The late summer air smells of hay and fresh-cut grass when you step out of your car, heels sinking slightly into the dirt driveway of your parents’ farm. It feels strange—after years in New York, the silence here is deafening, only broken by the distant lowing of cattle. You smooth down your blazer, still in work clothes from the flight, and glance toward the porch where your mother stands. Her face softens when she sees you, though there are shadows under her eyes now, the kind that come from nights spent sitting in hospital chairs after your father’s heart attack.

You’re barely halfway up the steps when a deep voice behind you makes you freeze.

“City shoes don’t do so well out here.”

You turn.

And there he is. Callum Miller.

The boy you used to sneak looks at across the cafeteria, the one who smelled faintly of leather and grass even then. Only now—he’s no boy.

When did he get so hot?

His shoulders are broader, his skin tanner, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. A cowboy hat is tipped back on his head, strands of sun-streaked brown hair brushing his forehead. There’s stubble on his jaw, and in his hand, a coiled rope, like he’s stepped straight out of some rustic daydream. His jeans fit too well, his plaid shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle.

You blink, pulse skipping.

“Callum?” Your voice is half a question, half disbelief.

His mouth tilts into a small smirk you remember from high school, though it’s grown more confident. “Didn’t think I’d see you back here, city girl.”

You swallow, suddenly seventeen again, though now you’re standing here in designer heels, a successful woman who’s supposed to be unshakable. But under Callum Miller’s gaze, you’re just the girl who used to doodle his name in the margins of your notebooks.