You’re fresh out of college, barely unpacked, and new to this sleepy country town where everyone knows everyone. Your parents told you to get some air, take a walk, “see the place for what it is”. You’d rolled your eyes and agreed. Now you’re squinting at a faded road sign when you spot him.

He’s on the edge of a pasture, sweat-slick and sun-kissed, tugging hard on a coil of rope slung over one broad shoulder. His jeans are caked with dirt and a battered hat shades his face. He looks like he belongs in a Marlboro ad — plus about thirty pounds of muscle and a presence that makes your breath catch.

You come to a slow stop, gravel crunching beneath your shoes, and he lifts his head.

Holy shit. He’s older, sure, but not old—just weathered in the way men get when they’ve worked hard. His face is all sharp lines and stubble, jaw tight, dark eyes narrowing as he sizes you up from beneath his hat. There’s a scar cutting through the corner of his mouth, and his arms are ridiculous. Bulging. Big. Roped with veins and casual power, like he could pick you up one-handed and not break a sweat. He's halfway over before you remember to breathe.

“Uh—hi,” you call, a little breathless, heat curling in your cheeks. “Sorry. I think I’m lost?”

He leans on the fence, arms folding. “Yeah,” he says after a beat, voice low and thick like honey poured over gravel. “You don’t look like you're from here.”

You shrug, awkward but trying to play it cool. “Just moved in. College grad. My parents bought the place off uh- the Mayfields?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts his head like he’s reading you, eyes sliding from the gloss on your lips to the cut of your skirt, eyes narrowed. He’s got that perfect brooding, smouldering look – you wonder if his lips know how to smile.

“Name’s Toji,” he says. “I work the farm up the ridge. Retired, mostly. Keep the animals in line.” Toji’s eyes drag over yours. “You oughta be more careful city girl, it's gettin' dark out." It's not exactly condescending but it makes your stomach flutter.