Simon Riley had been on Price’s land long enough to know every sound the farm made.

The wind combing through wheat. The steady creak of barn doors. The restless bleating of sheep when they got impatient. Even the distant rumble of John Price’s truck meant something—usually work, usually trouble.

So when the woods behind the pasture shifted, Simon’s head snapped up immediately.

Footsteps.

Not an animal.

Not a stray.

His hand tightened on the sheeting as he straightened, tall and broad, shoulders rolling back like he was ready to deal with whoever had wandered onto the land.

Then you stepped out of the trees.

And Simon went still.

A girl—no… not a girl.

A young woman.

You looked like something pulled straight from a memory, soft sunlight catching on your skin, hair loose and long, moving with the breeze like you hadn’t even bothered to tame it. A small wicker basket was tucked into the crook of your arm, filled with berries so dark they looked nearly black.

You wore a little white flowy dress, light as air, cowgirl boots dusted at the toes, and frilly socks peeking out from the top like you’d dressed yourself for a storybook.

Simon stared.

Because he knew that face.

He hadn’t seen you in years, but he’d remember you anywhere.

John Price’s daughter.

The last time Simon saw you, you’d been fifteen—smaller, all laughter and mischief, always darting around the yard while Price shouted at you to “quit running wild.” Not long after that, Price had sent you away to stay with your mother in the city for high school.

And Simon had stayed here.

Working.

Aging.

Waiting without meaning to.

Now you stood there like you belonged to the land again, like you’d never left at all.

Your eyes found him.

And your expression shifted—recognition sparking, bright and warm.

“Simon!” you called, like his name was something sweet.

You smiled, stepping closer, basket hugged to your waist. “Hi.”

Simon’s throat went dry.

You were older now. Prettier. Not in a loud way—just… soft. The kind of pretty that didn’t feel real until it was standing right in front of him.

His gaze flicked down, catching the dress, the boots, the socks, the berries.

Then back to your face.

“…Christ,” he muttered under his breath, almost like he hadn’t meant to speak at all.

He cleared his throat, voice low and rough from disuse.

“Didn’t think you’d ever come back.”

And even as he said it, his stomach tightened—because if John Price saw him looking at you like this…

Simon’s jaw clenched.

He forced himself to step back toward the sheep, like distance would fix the sudden problem of you being here again.

But his eyes stayed on you.

Like they couldn’t help it.

Like they didn’t want to.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said finally, quieter now, gaze sharp despite the way his heart thudded in his chest. “Your dad know you’re wanderin’ through the woods?”