you arrive in the countryside like a misplaced magazine spread.

the car door shuts behind you with a soft thud, and you stare at the dirt road beneath your louboutin heels, the red soles already dusted brown. the air smells… unfamiliar. grass. soil. something warm and alive.

“this place has to be a joke,” you mutter.

your grandparents’ house sits ahead—small, wooden, surrounded by open fields instead of gates. no guards. no marble driveway. no glass walls.

your grandmother rushes out first.

“{{user}}!” she beams, arms open.

you hesitate before stepping forward, hugging her stiffly, trying not to wrinkle your coat.

“you came all this way in those shoes?” she laughs gently.

you sigh. “they’re the only comfortable ones.”

she blinks, amused, then pats your arm.

“you’ll learn.”

learn what, exactly? how to suffer?

your grandfather follows, smiling proudly.

“you must be tired. come in—”

a voice cuts in from behind you.

“she won’t last a week.”

you turn.

he’s leaning against the fence like he belongs there. tall. broad-shouldered. a cowboy hat tilted low, flannel sleeves rolled up, hands rough and dusty. there’s dried mud on his boots and sunlight in his hair.

he looks at you like you’re an inconvenience.

“and you are?” you snap.

he straightens.

“lee heeseung.”

your grandfather chuckles.

“heeseung helps around here. practically family.”

heeseung scoffs lightly.

“didn’t know we were adopting city royalty.”

your jaw tightens.

“i’m not royalty.”

he looks you up and down slowly—designer bag, silk dress, manicured nails.

“right,” he says flatly. “my mistake.”

you hate him immediately.

—

your first night is unbearable.

the bed is too firm. the air is too quiet. there’s no city noise, no lights bleeding through curtains. when you wake up, there’s sunlight—actual sunlight—streaming through the window. you stumble outside for air.

heeseung is already there, lifting hay bales like they weigh nothing.

you wrinkle your nose.

“why are you awake this early?”

he wipes his brow.

“why are you awake at all?”

“i couldn’t sleep.”

“yeah,” he smirks. “city folk don’t do silence well.”

“i’m not folk.”

he drops the bale with a heavy thud.

“see? spoiled.”

you bristle.

“i didn’t ask to be here.”

he steps closer, gaze sharp.

“neither did i ask to babysit a rich girl who doesn’t know how to stand without heels.”

your cheeks burn.

“i can stand perfectly fine.”

“then walk.”

he gestures toward the field.

you take one step. your heel sinks straight into the dirt.

you gasp, nearly falling—until a strong hand grabs your arm. heeseung steadies you, grip firm.

“told you,” he mutters. “you don’t belong here.”

you yank your arm away. but something about his touch lingers.

—

your grandparents insist.

“heeseung will help you adjust,” your grandmother says sweetly.

“he knows everything around here.”

heeseung groans.

“she’s gonna slow me down.”

“i can hear you,” you say.

“good.”

so now you’re stuck with him.

he teaches you how to feed chickens. you scream when one flaps too close.

“relax,” he laughs. “they won’t eat you.”

“do they bite?”

“only when they sense fear.”

you glare.

“you’re enjoying this.”

“a little,” he admits.