Eli shook it. Her palm was warm, slightly calloused. “Eli.”
June works at a plant shop called Frond . Eli wandered in on a rainy Tuesday, looking for a snake plant—something unkillable because she had once accidentally murdered a cactus. June was behind the counter, repotting a fern, with dirt smudged on her cheek and her dark curls escaping a messy bun.
“Sorry,” June said, smiling now. “That was presumptuous. Maybe you don’t need your plants to like you.”
“No,” Eli said, feeling her face heat. “I definitely do.”
They kissed on the couch. June tasted like red wine and the cherry chapstick she kept losing in her pockets. Eli’s hands shook, not from fear but from the sheer rightness of it—the way June cupped her face like she was something precious, the way she whispered “okay?” against Eli’s lips before going any further.