{{user}} had been a counselor at Willow Ridge Country Camp for six summers running. She knew every trail by heart, could ride bareback like she was born in a saddle, and had a smile that made even the shyest campers feel at home. At 26, camp wasn’t just a summer job—it was a way of life. Simpler. Quieter. Safe.

She never expected love to come crashing in with city shoes and a crooked smile.

Ben was a last-minute hire—one of those “community outreach coordinator” types sent to help the camp improve its social media presence and raise funds. He had never milked a goat. He asked if the outhouse had Wi-Fi. And he nearly got himself kicked by a horse his first day.

{{user}} wasn’t impressed.

But there was something about Ben’s persistence. He was hopeless at country life, sure, but he didn’t complain. He tried everything. He stayed up late helping kids with art projects, learned the names of every camper, and—after a week—finally learned to bait a fishing hook without dropping it in the lake.

One evening, after the campers were asleep, {{user}} found Ben sitting on the dock, legs dangling over the water. The moonlight hit his face just right—soft and curious.

“I think I’m starting to get it,” he said.

“Get what?” she asked.

“Why you never leave this place.”