Page 57 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Ruby

I stood barefoot on my porch, blinking against the early morning sunlight and clutching a steaming mug of chamomile tea. The wood was cool beneath my feet, the breeze gentle as it ruffled the hem of Damien’s oversized T-shirt that I’d shamelessly borrowed.

Then I saw it.

My breath caught in my throat as I stepped forward.

Right there at the edge of the porch, nestled in a freshly dug bed of dark, rich soil, was a garden.

Not just dirt and empty space—a plan. A promise. A future.

The hand-painted sign sat crooked but proud, staked firmly in the middle. I crouched to read it, my fingers trembling slightly as I brushed away a curl of morning dew:

For every bloom you’ve ever planted in me.

My knees hit the porch, a soft thunk lost in the hush of sunrise. I reached out and touched the edge of the sign, worn wood and uneven lettering that could only belong to one person.

Beside the bed was a cardboard box, slightly open at the top. Inside: tulip and daffodil bulbs, packets of seeds for zinnias, daisies, and marigolds, each labeled in Damien’s unmistakable handwriting.

There were even planting instructions written in the margins.

So they don’t die on me. I asked Google.

I laughed through a watery sob.

The man had researched perennials for me. For us.

The screen door creaked behind me.

“I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer,” Damien said, his voice still scratchy with sleep. He held two paper cups of coffee and a brown bag folded over with grease stains—our local bakery’s signature packaging.

I turned slowly; the sign clutched in my hands. “You did this?”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “Figured it was time I started planting things instead of just patching them.”

I stared at him, trying to gather my words, but everything in me had gone soft and unsteady. He set the coffee down on the railing, then moved to stand beside me.

“You made this for me?” I asked, my voice catching on the last word.

Damien didn’t look away. “No,” he said quietly. “I made it for us.”

That did it. My heart cracked wide open.

I lunged into his arms, wrapping mine around his neck so fast the coffee nearly tipped over behind us. He caught me with a grunt, laughing into my hair as I kissed him fiercely.

Tears stung my eyes. I didn’t care. I kissed him anyway—his cheeks, his jaw, his lips—every part of him I could reach as he held me like he never planned to let go.

“This is...” I whispered against his mouth. “I don’t even have a word.”

“Good thing I’m not asking for one,” he murmured, cupping the back of my head. “Just this. Just you.”

I leaned my forehead against his. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined waking up to something like this?”

“No. But I’m guessing it didn’t usually include a guy with dirt under his nails and a lopsided sign.”

“It didn’t,” I admitted, “but that was before I knew what love really looked like.”

We stood there for a while, tangled up on the porch in a quiet, sleepy Cedar Springs morning.

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