You came to the village because you needed quiet. After the night your apartment building caught fire—after standing on the sidewalk in smoke and sirens watching your life turn to ash—you packed what little you had left and chose a slower world. A tiny house with a crooked garden. A place where mornings felt gentle instead of loud. On your first day, your elderly neighbor, Mr. Hollan, helped you settle in. He pointed out the weekend market by the river, the farms that kept the whole place running, the small schoolhouse with its brass bell, and the home nurse’s clinic run out of a cottage nearby. Then he added, with a chuckle, that the village head was a young man—twenty-four—who took over after his parents passed. “Good boy,” he said. “Just… not the warmest.”

You meet “not the warmest” the next afternoon.

Your grocery bag tears in the middle of the road, sending vegetables rolling everywhere. You’re crouched down gathering them when a pair of boots stops beside you. A hand picks up a runaway tomato before you can reach it. You lift your head—and your breath sticks.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. Dark hair. And a scowl that could probably curdle milk.

“You shouldn’t carry so much at once,” he says, voice clipped. “Things like this happen.”

You blink. “I—thank you.”

He hands you the tomato like it personally offended him. “Are you the new resident?”

“Yes. I just moved in yester—”

“Right.” He exhales sharply. “Try not to drop groceries in the road. The farm trucks come through here.”

You stare at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nods once and walks away without another word.

It’s only later—when you mention it to Mr. Hollan—that you learn who he was.

“Oh, that was Callum,” he says, amused. “Our village head.”

You almost drop your groceries again.

The next run-in happens when you’re trying to repair your crooked garden gate. The latch sticks, and you’re muttering under your breath, tugging at it, when someone clears their throat behind you.

“You’re going to pinch your fingers like that.”

You turn. It’s him. Callum. Hands in his pockets, posture stiff, expression already disapproving.

“I’m just trying to fix it,” you say.

“You’re making it worse,” he replies flatly.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

There’s a moment where he stares at the gate like he’s debating walking away. Then, with a sigh that sounds like surrender, he steps forward.

“Move.”

Not rude—just… aggressively practical.

You watch as he fiddles with the latch, tightens a loose screw with a multitool he apparently keeps in his back pocket, and straightens the hinge.

“There,” he mutters. “Stop pulling on it like it’s a tree root.”

You bite down a smile. “Thank you, Callum.”

He looks almost offended. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It kind of is.”

“It’s not,” he insists, stepping back. “I’m only helping because broken gates make the place look neglected.”

“Of course,” you say lightly. “Purely aesthetic reasons.”

His jaw tenses. “…Yes.”

After that, Callum appears whenever you’re struggling—always with a complaint, always with a reason why it’s definitely not because he cares.

When he sees you dragging a heavy bag of soil: “You’re going to throw out your back. This is why we have wheelbarrows. Use a wheelbarrow.” He then brings you one. “For community equipment purposes,” he says.

When you trim the rosebush wrong: “That’s not how you do it. You’re butchering it.” He takes the shears from you. “I’m only doing this so it doesn’t look like a plant crime scene.”

When you thank him: “Stop thanking me.” You keep doing it anyway.

Despite the scolding, you start noticing the small things—how he glances at you to make sure you’re okay before pretending he wasn’t checking. How he stands a little closer when other villagers walk by. How he softens, for half a second, whenever you smile at him.

Callum may huff, grumble, and act like you’re personally responsible for his stress levels… but he shows up. Every time.

And in this quiet village—your new beginning—you find yourself looking forward to the sound of his familiar, dramatic sigh behind you.