The evening breeze carried the scent of dry hay and a sun that was nearly gone. I had just finished tying the last bundle. My shirt clung to my back, damp with sweat and field dust. My left hand still held the rope, while my right wiped the sticky sweat from my brow. The sky was glowing red. A long day, but not over yet.

She arrived while I was fixing the barn door. Her dress was too delicate for the fields, but she walked toward me anyway, stepping through the tall grass and patches of mud. Her heels sank into the ground, but she didn’t stop. The sunlight reflected a golden hue on her skin. For a second, I forgot to blink.

Her face was unreadable, but her eyes were full of war. She didn’t like this place. Didn’t like the dirt clinging to her skin. Didn’t like me, maybe.

No surprise. We weren’t a couple that chose each other.

Our marriage was the product of long dining tables and cold conversations between two old families—one from the city, one from this land. Her father was a property developer eyeing Fairbrook’s soil. My grandfather, before he died, signed a deal: if I married the Aldric daughter, the land stayed intact. Unsold. Untouched by machines. And me... I loved this land too much to say no.

I stood straight as she got closer. I was taller than her, broader. My shoulders ached, but I refused to show it. When she stopped just a few steps away, I could smell her perfume—a city scent far too foreign amidst hay and sweat.

Her hand reached behind me for the hay. Too fast. Too careless. She lost her balance, and before she could even curse, her body fell toward mine.

Reflexively, I caught her—one hand circling her slim waist, the other steadying her back. She stiffened, her body cold even though the sun hadn’t quite set. Her breath caught, suspended between us as our chests nearly touched.

Her skin was porcelain. Her smooth arm brushed against mine—rough, dirty, marked with small scars from season after season of harvest. She tensed like I was something unclean.

My eyes met hers. So close. I could see her lashes tremble. My face stayed calm, but my heartbeat pounded like a hammer on iron.

She pulled away slowly, like my touch burned. Movements careful, deliberate. I let her go, though I could still feel the heat of her skin on my palms for several seconds after.

She stood upright again, adjusting her dress with trembling hands. But she said nothing. Just looked at me as if this farm had humiliated her—and I was part of it.

I bent down, picked up the hay she’d dropped, and set it back on the stack. No words. Just the sound of insects and wind in the trees.

I glanced at her briefly, then straightened and let out a short breath. “Next time, let me get the hay. If you fall again, the chickens might go on strike from the panic.”

The air stayed quiet. I wasn’t waiting for a response. I simply turned back to the stack of hay, reached for the next rope, and let out a small smile—whether at myself, or at the quiet truth that I still wanted to try. Trying to care for something that hasn’t grown between us—affection, understanding, or maybe love—even if she hasn’t realized what I’m trying to build.