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His gaze flicked from the marker to me. “Planning something?”

“Better to be prepared.”

The corner of his mouth twitched before he ducked his head and went back to sanding.

Three days. I’d spent three blissful, ridiculous days at Barrett’s cabin, and apparently this was what we did now. We argued about plant labels.

We also cooked together, although together was generous considering Barrett did most of the actual cooking while I chopped things under supervision and stole whatever he left within reach. We went into the woods every morning with Grandma’s journals and came home muddy, hungry, and carrying more samples than I had containers for. In the evenings, I cataloged what we’d found while Barrett worked beside me, repairing tools and cleaning equipment.

Somehow, without either of us discussing it, his kitchen had become our base of operations.

My field press occupied one end of his kitchen bench. My notebooks were stacked beside his forestry records. A copy of Grandma’s map had been pinned beside his calendar, and my waterproof labels, sample bags, and collection envelopes had colonized an entire shelf that had previously contained honey jars.

Yesterday, I’d arrived after showering and changing at the inn to discover Barrett had built me a drying rack. Not bought one. Built one.

Six shallow cedar shelves sat beneath the kitchen window, each precisely spaced for my specimen frames, with fine mesh stretched across the bases to allow air to circulate. He’d even sanded the edges smooth so they wouldn’t catch on the paper.

When I’d asked when he'd found time to make it, he’d shrugged and said, “You needed one.”

That was Barrett. He could spend several hours noticing exactly what would make my life easier, build it with his own hands, and then behave as though he’d done nothing more significant than move a chair.

I glanced at the rack now. Five shelves were occupied. Apparently, he’d noticed that too, because the piece of cedar in his hands was exactly the same width as the first rack.

“Are you making me another shelf?”

Barrett continued sanding. “You filled the rest.”

“The sixth shelf is completely empty.”

“Give it an hour.”

I tried not to smile and failed. “You’re extremely irritating for someone who barely spoke to me two weeks ago.”

“Was quieter then.”

“Yes. I remember it fondly.”

“Could go back to it.”

“You won’t.”

His hand paused on the wood for a second, but I caught it.

I was learning that Barrett’s silences had different meanings too: the comfortable silence of working beside me, the wary one that appeared whenever I asked about something too personal, and the particularly satisfying kind that meant I’d said something he liked and he let it stand because it didn’t need an answer.

I liked learning him.

I picked up the marker again and crossed out little purple one. Beneath it, I wrote SW-P14—unidentified woodland perennial, provisional classification pending.

Barrett leaned over far enough to read it. “Catchy.”

“Accurate.”

“Little purple one was accurate.”

“It isn’t even purple yet.”

“It will be.”