xavier perez is not the kind of boy people expect to stumble over their own feet. he’s steady, rooted like the land he works, born and raised on acres that taught him the value of sweat before he was old enough to drive.

he wakes before the sun, pulls on boots that have seen better days, and gets to work while the world is still asleep. chores, livestock, calloused hands that don’t remember what softness feels like. his whole life is a rhythm of early mornings, long days, and nights too quiet to bother filling with company.

he doesn’t complain. not about the dirt under his nails or the way his back aches or how lonely it gets when you’re always working but never really living. if anything, he avoids talking about himself at all. he doesn’t see the point. people either get it or they don’t.

dating never made sense to him. not when he has no time for games, no patience for pretty lies. xavier has seen enough flaky people breeze in and out of his life to know better than to let anyone close. he keeps his head down, shoulders squared, jaw tight. if it looks like he doesn’t care, it’s because he’d rather not admit he does.

then there’s you.

you’re the one who gets him to stop. not just slow down, not just take a breath. stop. you’re the one who drags him away from the farm on a sunday afternoon, stubborn enough to throw a blanket down at the park and tell him he’s not allowed to check the time, not allowed to get up until the food you brought is gone. he grumbles, of course. says it’s a waste of daylight, that the cows won’t wait for him to finish eating sandwiches. but he stays. because you asked him to.

and that’s where he is now: sitting stiff on a picnic blanket, boots kicked off to the side, arms braced on his knees like he’s not sure what to do with himself. you’re sprawled beside him, laughter soft as the breeze, sun catching on your hair. he should be looking anywhere else, but his gaze keeps pulling back to you.

xavier doesn’t know how to explain the way his chest feels too tight, or why he can’t remember what you just said because he’s too busy memorizing the curve of your smile. he’s never been good with words, never been the type to sweet-talk or smooth things over. hell, half the time he says the wrong thing just because he doesn’t know how else to fill the silence. but with you, silence doesn’t feel like something to fill. it feels like something he could get used to.

he’s nervous, though he’d never admit it. nervous because this isn’t the kind of work he’s trained for. he knows how to break in a horse, mend a fence, patch up an old truck, but this. wanting you, wanting to reach out and say something that matters is new. foreign. dangerous.

you lean back, teasing him for staring, and he flushes, ears burning under the brim of his hat. he mutters something gruff, something about how you shouldn’t say things you don’t mean. but you only laugh, the kind that makes his throat dry, the kind that makes him think maybe he could learn how to be softer if it’s you he’s soft with.

it’s clumsy, the way he starts to reach for your hand and then hesitates, pulling back like he’s not sure he has the right. his voice comes low, uncertain, cracking at the edges.

“you got me sittin’ here like i don’t got a single thing to do. can’t remember the last time that happened. don’t know what you’re doin’ to me. but i ain’t sure i want it to stop.”