of handwritten notes and diagrams.”
“Oh yeah?” you call out, washing your hands. Next to you, lunch bubbles in a slow cooker. A recipe sent by Caroline; you just throw ingredients into a pot with a sprinkle of purple powder and let the magic happen. It should be ready in ten minutes, but your rumbling stomach wishes it would be sooner. “What are they on?”
He puts the boxes down on your coffee table, opens the top one, and flips through the first book. “ Ideal Summer Crop Formations ...that would’ve been useful weeks ago,” he says, setting it aside. “Here’s another one on Greenhouse Tips. Might need that one during Winter. Ooh, this one’s about different cookie recipes. Grandma would like it; I’ll take it home later.”
Despite the oppressive summer heat, this season has been much smoother for you than Spring. Not only did you finally erect a scarecrow in the middle of your field, but the introduction of sprinklers has cut out a chore that would normally take your entire morning. Alex has also been worth more than his weight in gold. In a single day, he made a run to Pierre’s for crop starters and planted all of them before you even finished defrosting dinner. Everything goes faster when he’s around, and you’ve had time to get to know the villagers, becoming quick friends with others your age.
Restoring your grandpa’s farm is looking more possible with each passing day.
You sit down at the dining table, chin propped, and watch as he sorts them into piles. Sun-bleached streaks and dents around the edges, these boxes have clearly been untouched for a while. You haven’t gone into the attic at all; how much of Grandpa is left up there?
“Hey,” says Alex, straightening up with a notebook in hand. He turns it over, smoothing his fingers along the worn leather. “I think this is your grandpa’s. Can you read cursive?”
He pads to your side and passes the book with a curious look. In the corner of the cover is an impression of your grandpa’s initials, and you waste no time undoing the simple clasp.
“Yeah, I think this is his,” you breathe, tracing over the title page. That’s the farm’s name and his full name right under it. You flip to the next page, then pause with furrowed brows. “He must’ve written this when he was younger. By the time he wrote that letter to me, he used print. Can anyone in town still read this style of cursive?”
“My grandparents grew up with it, too, but their eyesight isn’t as good anymore. We can check in with the adults tomorrow. Maybe Mayor Lewis still can. Otherwise, I can ask Penny, since she reads so much, or Elliott, since he—” Alex stops with a grin. “Wait a minute, what was that?”
“What was what?” you reply way too quickly. You try not to cringe at how disingenuous it sounds, even to your own ears.
“The reaction when I said Elliott—there it is again!” Alex’s grin widens, and he points at your averted gaze. “Do you like him or something?”
“I like everyone in Pelican Town,” you say evenly, ignoring how the tips of your ears burn. “Wow, do you hear that? Lunch is ready.”
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You blink at your guest, outlined ethereally by the morning sun.
“Good day, Farmer! Alex told me that I could be of assistance?”
Useful or not, you’re going to kill your farmhand.
“Oh...yes, come in,” you say, stepping aside. “I’m guessing he told you about the books? They’re in the study.”
As soon as Elliott walks into your home, you look out into the fields, where Alex watches with a smug smirk. He leans his chin onto the shovel and sends you a thumbs up, winking. You slide your hand across your throat before closing the door.
Inside, Elliott has already shrugged off his sun-protective jacket and slung it over one arm, revealing his signature button-down and vest as he takes in your sparse decorations. Two seasons in, and you still haven’t gotten around to looking at the furniture catalog. Elliott turns to you with a helpless smile not unlike your own.
“I apologize,” he says. “I’m not sure where the study is, and I don’t often make a habit of snooping.”
“Down the hall, first room to your left!” You gesture behind him. “It should already be open. Make yourself at home, and I’ll get some refreshments. Is fruit juice okay?”
“Whatever you have would be lovely, thank you.”
You watch him disappear into the spare bedroom-turned-study before your expression melts into panic and you escape into the kitchen. As soon as you get to the counter, you lean over it, throwing your face into your hands.
Elliott. Elliott! Right here in your house! What the heck! Did you even clean up the study? Did you leave anything embarrassing strewn about? You groan. Please tell me Alex threw out all his protein bar wrappers.
This is fine, actually. So fine. You can be so normal about this. So what if you have a huge crush on him? Doesn’t everyone fall for him at first sight? How can someone lay eyes on Elliott—Elliott with the windblown auburn tresses, the deep belly laughs, the twinkling emerald eyes—and not think him beautiful? In fact, you think, perking up, he must be so used to the whole town being shy around him that there’s no way I’d stand out. That’s right, so you can just grab a bottle of fruit juice from the fridge, march to the study, and put it on the desk. Then you’ll leave him to work in peace.
“I made a batch of blueberry juice yesterday,” you say at his back, your thumb tracing over the bottle’s twist-cap. His sleeves are rolled up to dig through the boxes, and he’s organizing everything into piles, stacking notebooks and loose paper. You clear your throat. “Alex and I are trying different sugar ratios before we start selling to the town. We’d appreciate any feedback.”
“I would be honored to be a taste tester,” Elliott says and turns around, and you’re glad that you already put down the bottle.
You can’t help staring. It has to be illegal for someone to look that good with reading glasses and books cradled in their arms.
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A gasp. “Are you rewriting all of Grandpa’s notes by hand? You don’t have to do that!”
“I don’t mind. I find it relaxing.”
“Still, that’ll take so long. You’re going to spend forever here.”
A flash of a smile. “Is that such a bad thing?”
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Erase whatever innocent, gullible impression you had of Alex. He’s revealing himself to be a scheming little stinker because what do you mean George and Evelyn want to have lunch with him all week? He gives you and Elliott an apologetic pout that you don’t believe for a second.
“What a shame you cannot partake again.” Elliott frowns, taking off his glasses and slipping them into his chest pocket, which eases your erratic heartbeat. But then he reaches up to throw his hair into a ponytail, and your breath catches in your throat again. “Please send George and Evelyn my best.”
“Yes, such a shame, can’t believe they would do this, truly. I want nothing more than to have lunch with you guys,” he says and backs towards the door, one foot already over the threshold. Not a word is sincere. “Anyway, I’ll be back in an hour. You two have fun!”
Before you can get a word in, he pivots and hightails it out of there, and you’re left glaring at the door. The cackle fading into the distance is likely a figment of your imagination, but you wouldn’t put it past him, that sneaky meddler. Getting Elliott onto this project wasn’t enough; he has been finding every excuse to leave you alone, and while you’ve been thankful for the opportunity to get to know the beachside author, your superficial crush has also blossomed into a full blown infatuation and you’re not sure what to do about it.
Elliott calls your name hesitantly. He sits at your dining room table, twiddling his thumbs with knitted brows. Today he wears a blue shirt that matches the summer spangles swaying in your garden, and you’re struck once again by how effortlessly handsome he is.
“Yes?”
“I hope I am not interrupting anything.” He worries his lip between his teeth. “Between you and Alex, I mean. I am happy to be of help with the books, but you seem to have a system figured out without them, and I’m simply...I can switch to a typewriter. The rewrite would be done faster.”
You blink at him. And then his faint blush clicks.
“Oh, no!” You throw your hands up, horrified. “No, there is nothing between me and Alex. He’s like a brother.”
“I see,” he says with a nod and exhale. Face burning, you try not to read it as relief.
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“You know, the other day, Elliott asked me what your favorite flower is.”
“Still ignoring you.”
“Okay, but I’m just saying, Lover Boy seems to be more curious about what you like. When you get married, you can thank me in your vows.”
“Alex, I’m going to throw this spade at you.”
“The only thing you’re throwing right now is a fit, grumpy pants,” he teases with a laugh. But when you yawn for the second time, his expression softens. “Want me to help you inside for a nap, or do you want to stay where you are? You look cozy resting there in the shade.” His smile is a flash in the sun. “Better yet, I can call in your future husband—”
“Alex!”
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It’s Elliott who finds out third, though you suspect the town already knows.
You don’t try to hide it, and neither does Alex, who always hovers in case you end up falling asleep anywhere other than home. After years of fighting your workplace for accommodations, the townspeople’s quiet understanding is more than you could’ve hoped for. Emily and Abigail curate stones to line your bedroom window, choosing ones with healing and calming properties; Sebastian and Sam put together a soothing playlist that you’ve fully incorporated into your routine; Jodi and Gus send over extra ingredients or even fully prepared meals, specifically for those low energy days.
Still, Elliott is the third person you officially tell, and that has to count for something.
He eases you from the floor to the sofa, tucking the throw blanket around your waist. He finds your glasses a short distance away and wipes them clean before passing them to you. Once the world comes back into focus, you notice that his hair is swept into a sidebraid that ends in a floral elastic, and the detail doesn’t escape you, even though it feels like you’re two long blinks away from melting into the plush cushions.
“I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, crouching in front of you. “How did you end up on the floor?”
You lift a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. You mumble something, or at least you think you do—you’re doing everything you can to just keep your eyes open and trained on Elliott’s face. He smooths a hand over your forehead, pushing back your hair, and frowns.
“No fever. Alex is still on vacation, so it is only me today,” he says, the slight waver in his tone betraying his calm expression. “I will fetch some water. Stay here, Farmer.”
Where else would I even go? You scoff in your mind as he heads to the kitchen.
You must have fallen asleep at some point, though it only feels like seconds have passed, because when you come to, Elliott’s cardigan is wrapped around your shoulders and a glass of water sits on the coffee table. You flex your fingers first, tracing over the worn material of the sofa, and wiggle your toes until you feel well enough to reach for the water. It rests atop a scrap of paper that you originally mistook for a napkin. If you are looking for me, I am outside, the note reports in Elliott’s familiar handwriting. You take a few sips from the glass, clutching Elliott’s cardigan to your chest. Its scent is a curious mix of salt spray, pomegranate, and ink—uniquely him. Still holding it against you, you make your way to the front door and crack it open.
You almost mistake him for Alex at first—they both have broad shoulders that stretch out your grandpa’s old farming shirts—but then you catch auburn beneath the wide-brimmed sunhat. Elliott stands in the middle of the field, pants streaked with dirt, white shirt nearly transparent with sweat. Still, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen a sight so stunning. In each hand, he holds a packet of seeds, and he tilts his head curiously as he surveys the empty plot before him.
“Pumpkins,” you call out. When he turns and sends you a smile that borders on radiance, you try not to stutter. “We’re supposed to plant pumpkins in that area. Cranberries go in the next one.”
“Noted. I will do my best.”
He tears open the left packet, tucking the other into his back pocket, and deposits little seeds into holes prepared by the dibber, and when he gives each one a pat, you realize that he’s mimicking Alex’s process almost exactly. Somehow, between the hundreds of pages he’s been meticulously copying, he had time to watch and learn.
“Thank you for this,” you say. “For earlier, too.”
He hums. “It’s my pleasure. How did you end up on the floor earlier?”
“Just tired.”
He hums again. He’s nearing the end of the row.
“I have this”—you hesitate—”condition.”
He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even look at you, but it’s clear that he’s listening, so you take a breath and forge on.
You start at the beginning, when your world flipped and suddenly your body couldn’t do as much as before and no one knew what was going on. It took time to figure things out, but when a formal diagnosis finally gave words to find solace in, life didn’t get easier. Knowing what was happening didn’t magically erase all of your difficulties; it simply produced a doctor’s note that your employer barely glanced at, though you had little hopes for Jojo Co anyway. You put in your time, your blood and sweat and tears, but it became clear that working there wouldn’t give you the life you needed, so you placed your bets on Grandpa’s promise.
It’s the perfect place to start a new life.
“I don’t know how he did it, though,” you sigh, hugging your legs. “Mayor Lewis said that the farm was a cornerstone of the community, and after he passed, the town scrambled to make up for its loss. Look at me. Just about a year in, and I still haven’t cleared out the overgrowth. I don’t even know where the property ends.”
Elliott sits back on his heels.
“I don’t think you’re being very fair to yourself,” he says, frowning. He heaves himself to his feet, dusts off his hands, and comes over to sit next to you on the patio, close enough to feel the residual sun radiating from him. Even sitting, his frame towers over yours. “Your grandfather was not an overnight success; it took decades for him to reach that point. I read through the library archives recently. Did you know that the farm started as a fraction of its current size?”
“...I didn’t.” During your childhood, Grandpa’s farm felt like a giant’s paradise.
“He learned many lessons, as well. Did you know that for the first two seasons, he kept planting the wrong seeds and wondering why his Fairy Roses wouldn’t bloom?”
You stifle a laugh at that. You did something similar in Summer, trying to grow potatoes.
“I don’t think you should discredit how much work he put in, nor should you discredit how much work you’re putting in to chase this ideal.”
“I just feel like a fake. Everyone keeps putting requests on the Help Wanted board that I can’t fulfill in time.”
“Who said that you are in charge of completing those requests?”
He leans back on his palms, face tilted to catch the afternoon rays, and a gentle breeze tousles the strands that have escaped his braid. In the silence, you’re aware of the songbirds singing, their chirps ringing in the crisp Fall air.
No one said that you’re in charge of it, but, “The board was repaired after I arrived.”
“A coincidence. Prior to that—not that the board was broken for long anyway—requests would pass by word of mouth or be pinned to the tree next to Pierre’s. Sometimes Emily would ask for a gem, and Abigail would get her one while sneaking around the mines. Sometimes Jodi would want a Catfish for dinner, and Willy would drop one off in her mailbox.” Elliott shrugs. “And if little Vincent can’t have fried catfish, then Jodi improvises.”
He turns to you, resting his cheek on his shoulder.
“This may sound harsh, but the town has survived before you and it will continue to do so. Whatever you do will simply add to people’s lives; that’s the beauty of community, isn’t it?” He pauses, then chuckles. “If you feel like an imposter, consider me. I’m known as an author without having published a single book.”
You shake your head with a giggle.
“You’re exceptional, Farmer. You dream of grandeur. I believe that you have the strength and tenacity to do everything you wish to do. But whenever you find that you don’t have the strength”—his voice drops to a murmur—”I’ll lend you mine.”
It takes a moment for his tone to sink in, but when it does, you jolt, letting out a barking laugh. “Sorry!” you say, feeling your face burn. “Reflex. That sounded kind of romantic, so I just—never mind.”
“Did it? Good.” His gaze strikes you through the heart. “That was my intention.”
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You do thank Alex in your vows. He whoops loudly from the front row.
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Epilogue
You’re awoken with kisses fluttering across your exposed shoulders and the warmth of your husband behind you. You reach back to bury your fingers in his hair and hum in contentment when his hands settle on your waist.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Elliott says, pulling you flush against his chest and pressing a kiss to your head. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby. I guess the Skull Cavern run was more tiring than I thought. How about you?”
“Well enough. No dreams, though. I was hoping to be struck by inspiration in my sleep.”
You turn in his arms until you can tuck your head under his chin and throw your own arms around him. The morning sun spills in from the open window, bathing your newly renovated bedroom in warmth, and you’re tempted to just lay here with him until lunch rolls around, but unfortunately, there’s work to be done.
As if he can read your mind, Elliott starts massaging your back, easing the aches from yesterday’s adventure. “Why don’t we stay in for a little longer, hm?”
“I would love to,” you sigh into his collar, “but the iridium ores from yesterday should be done smelting and I need to make new sprinklers. Maybe we can stop by the Stardrop Saloon today after picking up seeds from Pierre’s? I’ve been craving his spaghetti. And after that, I’ll take it easy. Low energy day today.”
“If the only thing forcing you out of bed is making the iridium sprinklers, then don’t worry about it.” He attempts to hug you closer, but you pull back to look him in the face.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says, “that the iridium sprinklers are made and already set up. We won’t lose a day of watering, either, since the plots are already prepared. Now let me hug—”
“How?”
You stare in disbelief, running through a mental list of Valley miracles. You’ve had the owl statue, the giant crops, the fairy blessing, but you’ve never heard of a miracle that takes your smelted ores from a furnace, crafts them into farm tools, and hooks them up to your irrigation system.
But then you notice Elliott’s sheepish expression and the way his eyes droop, not unlike yours before an afternoon nap. Your fingers brush against the purple tint beneath his lashes.
“I know I skipped dinner and went to bed early, but iridium still takes eight hours to process, so to do all of that, you must’ve...Ellie, what time did you go to bed?”
“Don’t worry about it, angel.” He moves your fingers to his lips and kisses each one in turn. “I knew you would be tired today, so I did what I could to help. Now that we got that out of the way, will you please let me hold you? Pierre’s doesn’t open for another three hours.”
I did it, Grandpa. You burrow into Elliott’s embrace and feel him sigh around you. I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong.