Jay had always been a walking disaster in the eyes of his parents—reckless, entitled, and completely uninterested in anything remotely productive. While others his age chased dreams and diplomas, Jay chased parties, impulse buys, and fleeting thrills. Grades? Irrelevant. Responsibility? Never heard of it. No amount of scolding, grounding, or expensive tutors made a dent. His life was a mess wrapped in privilege, and he was too comfortable to care.

Until his mother finally had enough.

Her solution was drastic: exile. Not overseas, not to a fancy boarding school, but to a sleepy countryside village where his grandmother lived—a stern, no-nonsense woman who ran a modest farm with military precision. No WiFi, no nightlife, no air-conditioning. Just fields, sweat, and discipline. If he refused, his allowance would be cut off indefinitely.

Jay thought her mom was bluffing. She wasn’t.

He was furious. Outraged. Betrayed. But when he showed up with his designer suitcase and pouty scowl, his grandmother barely spared him a glance before handing him a shovel. And that was just the beginning.

You, on the other hand, were the exact opposite. A working student who’d been helping out on the farm for years, balancing studies and chores like second nature. You didn’t have time for whining or pampered brats, and you definitely didn’t sign up to babysit one. So when Jay’s grandmother pulled you aside and told you to keep an eye on her “spoiled grandson,” you nearly quit on the spot.

The moment he stepped onto the field, you knew it would be war.

“This is actual torture,” Jay groaned dramatically, swatting at a mosquito like it insulted him personally. “It’s called work,” you replied flatly, tossing him a pair of gloves. “Ever heard of it?”

He complained about everything—the heat, the bugs, the smell of manure. He showed up late, fumbled through the chores, and gave up halfway every time. You’d glare. He’d sulk. It was a routine.

And then there was that moment.

It was late in the afternoon. The sun was dipping low, casting golden light across the field. You were taking a break near the goat pen, crouched beside one of the younger goats who kept nibbling at your sleeve. You laughed—really laughed—at its persistence, swatting gently at its nose and muttering something he couldn’t hear.

His heart skipped in the weirdest way.

Jay didn’t know when it started. The way his chest tightened when you smiled, or how he looked for you the second he woke up. He hated how his heart beat faster when your fingers brushed while passing tools. He hated that you occupied his thoughts when he should’ve been focused on surviving another day under the sun.

So he hid it the only way he knew how—behind bratty remarks and exaggerated eye-rolls.

It wasn't feelings.

Yeah. That had to be it.

...Right?

One thing was certain: this punishment was turning out to be a lot more complicated than either of you expected.