The First Glader

8

That morning was the first morning she didn't drag through chores like they were a punishment. George made everything into a small competition he mostly lost—hauling water, turning soil, carrying crates—but he never complained. His cheeks were flushed with effort, curls damp from sweat, but he pushed himself until Ada finally planted a hand on his chest and said, "Stop before you pass out."

He obeyed.

But he obeyed with a smug smile that ruined the sincerity.

"If you touch me like that again, I can't promise I won't fall on purpose," he murmured.

Ada froze.

Nick dropped his bucket with a loud thunk. "Absolutely not. We're not doing that."

George leaned closer to Ada, eyes bright. "She blushed."

"I did not," Ada snapped.

"You did," he said, delighted. "New Glade rule: every time Ada blushes, I get a point."

"No," Ada said instantly. "I'm vetoing that."

"Too late," George replied. "Plus one."

"You get zero," she growled.

"Minus one for you," George countered, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Yep. This is how the scoring works."

Nick sighed. "I'm going to drown myself in the lake."

"Don't," Ada said.

"I won't," Nick muttered. "But I'm thinking about it."

George laughed, but once he turned back to the water buckets, his smile slipped a little. Ada noticed—how he went still, forehead tightening as if something sharp pressed behind his eyes. She didn't say anything. She just matched his pace, carrying the heavier load so he didn't have to.

"Hey," he murmured. "I'm supposed to be proving myself."

"You are," Ada said.

"You sure? Because you're doing all the work."

"That's because you still walk like you're unsure the ground is real."

George blinked. "Okay, fair. Greenie problems."

Ada slowed. "Greenie?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Feels right. Like... I'm the least-trained horse in the stable."

Ada raised an eyebrow. "You're comparing yourself to a horse."

"A handsome one," George corrected. "With strong emotional issues."

Ada snorted before she could catch herself.

George's grin was immediate. "Point."

"Absolutely not."

"Point."

Nick called from across the Glade, "George, stop flirting so we can get the water stored!"

George cupped his hands around his mouth. "I'm not flirting! I'm winning!"

Ada buried her face in her hands.

Later that afternoon, while Nick repaired a tool handle, George and Ada spent time near the garden. They didn't talk. She weeded. He tried. He was terrible at it. But he stayed close enough that she could hear him breathing evenly—no more sharp panic breaths, no more shaking hands.

"Hey," George said suddenly. "What do we call this place?"

"It's called the Glade," Ada said.

George made a face. "Boring. Needs spice. Personality. Zing."