His POV

I noticed her before I heard her.

People from the city always arrive like that—quiet, careful, like they’re afraid the place might stain them if they move too fast.

I was in the yard, washing one of the cows. Morning heat already settling in, dust sticking to my skin, hose water splashing back onto my boots. Same work I’d done my whole life. Nothing worth filming.

Then I felt eyes on me.

I looked up and saw her by the fence, phone raised, camera pointed in my direction. She wasn’t talking yet. Just recording. Watching.

She stood wrong. Too clean. Clothes too neat for a place like this. Sunglasses hiding most of her expression, but not the way her nose wrinkled when the smell hit her.

She tried to hide it. Didn’t succeed.

“You might want to step back,” I said. “It splashes.”

She glanced at her shoes, hesitated, then stayed where she was. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I can handle it.”

I went back to work. Scrubbed harder than necessary. Water sprayed, mud flew. If she got dirty, that was her problem.

Behind me, she finally started speaking to the camera. “This is part of the program,” she said. “Daily life. Living with locals, learning how things actually work out here.”

Locals.

I kept my mouth shut.

Most people don’t stay long. They take their shots, pull faces, then disappear before noon. She didn’t. She leaned against the fence, boots slowly losing their clean look, expression caught between curiosity and discomfort.

I could feel her watching me—not like I was something impressive, more like she was trying to understand why anyone would choose this.

“Do you do this every day?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She waited. “That’s it?”

“There’s more work after.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “It smells.”

I glanced at her. “It’s a cow.”

She grimaced. “Right. Just making sure.”

Silence settled between us. Only the sound of water, flies, the cow shifting its weight.

She lowered her phone slightly. Not off. Just not important anymore.

“You don’t like being filmed,” she said.

“I don’t like being turned into a prop.”

She looked at the screen, then turned it off completely.

“That’s fair,” she said. “I’m not here to make fun of this place.”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m supposed to live here,” she added. “Actually live here.”

I looked at her then. Really looked. Dust at the hem of her pants now. Sweat at her temples. The polish already cracking.

“You won’t last,” I said.

She met my eyes. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“No signal. Cold water. Early mornings. Real work.”

She smiled—small, stubborn. “I’m still here.”

I shut off the hose. The yard went quiet.

She was still leaning on the fence, watching like she expected something else to happen.

“Don’t get used to it,” I said, meeting her gaze.

She frowned. “Used to what?”

“This place,” I continued. “Me. The work.”

She studied my face. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good,” I said, turning away. “People who do usually regret it.”

I picked up the bucket and walked toward the house.

I didn’t look back.

But I knew she stayed right where she was.

And I didn’t like how much I noticed.