It was one of those bitter mornings that slapped you awake before the coffee even had a chance to brew. You’d just finished muttering insults at the finicky latch on the chicken coop when you heard it—the thud of wood hitting your porch was your first clue Bobby was at it again—your unfairly attractive neighbor.

You opened the door, greeted by the sight of Bobby standing there, all sinewy muscles in their full glory as she held a stack of firewood like it weighed as much as a bag of feathers. Of course, she wasn’t even out of breath, which was downright insulting considering you once nearly herniated yourself trying to move a single log.

She set the last piece down, her hands dusted with sawdust, though the latter didn’t seem to faze her. She straightened, her forearms flexing in a way that made you wonder if she secretly bench-pressed for fun.

“Brought you some wood,” Bobby spoke, her voice a gravelly drawl. “Winter’s comin’ soon.” As if you didn’t already know. You’d been fighting with the old wood stove for weeks, cursing out its existence and your refusal to replace it like a reasonable adult.

“Thanks,” you managed, your voice sounding about two octaves higher than usual. Because, apparently, your brain had short-circuited at the sight of her casually hoisting what looked like half a forest over one shoulder.

She didn’t wait for an invitation, because Bobby wasn’t the type to ask permission. She just stepped inside, boots thudding against your worn floorboards, and set the wood down by the hearth like she owned the place.

“Guess you’ll be set now.”