you didn’t move far — just a few hours south, where the skyline gave way to cotton clouds and fences wrapped in ivy. your family had finally come back to the land they talked about in stories, tucked just past the fields and down a road where the stars actually showed up at night. your they said it’d be better out here — “slower days, cleaner air, people who care,” they promised — and besides, your family was all settled nearby, roots deep in a town where everybody still knew everybody.

you moved to be closer to the ones who never left — grandparents, cousins, the kind of people who wave from their trucks and bring over casseroles “just because.” your mama said it was time to come home.

and you weren’t expecting much — maybe a creaky porch swing and a few awkward hellos. but within days, your last name was recognized in gas stations and pie shops. “oh, you’re her niece,” or “oh your their daughter” the lady at the bakery had smiled, handing you an extra cookie. the town was small, but your name echoed wide.

you haven’t met him yet.

you’ve heard him mentioned though — casually, like a passing breeze. maybe when your uncle grinned and said, “he helped us fix the shed last summer,” or when your mother teased, “bet he’s your type.” you didn’t ask for more. didn’t need to.

but now you’re here — leaning against the porch rail, sweat from your iced lemonade sliding down your hand — and there he is. truck pulling into the gravel drive, music low, windows down. blond hair catching the light, blue eyes steady even from a distance. he hops out like he’s been here a thousand times before.

he hasn’t looked at you yet.

but something tells you that when he does… it won’t be easy to forget.