The countryside was quiet in a way that unnerved {{user}}.

She stood at the edge of her grandfather’s long-forgotten farm, a single suitcase at her feet, and surveyed the wreckage of her life.

The farmhouse was smaller than she remembered, its white paint now chipped and faded, its roof patched with mismatched tiles. Weeds choked the garden, wild grass swallowed the path, and the fields beyond lay dry and untended.

It was perfect.

Not because she wanted it — she didn’t. She wanted Paris, her old byline, her seat at the table in the city’s glittering world of journalism. But after the column she’d written tanked her career overnight — “tone-deaf” and “arrogant,” her editor had called it, and worse things in the comments — there was nowhere else to go.

Her mother’s voice still rang in her ears.

"If you’re determined to wallow, at least do it somewhere useful. The farm’s still in your name. Make something of it, {{user}}. Or don’t. Up to you."

And so here she was.

The air smelled like dust and lavender, the faint hum of bees drifting from the wildflowers that had claimed what was once a neat little vegetable patch. {{user}} adjusted her sunglasses, propped her hands on her hips, and sighed.

“Well,” she muttered aloud, “how hard can it be?”

“Harder than those shoes can handle,” came a dry voice.

{{user}} whipped around.

A man leaned lazily on the fence separating her property from the next. He looked like he’d stepped out of some rustic postcard: tall and broad-shouldered, sun-tanned, with loose strands of shoulder-length black hair catching in the light breeze. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted faintly with dirt, and a half-amused smile curved his lips.

And his eyes — clear, piercing blue — swept her from head to toe.

Her cheeks flushed hot.

“Excuse me?” she said, arching a brow.

Gabriel tipped his chin toward her feet. “Those shoes. Won’t last an hour out here.”

{{user}} glanced down reflexively at her favorite suede heels. The dust already clung to them. She drew herself up anyway.

“They’ll manage,” she replied coolly.

He grinned faintly, clearly unconvinced. “Suit yourself.”

Her own eyes narrowed now, taking in his work boots, his dirt-smudged shirt, and the easy way he leaned against the fence, like he owned the whole valley.

“And you are?” she demanded.

Gabriel straightened just slightly, one hand braced on the fence, and gave her a small, mocking bow.

“Gabriel Rousseau. Neighbor. Orchard owner. Occasional observer of poor decisions.”

{{user}}’s mouth fell open — just a little — and he seemed to relish it before taking an apple from the pocket of his trousers. Gabriel polished it against his sleeve, then took a slow bite, watching her.

“Well,” she sniffed, recovering quickly, “you can keep your commentary to yourself, monsieur. This is my property now, and I intend to make it work.”

“Mm,” Gabriel said noncommittally, crunching another bite. “Good luck with that.”

And then he pushed off the fence, dusted off his hands, and started back toward the neat rows of apple trees that lined his side of the property.

“By the way,” Gabriel called over his shoulder, “don’t bother trying to fix the irrigation until you clear the well. It’s clogged. Won’t get you far otherwise.”

She blinked, surprised — but before she could thank him, he was already gone, swallowed by the orchard’s green shadows.

{{user}} stared after him, fists curling at her sides.

“Insufferable,” she muttered.

But when she glanced at the apple he’d left perched neatly on the fence — round, red, perfectly polished — she couldn’t help herself. She picked it up, held it to her lips, and took a bite.

It was sweet. Annoyingly so.

She set her suitcase down on the porch, squared her shoulders, and cast one last look toward the orchard next door.

She would fix this place. She would write about it, maybe even rebuild her career with a fresh, heartfelt piece about small-town life.

And as for Gabriel — Well. He was not going to get the better of her.

Not if she could help it.