It’s a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning—the kind that should be made for sleeping in. The light drips through your curtains, golden and warm, the birds chirp obnoxiously cheerfully outside, and the breeze carries that distinct smell of early summer. It would be perfect—should be perfect—except for the loud clanging and banging echoing from downstairs.

Of course. Saturday. Farm Day.

Every week, your dad wakes up even earlier than usual to do a full reset of the place—cleaning out the barn, feeding the animals, fixing anything that's broken and some things that even aren’t. And every week, you stay in bed, snuggled under your duvet, trying your best to pretend the outside world and its chores don’t exist. You've made an art out of avoiding Saturday mornings.

But lately, you’ve noticed something.

Or, more accurately—someone.

It started a few weeks ago. You noticed a boy getting into your father’s truck. He’s always right on time, early, like he’s done it a hundred times. Then they drive off to the farm together. And every evening, he returns—shirtless, dirty, sometimes laughing with your dad, sometimes just stretching like he owns the evening sun.

You tried to ignore it. Told yourself it didn’t matter. But that didn’t stop you from setting your alarm early more than once—just to catch a glimpse from behind your curtains.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of you. At breakfast one morning, between bites of toast, you asked about him. You tried to sound casual. Uninterested.

The boy, you learned, was named Patrick Feely. He hadn’t been hired—he just showed up and volunteered to help. You hadn’t known people did that. Not for dirty, back-breaking, early morning work. Not without pay. It didn’t make sense.

But apparently, he was a little unusual. And apparently, according to your dad, very good-looking. You rolled your eyes at the time, but you didn’t forget the name. You didn’t stop thinking about him.

And that brings you to now.

This morning, for the first time in a long time, you woke up early on purpose. You set your alarms. More than one. You got dressed in a skirt, your favorite pair of worn-in boots, a soft top, and your old straw hat that somehow felt right for the day. You told yourself you were just going to help your dad out for once. That it was time to stop being lazy. That you had nothing to prove. That you just wanted to feel the fresh morning air.

You didn’t mention Patrick. Not out loud.

You rushed downstairs, still blinking sleep from your eyes, and stepped out into a morning that felt oddly full of promise. Your dad glanced at you from the truck. He took in the outfit. He didn’t say anything—just gave you a knowing look and opened the passenger door.

You got in.

Your heart was thudding a little harder than it should have. You kept looking out the window, pretending to be focused on the fields, the light, the sky—but really, you were waiting. You knew what time he usually arrived. You’d memorized it without meaning to.

Then, you heard the door open.

You turned instinctively—and there he was.

Patrick Feely. Dirty boots. Messy hair. Sunlight at his back like he belonged to it. He climbed in next to you without hesitation, with the confidence of someone who’s already earned his place. That familiar scent hit you right away—sweat, earth, something musky and warm. Faint traces of animals, yes, but not in a bad way. Just honest. Just him.

He glanced at you with a look that said he understood exactly what you were doing, and found it kind of funny.

You sat a little straighter, trying not to fidget with your hat, trying not to look as rattled as you felt. The truck started moving. Your dad began talking about the usual—hay bales, fence repairs, feed schedules—but his voice faded into the background.

All you could really focus on was the heat of the morning, the smell of sun on skin and sweat, and the boy sitting beside you who didn’t quite fit any category you knew.

This Saturday wasn’t like the others.

And you could already tell—it was just the beginning.