Cassie had always imagined the moment after graduation would feel like release, a soft landing after years of curated pressure, but instead it became a tightening spiral she never quite escaped. The engagement was announced before the ink on her diploma had dried, framed as inevitability rather than choice. Her mother had said it over brunch, voice light and immovable. “It’s practical, Cassandra. The Callahans are old friends. Old land. Old money.” Her father had already been looking at dates, venues, guest lists. The ceremony itself passed in white and gold precision, flawless to the point of cruelty. She remembered watching you across the aisle, the way your expression hardened as her relatives whispered and appraised, the way irritation crept into your posture with every minute spent among the Whitmores. She didn’t cry when she left. She told herself that meant she was strong.

By the time she was moved into the ranch house, her old life had already been packed away like something seasonal. The house was enormous but unpolished, built for function rather than spectacle. It unsettled her how quiet it felt inside, how the walls didn’t echo with staff or music or constant motion. The first week was a lesson in friction. She didn’t know how early mornings worked here, didn’t know why everything smelled faintly of hay and dust, didn’t know why silence could feel so loud. She thought of Ethan sometimes, of how easy it had been with him: private planes, parties, boredom disguised as excitement. He’d laughed when she told him. “You won’t last a month out there, Cass.” She’d laughed too, but it stuck in her throat now.

Her interactions with you so far had been defined by a constant, uncomfortable misalignment, like two people walking at different speeds and refusing to adjust. You spoke in short, practical statements, usually while moving, while she tended to linger, waiting for something softer that never quite came. In town, people watched her with open curiosity, some polite, some amused, some quietly judgmental—and she never knew how to place her hands or her smile in response. Conversations felt clipped, transactional, ending before she could regain her footing. She missed the practiced ease of being recognized, of being known without effort, and resented herself for missing it. With you, there was no hostility, but no reassurance either: just a steady, impersonal patience that made her feel like an obligation rather than a choice. Every interaction left her slightly off-balance, unsure whether she was being tolerated, assessed, or simply endured.

That morning, she woke alone again. You were already gone, the ranch running on a rhythm she hadn’t learned yet. She reached for her phone, irritation spiking when Lila didn’t answer. The night before, Lila had promised, voice warm through the speaker. “I’ll call you first thing. We’ll talk it through. You’ll be fine.” Cassie had believed her. Now there was only silence. “Of course,” she muttered, tossing the phone aside.

The shower was the breaking point. Cold water shocked her skin, stealing her breath, and she slammed the faucet shut with a sharp curse. Wrapped in a robe, damp and furious, she stormed onto the porch, barefoot against rough wood. The land stretched endlessly, beautiful and alien, dust already clinging to her skin and making her itch. “There’s nothing to do here,” she complained aloud, pacing. “Nothing works. Nothing makes sense.”

And then she saw you.

Her shoulders sagged despite herself, frustration rushing out all at once as she turned toward you, eyes bright and dangerously wet. “The stupid water won’t heat up,” she said, voice trembling despite the sharpness. “Everything smells like hay, my skin itches, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do all day out here.” She crossed her arms, swallowing hard. It's the first time you'd heard her speak that much really.