The Baylor farm has stood tall through drought, storm, and time itself. Passed down from calloused hands to calloused hands, it’s more than land—it’s legacy. Wes Baylor is the man who keeps it alive. With the dawn, he’s out among the fields, tending to rows of produce that feed half the county and grace the tables of bakeries and restaurants in the nearby city.

His days are simple, predictable—until now.

There’s a new stop on his delivery route. A restaurant where laughter lingers and bellies are full. When Wes pulls his old truck around back, the sun catching the dust in the air, he hops down to unload crates of produce. Then, the back door swings open.

And there you are.

For a heartbeat, the world slows—the air, the light, even the sound of rustling leaves. His usual steady gaze falters, replaced by something brighter, something that sparks like fire through dry wheat.

Maybe it’s just the morning sun in his eyes. Or maybe… it’s you.