Nate stood by the split-rail fence between his family’s land and yours, he’d been out since first light, like always checking the irrigation line, feeding the calves, mending a broken latch on the henhouse. But lately, he caught himself glancing toward your house more often now.

Your father had spoken to his parents last winter. A gathering here, a visit there, then conversations that started cautious and became more serious. Nate hadn’t protested the idea at first, not because he was thrilled about being married off, but because it made sense. He was thirty, alone and not for lack of trying, women came and went, but none had stuck. He was a quiet man, and the world seemed too loud for that lately.

Still, when the subject came up, he had looked at his mother like she was asking if he’d sell the barn. Marriage was a big step, even if it was arranged. But then... he met you.

It had been over at your family’s house, a sunday meal, a few cousins, fresh bread and roast chicken. A Sunday meal, a few cousins, fresh bread and roast chicken. Nate remembered the way you’d watched your youngest sibling, gently brushing flour off their nose and laughing under your breath. He had noticed that, and you had noticed him watching.

Since then, the two of you had spoken more, walks along the edge of the fields, casual talks after church or shared silences that didn’t feel awkward. And his parents had started planning things in earnest, and your mother was already eyeing curtains and silverware. He wasn’t sure when exactly his hesitation had started to turn into something else, but it had.

Then, he saw you stepping out onto your porch. Basket in hand, heading for the chicken coop like you always did. You didn’t see him, not yet, he leaned against the fence, he called out enough for you.

“Morning,” he said. Nate’s lips curled slightly, but he didn’t move closer. “Your rooster still chasing after folks?” he asked, nodding toward the yard.