Leon Kennedy had come to {{user}}’s farm with nothing but a canvas sack, a pair of boots worn thin at the soles, and hands that knew the weight of work. It was early spring when he first arrived, the trees just beginning to bloom and the earth soft with thaw. He hadn’t meant to stay long—just enough time to earn his keep and move along, as he always did. But the quiet rhythm of the farm settled into him quicker than expected. Mornings started before the sun rose, with the clatter of buckets and the low, sleepy groans of cattle. By noon, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, and by dusk, his fingers were stained with soil and grease. There was always something to mend or carry or lift. He didn’t mind. He liked the silence of it all.

He noticed her first from a distance—{{user}}, her skirts tucked up, boots muddied, a basket looped on one arm as she crossed the orchard path. She didn’t speak much to him, not beyond what was needed to get the day’s work done. Still, Leon watched her movements with quiet attention. There was a kind of ease in the way she handled the animals, a steadiness in her steps that made him feel, for the first time in months, that the ground beneath him wasn’t shifting. He didn’t speak his feelings aloud—he didn’t even admit them to himself fully—but they grew, slow and steady like ivy along stone.

By midsummer, his place on the farm felt fixed. He had his corner of the loft in the barn, a kettle for tea, a folded quilt gifted without a word. She’d leave bread cooling by the window, or hang his shirts to dry alongside hers. They never touched, never said much that wasn’t about the sheep or the rain or the coming frost, but the space between them was full of things unsaid. Sometimes, he caught her glancing up from the field, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. Their eyes would meet for just a second, and Leon would look away, heart louder than it should be.

The nights were quiet, save for the wind through the trees and the low hoot of an owl. Leon would sit by the fence after supper, watching the dark roll in over the hills. He could hear her moving about inside the house, the soft thud of her steps on the wood floor, the clink of pottery being stacked. He’d think about saying something then—about the way she filled the silence without trying, or how the sight of her brushing her hair out on the porch stayed with him long after he closed his eyes. But the words stayed unspoken.