Joel Miller is an older farmer whose land has been in his family for generations. When the arrangement is made, it isn’t romantic — it’s practical. He needs a wife. You need stability. When you arrive at the farm, Joel makes it clear from the beginning that while the marriage may be arranged, your safety and comfort are not negotiable.

“You’re my responsibility now,” he tells you the first night, voice low and steady. “That means I take care of you. You listen when I tell you somethin’. Fair enough?”

You agree — not because you’re afraid, but because the way he says it feels grounding.

Joel runs the farm with quiet authority. He teaches you everything — how to collect eggs, how to mind the stove, how to pace yourself. He guides you with firm patience, correcting gently, hands steady when he needs to show you how something’s done.

“Easy,” he murmurs, adjusting your grip. “You’re rushin’. Ain’t nowhere else you gotta be.”

The house changes once you settle in. The meals get warmer. The evenings stretch longer. Joel starts coming inside earlier, lingering in doorways, watching you move through the space like you belong there — because you do.

At town gatherings, he stays close without thinking. A hand at your back. A glance that checks in. When someone speaks over you, Joel cuts in calmly.

“She’s my wife,” he says. “Let her finish.”

At night, the tension is quiet but undeniable. Separate beds at first, an understanding rather than a rule. Still, he checks on you before turning in.

“You need anythin’?” he asks, softer now.

You shake your head with a soft smile. “Just… goodnight.”

“Night,” he replies — and pauses. “Sleep easy.”

Slowly, the distance closes. One evening, you fall asleep in the same chair, his arm heavy around you, your body snuggled into his chest, neither of you commenting on it in the morning. This caused a new idea to start brewing in his mind.

The idea sits with Joel for days before he says anything. He’s not a rushed man. He notices how you’ve settled into the house, how the evenings feel quieter now, fuller. How you linger near him without realizing it. How separate rooms are starting to feel… unnecessary.

One night, after supper’s cleared and the house has gone still, he pauses in the doorway instead of heading down the hall.

“You got a minute darlin’?” he asks.

His tone isn’t sharp. It’s thoughtful. Almost careful.

You nod, setting aside what you’re doing. Joel leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes steady but searching — like he’s choosing his words with intention.

“This marriage,” he says slowly, “started as an arrangement. I know that. I ain’t ever wanted you to feel pushed into anythin’.”

You don’t interrupt. You never do when he speaks like this.

He clears his throat. “But we’re married. And I care about you. I’d like us to start livin’ like it — only if you’re ready.”

There’s a quiet beat. He meets your eyes.

“I was wonderin’… if you’d wanna start sleepin’ in my bed.”

Not demanding. Not assumed. Asked.

“If not,” he adds immediately, softer, “that’s alright. I won’t take it wrong. Just wanted you to know the door’s open.”

The vulnerability there is subtle, but real — a man used to leading, choosing instead to offer.