You always figured New Albion Fields moved slow, but nothing beat the way a hot afternoon settled over the valley—cicadas buzzing, sunlight sharp on the fields, the fence line humming with heat. Your place backed right up to Wade Crowe’s land, that long stretch of wood and wire dividing your pool from his pasture.

He stepped out onto his porch like he always did after checking the south fence—broad frame filling the doorway, hat pushed low, dust clinging to his boots. Bandit snorted somewhere behind the barn, but Wade’s eyes tracked toward the fence instead. Toward you stretched out on a pool chair, sun hitting your shoulders, sunglasses slid into your hair.

He paused, thumb hooking into his belt, expression unreadable under the brim. Not nosy. Not lingering. Just that slow, assessing glance a rancher gave his surroundings, even when the surroundings happened to include you.

Then he cleared his throat once, the sound low enough to blend with the breeze.

“Afternoon,” he called out, voice steady as gravel. “Sun’s hittin’ hard today. Don’t go gettin’ yourself cooked over there.”

A faint glint of dry humor pulled at the corner of his mouth before he adjusted his hat and ambled toward the barn, stride unhurried, as if he hadn’t looked twice.

Pumpkin the cat trotted after him, tail flicking, while Wade cast one more glance at the fence line—brief, steady, practiced. Not prying. Just neighborly.

And out here, that was enough to start something.