Prove myself

Prove myself
The sun was still bright, painting the sky in gentle gold as Evelyn made her way up the cracked path to grandmother's house. The garden was wild with late spring flowers—iris, peonies, ragged roses climbing the old white trellis. She paused at the foot of the stairs to smooth her skirt, arrange her thoughts, and then let herself up onto the porch, drawn by the sound of laughter drifting out through a half-open window.

She didn’t expect Hunter to have arrived before her. Yet, there he was, standing at the threshold with a paper-wrapped bouquet in each large hand, grinning sheepishly as Grandma clapped her hands in delight.

“Oh, you dear boy!” Grandma said, delighted by the unexpected treat. She crinkled her nose, laughing, as she sniffed the peonies and daisies he’d brought for her. “Just look at these, Evie! When’s the last time you saw a young man with such manners?”

Evelyn’s guard, which had been bristling ever since Hunter started showing up again, slipped just a little at the sight. She tried to maintain a blank composure, but the effort was doomed; her lips folded involuntarily into a smile.

Hunter saw it, and his smile deepened. He walked over with a mock formality, bowing as he offered her a smaller bouquet—a handful of purple irises, loosely tied with string.

“They’re for you,” he said quietly, eyes steady, tone simple and honest. No extravagant declarations, just the earnest weight of a man trying his best. “You once said you loved irises. I—I remembered.”

Evelyn took the flowers, their scent rich and grounding. “Thank you,” she said, and her voice, much to her annoyance, sounded softer than she intended.

Hunter retreated to the kitchen, glancing back at her as he disappeared around the doorway. Evelyn followed more slowly, placing her flowers in one of Grandma’s blue glass vases. As she did, she felt Grandma’s eyes on her, twinkling with amused insight.

“It's love season,” Grandma murmured as she patted Evelyn’s hand. 

Evelyn pretended not to hear, focusing on arranging the blooms. But her cheeks were warm, and Hunter’s presence at the kitchen table—a familiar silhouette in the fading light—filled her with a jittery nervous energy.

Dinner was a simple affair, as it always was at Grandma’s: roast chicken, mashed potatoes heavy with butter, green beans still crisp and sweet. Hunter was attentive, passing dishes, refilling drinks, listening intently to every story Grandma told. His laughter came quickly and easily, and he never once looked at his phone, nor let his attention wander. Evelyn found herself watching the way his broad hands moved—delicate with the cutlery, careful not to spill gravy or overfill a glass.

It had been a long time, she realized, since she’d eaten a meal where the conversation hummed with warmth, not anxiety. Hunter had the type of presence that softened edges. He complimented Grandma’s cooking with charming exaggeration—“Best potatoes in three counties, at least!”—and she tossed breadcrumbs of praise right back.

“And what about you, Evelyn?” Grandma asked, turning her gaze just a little sharper. “How’s work this week? Have you got help with that office move?”

Evelyn tried to answer as normally as possible. “Busy, but it’ll get done. I—” she stopped, found herself fidgeting.

Hunter’s quiet glance made her braver. “It’s easier when there’s someone steady around,” she added, risking a look at him.

He grinned at her, his eyes alight. “Well, if you need any heavy lifting, just call me, okay? I can handle more than mashed potatoes.”

Even Grandma rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. “Oh, I remember those arms from the hayloft when you were a kid. Always showing off, weren’t you, Hunter?”

He shrugged modestly. “Some things never change.”

After the plates were cleared and Grandma requested a bit of rest before dessert, Evelyn and Hunter set about cleaning up. Evelyn filled the sink; he stacked plates and gathered silverware, working in an easy sync they hadn’t known in years.

The silence, broken only by the water’s rush, was companionable until Hunter set a soapy plate in the rack and turned a little toward her. His voice was gentle, meant only for her.

“Evie,” he began, nervous but earnest, “can I—can I say something? Just for a minute, before Grandma’s cherry pie pulls you away?”

She glanced at him, his face alive with something serious but hopeful. “Of course. What is it?”

He hesitated, drying his hands, then tugged her gently by the wrist into the shadowed nook by the window. “I want to do it right this time,” he said, voice low. “No more mixed signals, no more of the old nonsense. I’d like to court you properly, if you’ll let me.”

Evelyn’s breath caught. Nobody talked like that anymore—nobody said “court.” It was old-fashioned, but not in a way that felt corny. It was steady, clear. It was a man asking to treat her, not just to have her.

She swallowed, torn between a smile and a warning. “You came on fast, Hunter. I—I have a lot going on. I can’t be rushed, not now.”

He nodded immediately, not offended. “I know. I’m not here for an answer tonight. I just want you to know what I feel—and that I’m not leaving. Not again. I’ll wait as long as you need. We can go at your pace.”

Evelyn studied his open face, the gentle plea in his blue eyes. “You want to prove yourself?” she teased, forcing lightness into her tone to hide the flutter in her stomach. “That’s going to take more than a bouquet and some dishwashing.”

He took her challenge with good humor, bowing his head with mock gravity. “If it takes scrubbing every pan in this house, I’ll do it. And every week, too.”

He reached out as if to press her hand, but stopped, glancing at her for permission. Slowly, she let her fingers rest in his—warm, callused, gentle.

Their fingers barely laced, but the touch lingered.

“Just so we’re clear,” Evelyn said softly, her words brushing the hush between them. “This isn’t forgiveness for everything. I need to be careful. I have my own wounds.”

He squeezed her hand, never breaking her gaze. “I know. And I’d never ask for more than you can give. Even if I’ve got to wait a year just to get a kiss—hell, even just a walk in the park—I’ll wait. You’re worth that.”

She felt herself flush; he noticed, and grinned, leaning just a little closer. “Patience is a virtue, right? You’ll see—I’ll be the most virtuous suitor in town.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the answering smile that tugged at her mouth. “That sounds suspiciously competitive, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Only when it comes to you, Miss Carter.” He released her hand with exaggerated care, and they both laughed.

The moment’s tenderness lingered as they carried on with their chores. They teased each other over the dish soap—Hunter sneaking suds onto her elbow, Evelyn flicking a towel in his direction. When she accidentally almost dropped a plate, he caught it with nimble hands, steadying both the dish and her wrist.

“Thanks, hero,” she murmured, her voice warm.

“I aim to please.”

The flirting was gentle, brightening a room that too often felt like a museum of the past. The clatter of plates, the scritch-scritch of the dish brush, all folded into a quiet music punctuated by their laughter. For the first time in a long time, Evelyn felt her muscles relax, her worries recede.

“You know,” Hunter said, pausing as he dried the last glass, “if it’s all right... once the weather’s warmer, I’d like to invite you on an honest-to-goodness picnic. The kind with sandwiches and lemonade and not a single worry in the world.”

She glanced at him, her voice full of mock skepticism. “You can make sandwiches?”

“Hey, I’m a renaissance man!” He puffed out his chest, only to lose the effect by pressing a hand to his heart. 

She softened a little more, dropping her defenses in favor of hope. “I’ll think about it,” she finally allowed, not wanting to over-promise, but wanting, more than she could admit, to say yes.

They heard Grandma call from the parlor, “Pie’s up! You two done sparking in there?” Her laughter was warm, not at all teasing. Evelyn’s cheeks reddened.

Hunter winked at her, offering his arm gallantly. “Shall we, Miss Carter?”

She took it, letting herself be buoyed for just a moment by his certainty, by the spring air that drifted in through the open door and the scents of flowers, pie, and new beginnings.

Perhaps, she thought, as they returned together to the living room, his patience really would be the proof she needed—no more rushing, no more running, just the possibility of something sweet and right, growing slow and real as the garden beyond the window.