eufemio

your heart stutters. “she said that?”

“mm.” he shrugs like it’s nothing, but his cheeks are turning pink. “said the tomatoes grew sweeter this year, and she hasn’t yelled at that godforsaken neighbor in weeks. thinks it’s ‘cause of you.”

you snort. “i’ve been here, what, three times total?”

“apparently that’s all it took,” he says, serious now. “she likes you. really likes you.”

you raise a brow. “that surprising?”

kita sits up straighter, suddenly full of conviction. “yes. it is. you don’t get it - gran doesn’t like anyone. she’s sweet to their face, sure, but the moment they’re out the door it’s all ‘that one’s got no sense,’ or ‘he dresses like his mama never taught him how.’”

you laugh, leaning on his shoulder. “she said those things about the twins, didn’t she?”

“whispered it while ‘samu could still hear, too.” he shakes his head, sounding in awe. “but you? she lets you sit in her recliner. she makes you iced tea from scratch, not the jug mix.”

“boiled the leaves herself,” kita says, holding up a hand like he’s swearing in court. “haven’t seen her do that since my uncle’s birthday. not even for me.”

your foot slips off his lap, and he catches it again without missing a heartbeat.

“i mean it,” he murmurs, quieter now. “she loves you. and to me that’s… big. real big.”

your voice softens. “you care what she thinks?”

“course i do.” he looks a little embarrassed now, gaze not-so-subtly traveling down to your ring finger. “the woman raised me. it matters. a whole bunch.”

there’s a short pause. the cicadas kick up louder in the bushes right on cue, and the last bit of sun stretches long shadows across the porch.

“you know,” you say, voice as soft as the dying light, “you keep rubbing my foot like that and i might have to actually marry you out of obligation.”

kita huffs out a laugh, hands working at your calves now. “might?” he echoes. “actually..? even after all the things i’ve done for you today?”

“all you’ve done for me?” you push his face away with your palm, smiling ear to ear despite yourself. “i was the one who peeled the grapefruit. didn’t hear me complain when it squirted me in the eye did you?”

he grins. “my brave soldier.”

“damn straight.”

“but really,” he starts again, thumb pausing at your heel, “you ever think about it?”

“foot rubs?” you deadpan. “dream about ‘em.”

kita chuckles again, the joy you are to be around. “marriage,” he clarifies. “with me.”

“sometimes.”

he leans back onto his elbows, looking out toward the yard where the hummingbird’s darting back toward the fruit plate, stealing a melon slice.

“i think about it,” he confesses. “think about what flavor cake you’d want, if you’d wear your hair up or down. think about you in white. had a few dreams about that last one.”

you look down at your hands, gather them in your lap. “you’re too good at that.”

“too good at what?”

“sayin’ stuff that makes my heart feel all wobbly.”

he laughs, your favorite sound. “think your heart’s wobbly now - wait ‘till i get down on one knee.”

you stretch your toes against the inside of his thigh, playful. “if i was mrs. kita, you’d still be good to me if i hogged the covers, let hair go down the drain?”

“when you’re mrs. kita.” he corrects, palming your thigh now. “ain’t stopped me before.”

“those are boyfriend duties,” you say, hand over your heart. “sure you could handle wife-level chaos?”

“darlin’,” he says, nosing your cheek before he kisses it, “i’d carry your chaos around in my shirt pocket if it meant i got to call you mine.”

you groan. “enough of that, shin.”

his eyes crinkle at the corners. “hmm? of what?”

“i’m gonna start doodling hearts on my skin around your last name like we’re in middle school.”

he leans in, tucks the stray hairs from your face behind your ears. “go on and do it. looks good on you.”

“what does?”

his voice dips. “my name.”

you reach forward and tug at the hem of his cutoff, an attempt to cover up the shade of red you’ve quickly turned into within the past couple of minutes. “…can’t believe i’m fallin’ for a man who can’t cut even sleeves.”

“can’t believe you’re gonna marry him,” he teases.

you kick at him, yet you don’t bother denying it.

then you pad barefoot into cool floorboards, screen doors clattering shut behind you.

in the kitchen, the fan spins overhead. the scent of old wood and lemon cleaner clings to everything, comforting in a way you never expected a home to be.

you lean against the counter to rinse the peach-sticky plate at the sink, water running cold.

“dry towel’s hangin’ on the oven,” a voice calls.

you glance back.

his grandmother’s at the table, sorting green beans into a big metal bowl. her hands move like clockwork - snap, flick, drop - she’s done it a hundred times before. probably thousands. doesn’t look up, but the corners of her mouth twitch like she knows.

i see you. i’ve seen this before. i know exactly where it’s going.

you reach for the towel, dabbing at your arms.

“sorry, i didn’t mean to drip,” you mumble, guilty while the mess collects on the wood. “i’ll go wipe it up.”

“don’t fuss,” she clicks her tongue. “you’re fine.”

you hover there awkwardly for a second, unsure if you should offer to help or scurry back out. before you can decide, she sounds out again, hushed.

“he’s steadier with you around.”

your hand stills on the wool.

she drops another into the bowl. “always been a good boy. but you - you make him settle, not slow down. there’s a difference, there is.”

your throat goes dry. “that’s kind of you to say.”

“don’t say nothin’ unless i mean it.”

you bite your lip, eyes stinging. “i care about him.”

“i know,” she says simply.

silence settles again, thick like molasses. then she adds, so quiet you nearly miss it:

“and if he does it right, he’ll marry you on that back lawn under the dogwood tree, same as his grandpa married me.”

you swallow, unsure how to respond.

she finally looks up, meets your gaze square. “that sound alright to you, sweetheart?”

you hum, soft and teary. “sounds like a dream.”

“good,” she goes back to her beans. “now go on and tell him i ain’t pickin’ no more unless he gets his lazy behind in here and grabs the second bowl.”

“yes ma’am,” you nod, barely containing the smile.

outside, kita’s still on the porch, bent over the cups, humming under his breath - some old country tune he often falls back on when his hands are full and his heart’s even fuller. (like right now.)

the screen door thwaps shut behind you.

you bump his arm with your hip and whisper, mischievous. “you’re in trouble, shinsuke.”

“what? why?”

“she says you gotta help with the beans.”

he groans dramatically, flopping back like he’s wounded. “throw me to the wolves just like that?”

you grin, sitting next to him. “might be worth it to get in on her good side. gonna be mrs. kita, after all.”

his eyes cut to yours, boyish and in love. “might be sooner than you think. ‘m not just messin’ around when i talk about you bein’ my wife someday.”

“got a ring tucked behind them peach slices?”

“not yet,” he says. “though i do have a down payment on somethin’ shiny. if you’re patient with me.”

you smile so wide your cheeks start to hurt. “good thing your gran says i’ve got that in spades.”

kita’s fingers still on your palm, face softening.