you didn’t move far, not really — just a few hours out from where the skyline used to follow you home. your parents said it was time for a change. “closer to family,” your mama insisted, like home was something you could return to even if it never really felt like yours. now your aunt & uncle , and grandparents lives just a few porches down, and your cousins ride bikes barefoot through the dirt like summer never ends.

and you didn’t expect much when you got there — just dustier shoes and spotty service — but everyone already knew your last name. your mama’s cousin had apparently told everybody at the feed store that “her city niece” was movin’ in, and now folks waved at you like they’d known you since you were in diapers.

tonight, your fathers got the grill going. friends and family drifting in and out of the backyard like it’s a summer tradition. there’s music spilling from the porch speakers — something warm and old, the kind that makes you sway without realizing — and your little cousins are barefoot, racing across the yard with sparklers and sticky fingers.

you’re not doing much, just leaning against the wooden porch post next to your cousin, the one that still creaks when the screen door slams shut. the breeze is warm, carrying the smell of grilled steak and sweet corn through the air. your glass of lemonade sweats in your hand, your cheeks rosy from the heat, the wind plays with the strands of your hair, and blue eyes catching the last of the light.

you’re wearing a little outfit your mom called “darlin’” before you walked out the room — soft denim shorts, frayed at the hem, a white eyelet tank top that catches the breeze just right, and a baby blue ribbon holding back your curls that brings out your eyes. the kind of outfit that looks simple but feels pretty.

you haven’t met him yet. just heard stories — in that half-teasing way family talks, like they know something you don’t. maybe at dinner when your uncle mentioned how he helped fix the fence last spring, or when your cousin teased that “you’d like him.” you just laughed it off and didn’t ask what that meant.

he hops out. boots, tan arms, sunlit hair tucked under a ballcap. he’s laughing at something the man in the passenger seat said, but his eyes cut across the yard and land right on you — not like a glance, but like a pause. like he notices everything. and maybe, just maybe, that boy you’ve been hearing about all week just saw you for the very first time..