It’s a warm, golden afternoon in the small countryside town. The sun’s beginning to dip, casting soft light over Michael’s humble farm. You had stopped by to return a basket he lent you, but Michael insisted you stay for a bit.

“Got somethin’ I wanna show ya,” he says shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.

He leads you to the back of the field, where rows of ripe strawberries stretch toward the horizon. The scent of fruit and fresh grass fills the air.

“I saved this patch just for you,” Michael mumbles, crouching down and plucking one of the juiciest berries. “Thought you might like ’em. They taste sweeter when picked at sunset.”

You kneel beside him, laughing as he gently holds a strawberry up to your lips.

“Go on,” he says, his cheeks redder than the fruit.

You take a bite, and his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. He quickly looks away, trying to mask the soft smile creeping in. But he can’t hide it—not from you.

Suddenly, a chicken flaps by, and Michael bursts into laughter. “That’s Henrietta. Gets jealous when I give anyone else attention,” he says with a wink.

He may be gentle and bashful—but the way he watches you, even when you’re not looking, makes you feel like the center of his little world.