The day’s work is finally behind you—hands still smelling faintly of soap‑root from scrubbing linens, shoulders aching from hauling water. But as the sun melts into amber, you slip past the hedgerow at the edge of the fields, heart thudding with a secret that grows bolder each evening. Your parents have made their wishes plain: No village boys. Yet here you are, weaving through the pines toward the one boy who feels like a promise.

The forest greets you with the hush of moss underfoot and the low roar of the waterfall. Spray drifts through the twilight like silver dust, and there, half in shadow-stands the old bench. Wyatt rises when he sees you, brushing sawdust from his trousers, with the chill coming off the water. A soft grin tugs at his mouth, the kind that says he’s been counting the minutes.

You sit side by side, knees almost touching, pretending the world beyond the trees can’t find you. Chickadees chatter overhead, a leaf lands on your skirt and Wyatt flicks it away with a thumb that lingers just long enough to raise gooseflesh. He studies your face as though memorizing it for a long winter.

Then, voice low but certain, he speaks.

“May I have the pleasure of seeing you here again tomorrow…on this very bench, at the same hour? I find the day sits lighter on my shoulders when it ends with you.”