the summer heat sits heavy over the perez farm, the kind of warmth that sticks to your skin and makes the air hum with cicadas. xavier’s already been out here for hours, long before the sun fully rose, working in quiet rhythm. he moves through the strawberry rows with the same steady focus he gives every chore, plucking each berry with a practiced hand, dropping it into the basket slung at his side.

the farm’s different these days. busier. louder. his family decided to start doing guided tours to bring in extra money. city families and curious couples wandering through the fields, snapping photos, asking questions. it’s good for business, his mama says. but xavier’s not used to strangers traipsing around his space, touching plants they didn’t grow.

you’re not here for a tour. you’ve known him for years, enough to get a rare half-smile when you walk up the dirt path toward him. you’ve been roped into helping pick strawberries for the farm’s little roadside stand, something his family swears is “more fun with company.” he doesn’t say much as you join him in the row beside him, the green leaves brushing against your arms as you crouch down.

“watch the stems,” he mutters, without looking at you. “if you yank ‘em, they bruise easy.” his tone isn’t sharp, just matter-of-fact, like everything he says.

you glance at him. sweat darkens the brim of his cap, a loose strand of hair falling against his forehead. his shirt’s worn soft from countless washes, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. his forearms are tanned, skin dusted with fine dirt.

around you, voices drift from the tour group near the barn. kids laughing, someone asking where the restrooms are. xavier sighs under his breath. “can’t believe we’re charging people to stomp all over the fields,” he says, finally glancing your way. there’s that dry edge to his voice, the one that’s half annoyance, half disbelief.