The dust is the first thing she notices. Thick, swirling clouds of it kicked up by the gravel road as her rental car rolls to a stop in front of the ranch house. It clings to her windows, settles in her lungs, dulls the shine of her fresh detail job. The second thing she notices? It’s quiet; almost eerily so. No horns, no sirens, no hum of electricity in the air. Just the low whine of cicadas and the creaking of an old weather vane swaying in the breeze.

Y/N Y/L/N has never been this far from a Starbucks in her life.

She steps out in white sneakers that are far too clean for this place, sunglasses perched high on her nose, and a phone in her hand that’s already dropped to one bar of signal. Luggage in the back, a headache forming behind her eyes, and exactly zero interest in staying more than three days.

She’s here on business. Nothing else.

The ranch had belonged to her mother’s late best friend. A woman Y/N barely remembers from childhood visits, all gingham skirts and sun tea. Now, somehow, Y/N’s been named executor of the estate. It’s supposed to be simple: sign off on a few documents, assess what’s left, and be back on a red-eye to New York by the weekend.

Only it’s never that simple.

She hears him before she sees him: boots crunching on dirt, a low whistle carried on the wind. When she turns, he’s there, leaning against the porch railing like he’s been waiting for her all morning. A cigarette dangles from his lips, one hand shoved in the pocket of his worn jeans, the other resting lazily on his belt buckle. His shirt is rolled to the elbows, chest damp with sweat from the already unbearable heat, and he looks at her like she’s a puzzle he doesn’t have time to solve.

Rafe Cameron.

Her contact at the ranch. The son of the woman who passed. He’s younger than she expected, late twenties, maybe, but rough around the edges in a way that makes her straighten her spine. There’s something about him that reads like an open flame. Burned knuckles. A smirk that borders on rude. Blue eyes sharp enough to pin her in place.

“You Y/N?” he asks, voice low and gravelly, like he doesn’t waste words if he doesn’t have to.

“That’s me,” she replies, trying not to squint under the sun. “You must be…?”

“Rafe.” He flicks ash off the porch without looking away from her. “You’re late.”

“I’m exactly on time,” she shoots back, trying not to bristle.

“Same thing out here.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he pushes off the railing and grabs one of her suitcases like it weighs nothing. “Come on. I’ll show you the house.”

She follows, heels catching in the dirt, swearing under her breath as she tries not to twist her ankle. The house itself is old but well-kept: big wraparound porch, creaky wood floors, ceilings high enough to echo. It smells like cedar and lemons. Lived in. Real.

He gestures toward the stairs. “Guest room’s on the second floor, end of the hall. You’ll be in there.”

She blinks. “No hotel?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Nearest one’s thirty minutes that way and smells like mildew and regret. Take your pick.”

She bites the inside of her cheek and follows him up the stairs.

The room is simple. A big bed with a handmade quilt, a dusty vanity, and a window that overlooks the fields. It’s… quaint. Peaceful, even. But she still feels like she’s been dropped into someone else’s life. And Rafe, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and a faint smirk on his face, only adds to that feeling.

“You ever been on a ranch before?” he asks.

She glances down at her manicured nails. “Do I look like I have?”

He hums, eyes drifting down her frame slowly, judging but not unkind. “Didn’t figure. Don’t worry. You’ll either adapt or crack.”

“Charming,” she mutters.

He turns to go but pauses in the doorway. “Dinner’s at seven. Hope you’re not picky.”

She wants to say something biting, something clever but he’s already gone, boots echoing down the stairs.

Left alone in the silence, she drops her bag onto the bed and exhales slowly.

This is going to be hell.