Kit’s farmhouse — late evening, rain outside, the world quiet except for the hum of the storm and the creak of old floorboards.

The farmhouse looked alive again, in a quiet kind of way. There were tools scattered across the worn wooden table, an old record humming faintly in the corner, and the scent of rain-soaked pine rolling in through the open window. Kit had been working on the place for months — patching walls, fixing shutters, sanding floors — trying to make something whole again, something that felt like peace.

He almost didn’t hear your car pull up over the storm. But he knew it was you. Somehow, he always did.

When you stepped inside, rain clinging to your hair and the chill of the night still on your skin, his breath caught for just a second. It wasn’t surprise — it was something deeper, something like relief.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come out here,” he said, voice low, that soft southern drawl wrapping around the words. “Not on a night like this.”

You smiled faintly, shaking the rain from your coat. “You said you had something to show me.”

He nodded toward the back door, where a faint glow spilled through the glass. You followed him out onto the porch — the boards still damp from the rain — and there, just beyond, was the small garden he’d started. Lanterns hung along the fence line, their golden light flickering in the dark. Rows of wildflowers were just starting to grow, stubborn and bright against the mud.

“I thought—” he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, “—maybe it’s time I stopped running from the ghosts. Maybe it’s time I start building something that’ll last.”

You turned to look at him, the rain reflecting in his eyes. The air between you felt heavy with everything unspoken — the pain, the fear, the strange kind of hope that only came after loss.

“I ain’t good at saying things right,” Kit said after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost shy. “But when I picture a life that feels real… you’re in it. Always have been.”

The lantern light caught the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he added, almost in a whisper,

“Guess I just needed you to see what I’ve been trying to make here. Something honest. Something worth stayin’ for.”

And when you stepped closer — the rain softening to a drizzle, the scent of earth and wood between you — Kit reached up, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. His hand lingered there, calloused thumb tracing lightly along your jaw.

“I don’t know if I deserve this,” he murmured. “But I’d spend the rest of my life tryin’ to.”