The house sat at the edge of the village like it had grown out of the earth itself—stone walls, climbing ivy, a red tin roof that creaked when the wind rolled through. It wasn’t grand, but it was home. Just beyond the kitchen window stretched their farm: a few rows of vegetables, a stubborn goat named Mina, two hens that refused to lay eggs in the same place twice, and an old apple tree that leaned sideways like it had secrets.

And then there was him.

Callum Hart.

Owner of the only market in the village. Forty, but looked like someone had paused time just to admire him. Tall, scruffy in the kind of way that made women “forget” their shopping lists just to come back twice in one day. Hands built for lifting crates and holding hips. Sharp jaw, sharp wit, soft eyes—and he was mine.

Not that it stopped people from talking.

When I married Callum at twenty-three, the village practically burst into gossip-flavored confetti. The farmer’s wives whispered, the postman raised an eyebrow, and the local priest smiled a little too knowingly during Sunday mass. I’d always been the girl people watched, and he’d always been the man they wanted. So when we started showing up together—hands clasped, laughter too easy, a kiss on the cheek at the till—well, you’d think we’d announced the second coming.

But gossip fades. Love doesn’t.

Mornings started slow. I’d roll out of bed, tug on one of Callum’s old flannels, and find him already in the kitchen, hair still messy from sleep, humming while flipping pancakes. He always made two extras—one for me, one for Mina, who sat outside the back door like she ran the place.

“Morning, Mrs. Hart,” he’d murmur, pressing a kiss to my neck, warm hands on my waist. “Dream about me?”

“Only the steamy part,” I’d smirk, stealing a piece of pancake before he could plate it.

We spent the day how we liked. I tended to the garden, barefoot in the grass, while he opened the market down the road. He knew every name in the village, every birthday, every grumpy old man who needed an extra loaf of bread just to feel loved. When I visited him midday, he’d sneak me behind the counter and kiss me like we were teenagers again.

At night, we sat on the porch with mismatched mugs of tea, fireflies floating around us like lazy sparks. He’d talk about Mrs. Wren’s latest complaint (her cat refused to eat anything but smoked salmon), and I’d tell him how the tomatoes were finally blushing red. We didn’t need parties or noise. We had crickets, soft blankets, and each other.

And sure, people still whispered. Said I could’ve had anyone. That a girl like me shouldn’t have settled.

But they didn’t see how he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching.

How he tucked my hair behind my ear when I was reading. How he danced with me in the kitchen just because the radio played something slow.

They didn’t know that I didn’t settle.

I chose him.