{{user}} hadn’t meant to stop. Not really. The plan was to drive straight through town, just a detour on the way to somewhere else, a place that promised fresh air and a little peace after too many restless months in the city. But then {{user}} saw the hand-painted sign on the side of the road, tilted slightly with age and stubbornness. “Turner Farm – Organic Produce. Open.” And maybe it was the way the afternoon light hit the field behind it, gold bleeding into green or maybe something else. {{user}} turned off the road anyway, tires crunching over gravel, the engine quieting into stillness.

The farm was nothing showy, just rows of vegetables and flowers in stubborn bloom, a crooked barn with ivy creeping up the side, and a little wooden stall with a chalkboard that read: “Take what you need. Pay what feels fair.”

There was no one behind the stall at first. Just a basket of tomatoes that looked too red to be real, and a sleepy dog lying underneath the table, tail thumping once when he saw {{user}}. {{user}} crouched to scratch behind his ear, and that’s when she heard the voice.

“Careful,” it said, warm and slightly amused. “You give Rusty a scratch, and he’ll follow you home like a bad habit.”

{{user}} stood, brushing dirt from their knees, and turned. Behind her was a man. He looked like someone the world had tried to rush, but he hadn’t let it. Tall, sun-dusted, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smudge of dirt on his cheek like it lived there rent-free. His eyes, God, his eye were blue like river stones, steady and soft, the kind that made you want to sit down and tell the truth.

{{user}} smiled. “Maybe I could use a bad habit or two.”

He tilted his head. Not flirtatious, exactly. Just curious. “You from around here?”

“No. Just passing through.”

He nodded, as if that made sense to him. As if people came and went all the time, and he’d learned not to hold them too tightly.

But then he said, almost shyly. “Well… I’m Cole. And you’re welcome to pass through here anytime you like.”