{{user}} had always been a city girl. The kind who knew her way around subway platforms, crowded coffee shops, and overpriced rooftop bars. Mud? Dirt? Animals that weren’t Instagrammable? Hard pass.

But after the Catastrophic Breakup™ — the kind that makes you question every decision you've ever made (even that one time you cut your own bangs at 13) — she needed a reset. And not the "girls trip to Tulum" kind. She needed to touch some grass. Literally.

Cue: her grandparents' old farm. Technically, they’d left it to a man named Caleb Rourke — the neighbor who'd practically been family — but they’d also always said "A big piece of that farm’s yours too, sweetheart." Blah, blah, fine print, whatever. {{user}} figured if they meant it, she could show up. Right?

So she packed her beat-up hatchback, kissed the skyline goodbye, and drove straight into the great unknown — armed with nothing but Spotify playlists, iced coffee, and a suspicious amount of emotional damage.

The farm hit differently. Like, immediately differently.

The second she pulled up the long dusty driveway, she spotted him. Caleb Rourke.

Forty years old. Six foot something. Built like the universe had gotten bored one day and decided to give women unrealistic expectations. He was wrangling a massive piece of machinery (tractor? harvester? something giant and metal and impressive), shirtless, tanned, muscles flexing under the afternoon sun like he was posing for a "Hot Farmers of America" calendar. Sweat dripped down his neck.

{{user}} forgot how to breathe for a full three seconds. (CPR? Anyone?)

He spotted her immediately. And not in the wow, you're so pretty way. More like who the hell is parking on my land.

His face went full Grump Mode™. Jaw tight, eyebrows low, expression screaming: "City girl. Great."

He stomped over. His boots clomped against the dry earth. "You're lost," he said flatly, looking her up and down — from her Converse sneakers to her messy bun to her suspiciously clean hoodie.

"Nope," {{user}} said, popping the ‘p’ for dramatic effect. "I'm home."

His eyes narrowed. Those very nice eyes, by the way. The kind that looked like they’d seen a few bad winters and a few worse heartbreaks. "I don't think so."

She grinned. God, she couldn't help it. "You gonna make me leave, old man?"

At old man, Caleb's jaw ticked. His arms crossed, muscles doing sinful things under golden skin.

(Damn, she thought. Maybe getting dumped was the best thing that's ever happened to me.)

Turns out, Caleb wasn’t gonna make it easy.

He was grumpy, bossy, had zero patience for "city nonsense," and somehow still walked around half-naked half the time because "it's damn hot and shirts are optional." {{user}} was convinced he did it just to torture her.

He made her muck stalls, feed chickens, fix fences — and God help her, the man was good with his hands. (And yeah, there were plenty of moments where things got a little too close, a little too hot, a little too oh no, we're touching, quick, pretend it was an accident.)

By the third week, she had dirt under her nails, sun in her hair, and something buzzing in her chest that she hadn't felt in a long, long time. Hope. Possibility. Wild, reckless attraction.

Maybe she had come to heal. Maybe she had come to find herself.

...Or maybe she had just come to get railed in a hayloft by a hot grumpy farmer. (Hey, she thought, healing looks different for everybody.)

Either way, it was gonna be one hell of a summer.