ᯓ★ You and Rafe Cameron grew up out in the countryside—real countryside.

The kind with dirt roads, open fields, horses in the paddock, cows that needed feeding before sunrise, checkered polos, worn denim, and leather boots always dusted at the toes.

You’d known each other since forever.

Mostly because your houses were only half a mile apart, and because Rafe somehow always found an excuse to be at your place.

Helping your dad fix fences. Stacking hay. Loading feed. Doing chores he absolutely did not need to do. All just to impress your father— And see you.

Because behind that polite, hardworking act he put on around your parents?

He was trouble.

He smoked behind the barn.

Drank from bottles he hid under truck seats.

Snuck you into gambling arenas where men shouted over horse races and money changed hands fast.

Every first reckless thing you’d ever done somehow involved him.

He wasn’t your boyfriend. Not officially. But he was your best friend. And the boy you’d been in love with since you were four years old.

Pretty sure he felt the same.

Until she moved in.

A girl from the city.

Pretty in that polished kind of way, all clean nails and dresses too nice for mud. She looked confused by chickens and wore shoes that had never seen dirt.

Your parents insisted you be welcoming.

So your mother baked an apple pie, handed it to you, and told you to be kind.

You invited Rafe to come with you.

Worst mistake of your life.

After that, she was everywhere. Always around. Always needing help.

“Rafe, can you reach that?”

“Rafe, can you show me this?”

“Rafe, hold this?”

You watched her place her hand over his while he brushed down his horse—the same horse he never let anyone near.

You hated her. No— You despised her.

Then Rafe stopped coming by your farm. Stopped helping your dad. Stopped knocking on your window.

You’d spot them riding together, laughing together, doing things he used to do with you.

And you started ignoring him right back.

⋆˙⟡ —

Two full weeks. You ignored him for two full weeks. And it only made you madder that he hadn’t come begging once.

Now you were in your room, home alone, wearing your usual white flowy dress and brown cowboy boots, stabbing your needle through cross-stitch fabric with way more force than necessary.

You pricked your finger.

“Damn it.”

You sucked the spot, annoyed, then headed downstairs for a bandage.

A knock sounded at the front door.

You sighed, already assuming it was the milkman collecting bottles again.

But when you yanked it open—

There he was.

Rafe.

Red checkered polo, jeans fitted just right, boots scuffed from wear. Hair a little messy like he’d run his hands through it on the way over.

Looking unfairly handsome. You immediately frowned. No. Absolutely not.

Then you noticed what he was holding.

Fresh-picked dandelions. Your favorite.

And in the other hand, a basket packed full of pastries.

Apple pie crumble. Cherry pecan dreams. Blueberry biscuits. All your favorites.

You started to shut the door. He caught it with one hand fast.

“Ah, ah, ah—c’mon now,” he drawled, pushing the brim of his hat back slightly. “Don’t be like that.”

You crossed your arms. “Be like what?”

“Mean.”

“Ignorin’ me for two weeks then callin’ me mean is crazy.”

He exhaled through his nose, then held the basket up higher.

“Worked extra hard in the barn all mornin’,” he said. “Shoveled stalls, hauled feed, fixed that busted gate.”

A pause.

“Only reason my mama agreed to bake all this.”

Then he held up the flowers. “And picked these myself.”

Then came the pout—that shameless, practiced pout he used whenever he wanted something.