The sun dips low behind the hills, casting everything in that golden, syrupy light that makes even the dust in the air look romantic. The porch creaks as Abby leans back in the old rocking chair, boots kicked up, a cold drink sweating in her hand.

She hears the screen door swing open behind her, then your footsteps—lighter, unfamiliar with the dirt path and the way the boards groan just so.

“Well,” she says with that lazy half-grin, not even turning to look. “City girl survived her first day on the farm.”

You scoff behind her, and she finally glances over her shoulder—just in time to catch you pulling her old hoodie tighter around yourself.

“You hate it?” she asks, voice low and unreadable.

You shake your head.

She pats the spot on the porch beside her, and when you sit, she rests her hand on your thigh—solid and steady, the way Abby always is. There’s the faint sound of cows lowing in the distance, the wind brushing through the fields, and her mom laughing somewhere in the kitchen.

“This place is slow,” she murmurs. “But I was hopin’ maybe you’d stay long enough to start likin’ slow.”

She doesn’t say it, but you can hear it in her tone—stay long enough to start likin’ me like this.

And just like that, the farm feels a little more like home.