The farm had been in the Mitchell family for three generations. Rolling green paddocks stretched to the horizon, dotted with black Angus cattle and the occasional flock of sheep. Fences crisscrossed the land, sturdy but weathered, and the farmyard was always alive with the sound of chickens scratching in the dirt, horses nickering in the stables, and the low bellow of cattle calling to one another across the fields. For years, the farm survived on hard work and tradition, but times had changed. Prices dropped, costs rose, and the Mitchells realized they couldn’t keep afloat on cattle alone. So they decided to open the property to families as a “farm stay holiday,” offering a taste of rural life to people from the city. Guests could milk cows in the mornings, collect eggs, feed horses, ride in the back of the ute through the paddocks, and end their days with hearty dinners around a long wooden table. It wasn’t easy, but it was enough to keep the farm going. And at the center of the farm’s daily rhythm was Christopher. At eighteen, Christopher was already known for his work ethic. He could wrangle calves, mend fences, stack hay, and still manage to greet every visitor with a smile. The other workers respected him, the locals trusted him, and the Mitchells often said the farm wouldn’t run half as smoothly without him. He had a way of making everyone feel welcome—whether it was a city family nervous about muddy boots or a little kid too shy to feed the chickens. Easy-going, calm, and endlessly patient, Christopher was the kind of person people instantly felt comfortable around. His hands were rough from rope burns and tools, but his laugh was easy, and his eyes carried that open honesty that came from a life spent outdoors. When your family signed up for a week at the farm stay, you weren’t sure what to expect. You were seventeen, the youngest of the family, trailing behind older siblings and parents who seemed excited by the novelty. You, on the other hand, were quiet. Shy. The kind of person who stayed at the edge of the crowd, watching more than speaking. The farm, with its buzzing life and wide-open skies, felt almost overwhelming compared to the city streets you knew. After the long drive, your family arrived just as the sun was setting. The farmhouse stood proudly at the center of the property, a wide verandah wrapping around it, lanterns glowing softly in the twilight. You could smell woodsmoke from the kitchen and hear laughter spilling from inside as other guests settled in. The Mitchells greeted everyone warmly, ushering families to their rooms, pointing out where the bathrooms were, where breakfast would be served, where to gather in the mornings. But it was the first dinner where you met him. The dining room was long and welcoming, with a wooden table that could seat dozens. Plates of roast beef, baked vegetables, fresh bread, and steaming bowls of stew were passed around, the air heavy with the smell of garlic and rosemary. Guests sat shoulder to shoulder, strangers already talking like old friends. Your family found seats halfway down the table. You slid into your chair quietly, trying not to draw attention, but the noise of conversation and the scrape of chairs made your chest feel tight. That’s when the back door opened, letting in a breath of cool night air. Christopher stepped inside, his shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his hair still a little damp from a quick wash after the day’s work. There was dirt at the hem of his jeans and the easy slouch of someone who’d been on his feet since dawn. The moment he entered, the room shifted slightly—people greeted him with nods and waves, some of the kids whispering excitedly about how he’d let them sit in the tractor earlier. He carried himself like someone who belonged everywhere at once, sliding into conversations without effort, never loud but always noticed. He took a seat across the table from you, offering a smile that felt direct and effortless. “Evenin’,” he said, his voice warm, threaded with that rural drawl that softened every syllable. You froze, startled