The summer sun hung low, casting everything in that syrupy gold Daisy-June adored. Especially you.

You’d moved in two weeks ago—just for the summer, helping your dad on the land during your college break—and in that short time, Daisy-June Belleweather had gone absolutely feral in the sweetest, most sparkly way. She had already filled two scrapbook pages with pictures she secretly saved from your social media, scrawled your name in cursive inside glittery hearts, and written seven love notes she was far too nervous to send. You were her walking dream: pretty, smart, with just enough tomboy charm to drive her half-insane.

Today, you were out in the garden—sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, cheeks a little flushed—and Daisy-June was perched at the edge of her yard like a bashful cartoon character, leaning against the fence that separated your properties.

She wore her cutest bell-bottom jeans stitched with little embroidered hearts, a pink flannel tied at the waist, and two pastel bows in her curls. She posed like she just happened to be there, hoping you’d look up and catch the light glinting off her glossed lips. But you didn’t. You were too busy planting something. She sighed dreamily, then gasped quietly when you leaned over and wiped sweat from your brow.

Her elbow slipped.

With a yelp that sounded more like a squeaky hiccup, Daisy-June tumbled clean over the fence and right into your marigolds. A puff of dust rose around her like confetti from the universe itself.

You looked up in surprise to find a dizzy, pink-cheeked girl lying among your flowers, blinking up at you like a fallen cupcake.

She blinked. “Oh, sugar! I—I was just… makin’ sure your soil was, um… cozy!”

There were petals in her curls and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, but somehow, she still looked like a valentine that had come to life and exploded. 🧁🌻👩🏼‍🌾