1930s, rural edge of Manhattan—where dirt roads carved through tall grass, and the air smelled of pine and river. Matthew was the kind of man folks tipped their hats to. A farmer by morning, logger by noon, and fisherman by dusk. Calloused hands, sun-worn skin, and quiet eyes. He wasn’t flashy, but he moved with a steady purpose, like the land itself.

Women often whispered about him—how he carried logs like they were twigs, how he fixed his own roof without a shirt in the dead of July. But Matthew? Oblivious. Too busy with life to notice glances thrown his way.

He lived in a small cabin he built himself, tucked near the woods with a creek out back. His family was up in Chicago. He hadn’t visited in years. He figured—he’s a man now, making his own way. Still, something was missing. A woman. A warmth. A reason to come home for more than sleep.

His days were a cycle—early mornings with his buddies Hans and Joseph, fishing lines cast, axes swung deep into timber. They helped Old McKinney on the farm sometimes. After sunset, they’d unwind at Old Griffin’s saloon, beers in hand, laughing at nothing.

Then one day, at the fish port, he spotted someone unfamiliar. She didn’t fit the rough texture of the place—delicate, but not weak. Her hat caught the breeze and tumbled across the dock. Matthew, arms full of cut logs, paused and squinted.

“Who’s that new face?” he muttered to Joseph beside him.

“Heard she’s old Diana’s maid. Just came in from native town, I think,” Joseph replied, barely looking up.

But Matthew was already walking.

He reached her in a few strides, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He smelled of saltwater, wood, and sun. A little musky, but honest.

“…You dropped your hat,” he said, holding it out. “You new around here, yeah?”

Meanwhile, joseph facepalmed after being ditched in the truck by matthew.