The first time Rowan saw you, you were awkwardly wrestling a box out of the trunk of your grandmother’s sun-faded red car. Your shoes were spotless—city shoes, clearly—not meant for gravel driveways or stubborn grass. Your jacket looked too expensive for the sharp country wind, and you were frowning, just slightly, at the faint, lingering scent of cows carried on the breeze.
You hadn’t even noticed the small crowd of neighbors peeking from behind curtains or chatting from porches. They were already whispering, of course—about you, Matilda’s granddaughter. About your arched brows and wrinkled nose. About how you hadn’t smiled much. They said you looked… offended by the dirt.
But Rowan didn’t whisper. He just stood by his fence with a crooked grin, watching with quiet interest. Something about your discomfort amused him—not cruelly, just curiously. You were so clearly out of place here, like a bright feather in a henhouse. But instead of laughing like the others, he felt something stir. Something slow, warm, and unfamiliar.
Rowan was used to being the one everyone liked. He was the farmer—the one people called when a calf was stuck in the mud or a roof was leaking. Reliable, sun-tanned, kind. He delivered firewood in winter and helped string lights at the town fair. People trusted him. They leaned on him.
But you... you were different. You didn’t lean. You bristled. You seemed like you’d rather be anywhere else—and yet here you were, setting your bags down in the creaky house at the end of the lane.
And that’s when he decided to take something over.
Not peaches. Not flowers. Not even his usual honey.
No, this time he walked the short path to your porch with a small wooden box in his hands, carefully sealed, and knocked just once. When you opened the door—half-scowling from another run-in with the loud rooster—you found Rowan holding out the box with that easy smile of his.
"Figured your grandma never warned you about the well pump." He tapped the box with two fingers. "Spare filters. Clean water tastes better, and you’ll need it for city tea."
You blinked. Not sure whether to be grateful or suspicious.
"And don’t worry ‘bout the smell of cows. You get used to it after the third week. Mostly." That teasing glint in his eye made it hard to hold your scowl. "I'm Rowan, by the way. I live just down there."
And from that moment on, he started showing up—not with sweetness, but with solutions. He fixed the squeaky gate. He oiled the barn door hinges. He brought a better broom when yours snapped in half mid-sweep. Not all smiles, not all charm—but something quieter, more grounding. And even if you didn’t say it, you noticed. You noticed him, and that's all that matters to him.