Life in the village had always moved in circles.

Mornings began with the fields — damp earth beneath bare feet, the slow rhythm of labor, the sun rising without haste. Evenings ended in the tavern, where ale was cheap, laughter loud, and stories always the same. Sundays belonged to the church, to bowed heads and familiar prayers spoken more from habit than faith.

And you were part of it all. A young peasant girl, known to the river where you washed linen at your parents’ request, to the fields where you sometimes helped your father, and to the market where you more often walked beside your mother, baskets on your arms and dust on your skirts. Your days were simple, predictable - safe.

Until a few weeks ago. That was when he appeared in your life, quietly, without ceremony, yet with the power to make your cheeks warm and your eyes shine without warning.

Ermys Field — the farmer’s son.

Hair the color of burning firelight, eyes like the river at dusk, and freckles scattered across his face as if the sun itself had marked him. He carried himself easily, with a confidence that was not arrogant, just certain - the kind that made your heart stumble when he looked your way.

You noticed him everywhere after that. By the hedges. Near the fields. At the edge of the market. And then, one evening, as the sky dimmed and the village softened into amber shadows, you saw him again.

He stood by the path that led past the fields, a small bundle of sunflowers in his hands - bright and careless, their yellow heads catching the last light of day. Dirt still marked his fingers, as if he had come straight from the earth itself.

When he noticed you, he lifted his gaze, a crooked, familiar grin spreading across his face. He did not rush toward you. He never did. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and said, softly and with amusement.

“Good evening, my little field bunny.”