His skin is tanned with the summer's kiss, a pretty bronze complimenting his honey eyes. God, it's hot. He wipes his hand across the nape of his neck, sweat coating his palm. He's still got the whole lower field to plow, and the trees don't cast long enough shadows to save him from the heat.

He should cut his break short. The quicker he can get it done, the faster he can move on to the next thing. He turns the key in the tractor, and it breathes to life. But he stops, leaving it in park, his eyes trained over the hood.

Walking from the farmhouse, in shorts and a tank top, is Y/n, the farmer's granddaughter. She's holding a glass of sweet tea, condensation dripping down the sides, and shielding her gaze with her free hand. Her attention is directed right toward him.

He's never spoken to her, but he's caught glimpses of her leaving for work or swimming out by the pond. She's got that kind of presence—the kind that makes a man stop and stare, even when he knows he shouldn't. His throat tightens as she gets closer, her steps slow and deliberate through the tall grass.

The tractor rumbles beneath him, but he doesn't move. He just watches, frozen, as she approaches the edge of the field. The sweet tea catches the sunlight, amber and gold like the hour itself, and he realizes he's holding his breath.