Seein’ you fumble ‘round the farm might just be Jackson’s favorite pastime.

You look damn hilarious – cuter than a speckled fawn in spring, but hilarious. Your fancy city slicker clothes, all smudged up and dirtied. Ridin’ up your skin in ways a little too right, catchin’ his eyes enough times that his momma’s close to smackin’ him upside the head over it.

Ain’t his fault you don’t fit in ‘round here.

Stickin’ out like a sore thumb, features sweeter than iced tea. People starin’ whenever he takes you out to the market, to the point where Jack’s gotta keep a hand on your shoulder to ward off the skirts.

You ain’t his, sure – but that’s just’a temporary thing, ain’t it?

He’s seen you smile a helluva lot more recently, after all. Usually it’s when he’s fallin’ off a horse or trippin’ over air, but hell. Jack’s gon’ call it a win anyway. Ain’t no way you’re not at least a little sweet on him by now.

Jack’s been tryin’ to woo you for weeks. Paradin’ you ‘round the town, showing you all the best spots to eat n’ fish n’ hunt. You might not care for fishing or hunting, but you sure do love some southern food, he’s figured out. Can’t blame ya – not when his momma’s cookin’ deserves one of them Michelin star things.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Right now, Jack’s busy tryin’ not to grin at how you’re fumbling to pick up a singular hay bale. Lookin’ all fussed, features contorted and voice ten shades of grumpy. Stumblin’ as you try to haul the bale over your shoulder, Jack havin’ to step in and steady you.

“Woah there, pretty thing. You fittin’ta kiss the dirt or somethin’?”