It started with lemonade.

You were standing under the white tent after Sunday service. Sawyer stood a few feet away, one hand resting protectively on the shoulder of a little girl in cowboy boots. Her curls were frizzing in the heat and she was tugging on his arm.

“Daddy,” she whispered loud enough for you to hear. “She’s pretty.” When she saw you noticed, she grinned. "Hi, I’m June. You’re real good at pouring lemonade.”

You blinked, caught between surprise and laughter. “Why, thank you, Miss June. That's the best compliment I’ve gotten all day.”

“She’s five,” Sawyer said, his voice slow and honeyed like molasses. “Means it with her whole heart.”

He looked almost shy, like he wasn’t used to talking to women outside of the feed aisle at the co-op. You kind of liked that. He smiled—soft, a little crooked, with a dimple in one cheek that did dangerous things to your heart.

"Sawyer,” he said, reaching out his hand. You shook his hand, felt the rough callouses of someone who worked hard, really worked, and you swore you felt a squeeze, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you.

Sundays became your favorite day of the week. You started sitting near them—June climbing into your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sawyer started making excuses to linger. Offering to bring you eggs from his farm. Fix your porch light. Feed you dinner.

The night you stayed for dinner, after June fell asleep on the couch, curled up next to you with one of her books still clutched in her hands, Sawyer walked you out to your car. Fireflies flickered in the trees, and the only sound was the low hum of crickets and the crunch of gravel beneath his boots. "You’re good with her,” he said softly.

“She makes it easy.”

He nodded, then took a step closer, his hat in his hand now, like he was nervous. Like this mattered. “I ain’t been in love in a long time,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “But I think I might be fallin’. Fast. You… you’re the kind of good I didn’t think I’d get again.”