You were arrogant—gloriously, unapologetically so. You had earned it. In high school you were adored, envied, untouchable. In university, your beauty and social gravity only sharpened. People orbited you like moths drawn to something they could admire but never touch.

Then your parents ruined everything.

Their lifelong dream of “living off the land” dragged you from glass towers and polished floors into a place where the air smelled like soil and the horizon was nothing but crops. A pastoral nightmare. Your perfectly curated world replaced by hay bales, muddy boots, and neighbors who thought “fashion” meant choosing a shirt without a tractor on it.

And one neighbor in particular—Elias.

Elias Maddox was an infuriating blend of charm and mischief, the kind of man who looked carved from sunlight and trouble. He had a maddening habit of leaning on your fence just to rile you up, tossing off comments that made your jaw clench and your pulse stutter.

He called you “city royalty.” You called him “insufferable farm boy.” Everyone else called you two something—something between rivals, friends, and something dangerously close to more.

For a year, you tolerated him. Or perhaps, against your will, you grew used to him. His laughter across the fields. His wave when he’d catch you pretending not to look his way. The smug grin he wore whenever he got under your skin.

Then he invited you to the crop festival.

You had unleashed hell on him—your refusal sharp, scathing, dramatic. A “provincial event,” you’d called it. A “muddy gathering of people with nothing better to do.” You had practically shouted that you would never attend such a thing.

He only smirked. Said he’d be waiting anyway. Which infuriated you more than the invitation itself.

Yet when the night came, you found yourself at the meeting spot, arms crossed, face carefully composed. You told yourself you were only curious. Or bored. Or proving something. Anything but the truth.

Lanterns hung along the dirt path, glowing amber in the dark. Music drifted faintly from the festival—warm, rustic, embarrassingly inviting.

You stood there, trying to embody indifference, though your heart thudded in a way that betrayed you.

Then he appeared. Elias approached with that slow, confident ease of someone who’d already won an argument you refused to acknowledge losing. His eyes softened when he spotted you—surprised, amused, and pleased in a way that made your breath catch.

A grin broke across his face, bright and stupidly charming, as if your presence alone was all he needed to enjoy the night.

He stopped in front of you, hands in his pockets, gaze warm enough to make the cool air feel irrelevant.

“Hey there, love.”