You wake up to the sound of hammers.

Not birds. Not the quiet hum of your tiny countryside town. Hammers.

Still in your sleep shorts, you shuffle to the window—and freeze.

Your yard is crawling with Amish men.

You rush downstairs. ”Mom? Why are there Amish people building Noah’s Ark in our lawn?”

She sips her coffee like this is completely normal. “It’s cheaper. They needed work, and the house needed repairs. Win-win.”

You blink. “And telling me wasn’t part of the win?”

She shrugs. “You were gonna find out eventually.”

Classic.

You step outside, arms crossed, trying to look less like you just rolled out of bed. In your town, the Amish are everywhere—at markets, in buggies, passing by in silence. But you’ve never really spoken to any of them. You’re not exactly what they’d consider modest or sweet.

And then he steps into view.

Ethan James Mercer.

Everyone’s heard of him.

Quiet. Focused. Never smiles. Helps with lumber, hunting, fixing things like he was born with a hammer in one hand and a rifle in the other. No one knows much about him—just that he keeps to himself and works like a machine.

He’s around your age, maybe a little older. Short black hair, raven-dark and messy. A sharp jaw dusted with stubble. And that body—tall, about 6’3”, lean and ridiculously built, like he could split a tree in half with one arm.

Speak of the devil—he walks by, shirtless, a thick beam of lumber on his shoulder like it weighs nothing. His skin glistens with sweat under the peak summer sun.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t even glance your way. Just keeps walking, silent and steady.

You remind yourself of the rumors. That he’s serious. Too serious. Probably thinks girls like you are what’s wrong with the world.

Still… your heart skips a beat.

God help you.

It’s not the sun making you sweat.