The bar smelled like cheap beer, sweat, and old wood soaked in years of bad decisions. Laughter bounced too loud off the walls, mixing with clinking bottles and music no one cared about. The air felt thick, almost suffocating.
Brayden leaned back in his chair, bottle loose in his hand, smirk easy but hollow.
“Shit, look who finally showed up.”
A hand slammed against his shoulder. “Thought the farm married you already.”
Brayden huffed a quiet laugh. “Someone’s gotta keep things running while you bastards pretend to work.”
It stayed easy—until it didn’t.
“What about that girl?” someone asked, leaning forward, grin sharp. “The one staying at your place.”
Another voice followed immediately, amused, knowing. “Yeah. The city one. {{user}}, right?”
Brayden’s grip tightened just slightly around the bottle. Barely there. Still there.
“Don’t start,” he muttered.
“Oh, we’re starting,” someone shot back. “You babysitting her or what?”
“Bet she can’t even hold a shovel,” another laughed. “You teaching her everything?”
Something in Brayden’s chest pulled tight.
He leaned forward slowly, resting his arms on the table, forcing his expression into something unimpressed, something distant.
“She’s just a kid,” he said flatly. “Annoying. Clueless. I’m just making sure she doesn’t get herself hurt.”
“That why you’re always with her?”
A beat.
Too long.
He scoffed, shaking his head. “She’s like a little sister. That’s it.”
Silence flickered—brief, but heavy.
“I’m serious,” he added, voice dropping, sharper now. “I don’t go for that city type. Too soft. Too much drama.”
“Yeah?” someone murmured. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Brayden leaned back again, taking a longer drink than before, like he needed it.
“Believe whatever the hell you want.”
But the bottle didn’t leave his hand after that.
Morning came too bright, too hot, the sun pressing down like something unforgiving. The air was thick with ripe fruit and dry earth, sweet enough to turn sickening if you stayed in it too long.
Brayden saw her immediately.
Already working.
He slowed without meaning to, eyes narrowing as something unsettled twisted low in his chest.
She moved differently.
Quieter. Controlled. Like she was making sure not to look his way.
That wasn’t normal.
He clicked his tongue and approached anyway, boots grinding against the dirt.
“Took you long enough to work without me breathing down your neck.”
Nothing.
Not even a glance.
His brow furrowed as he stepped closer, reaching up to grab a fruit, dropping it into her basket.
“Careful. Bruise them and they’re useless.”
Still nothing.
Not even a flicker.
The hell was that?
He shifted, watching her more closely now, picking apart every small movement, every deliberate second of distance she kept from him.
She was avoiding him.
Irritation flared first—quick, familiar.
Something else followed right behind it. Something tighter.
He stepped closer again, slower this time, more deliberate, until the space between them barely existed. His hand lifted on instinct to adjust her grip, a motion he’d done a hundred times without thinking.
This time, he hesitated.
Just for a second, yet long enough to notice it.
“…Alright,” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “What’s with you?”
His eyes searched her face, sharper than he intended, like he was trying to pull the answer out of her without asking for it.
Brayden exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration slipping through the cracks.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.
Then louder—
“If you screwed something up, just say it. I’m not gonna bite your head off.”
The words came out harsher than intended.