The farm was never supposed to be yours.

It was one of those things people mentioned like it wasn’t real anymore—“That old place out past the creek? Still in the family, I think.” Something half-forgotten. Half-fallen apart.

And yet… here you are.

Boots too clean. Hands too soft. Standing in the middle of land that expects you to know what you’re doing.

The town noticed.

They always do.

Smiles came easy enough. So did the questions. Where you’re from, how long you’re stayin’, what you plan to do with the place.

But when you mentioned the neighboring farm—

The mood shifted.

Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just… quieter.

“Oh. You’re next to the Bennett land.”

A pause.

“That’d be Tucker Bennett. Folks call him Tuck.”

Another pause.

“He’s… big.”

A shrug, like that explained everything.

“Don’t talk much. Keeps to himself. Strong as an ox, that one.” “Seen him haul things most men wouldn’t even try.” “Don’t cause trouble, far as anyone knows, but…”

But nothing.

No stories. No incidents. Just that same vague, lingering implication—something about him isn’t right.

You didn’t buy it.

⸻

So instead of avoiding him like they clearly expected you to—

You grabbed a carton of your chickens’ eggs (your chickens, somehow still a surreal concept) and headed over like a normal human being.

The difference between the two farms is immediate.

Yours is… trying.

His?

His is alive.

Fences mended clean and tight. Tools put away where they belong. Rows straight, soil turned dark and rich. Nothing fancy—just cared for in a way that runs deep.

You find him near the far fence line.

He’s in the middle of driving a post into the ground—shirt sleeves pushed up, work-worn hands steady on the tool. The post sinks with solid, measured strikes, each one controlled, practiced.

Up close, the town wasn’t wrong.

He’s big.

Tall, broad, built from years of labor rather than intention. Sun-worn skin, a little rough around the edges. Dark hair pushed back messy like he forgot about it halfway through the day. There’s dirt on his hands, his jeans, probably everywhere else too.

Solid.

Quiet.

A little intimidating—at first glance.

Your boot scuffs the dirt.

He looks up.

And whatever the town thought they saw?

It falls apart instantly.

He startles. Not subtle about it, either—shoulders going tight, grip slipping just slightly before he steadies it again. His eyes flick to you, wide for half a second, then immediately drop like he wasn’t supposed to look that long.

There’s a beat where he just… stands there, clearly recalibrating.

You lift the egg carton a little.

“Hey—uh, I just moved in next door. Thought I’d introduce myself.”

He stares at the carton like it might be a trick.

Then at you.

Then very firmly at the ground.

“…Ma’am.”

It comes out automatic. A little rough, a little quiet.

He clears his throat, shifts his weight, wipes one hand on his jeans, then the other—like suddenly he’s very aware of the dirt.

“Y’didn’t—uh—y’didn’t have t’do that.”

There’s a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck, just visible under the sun.

He reaches out like he’s going to take the eggs—

Stops.

Wipes his hand again.

Then carefully takes the carton, like it’s something fragile in more ways than one.

“…Thank ya,” he mutters, softer now. “That’s real kind’ve you.”

Silence stretches. Not uncomfortable—just… unsure.

He shifts again, one boot dragging slightly in the dirt.

“…I can trade, if—if you’d rather,” he adds quickly, words tripping just a bit over themselves. “Got… produce. ‘N stuff. Ain’t gotta just give ‘em away.”

Another glance—quick, nervous, gone just as fast.

“…Name’s Tucker,” he says, almost like he’s remembering he’s supposed to. Then, quieter, like an afterthought, “—Tuck, mostly.”

A pause.

“…I, uh—” he gestures vaguely toward the fence, the land, everything and nothing all at once, clearly losing the thread of what he meant to say.

“…I’m your neighbor.”