"Stuck" with the farmer?

Morning arrives quietly, pale winter light slipping through the thin curtains of the guest room. She wakes without an alarm for the seventh day in a row, her phone still abandoned somewhere at the bottom of her bag—untouched, unanswered, deliberately ignored. For the first time in years, she hasn’t checked emails, market updates, or emergency calls. She knows that if she reached for it—if she made one call—help would come immediately. A tow truck. A driver. A helicopter, if she insisted.

She hasn’t.

The thought lingers as she sits up slowly, fingers brushing the flannel shirt she’s wearing—theirs. Too big, too warm, sleeves falling past her hands. She told herself it was convenience. Practicality. But a part of her knows it’s something else entirely. Something quieter. Something dangerous.

She remembers how she got here: the dead engine, the empty road, the cold creeping in. How they stopped without hesitation, offered help without curiosity or expectation. No recognition. No agenda. Just kindness. She isn’t used to that. It disarmed her more than any negotiation ever could.

She heads downstairs, bare footsteps soft against the wooden floor. The smell of coffee reaches her first, rich and grounding. She pauses in the doorway, watching them move easily around the kitchen, two mugs already waiting. A simple act—yet it tightens something in her chest.

How painful could it really be, she wonders, to stay a few more days like this?

She clears her throat and steps inside.

“The mechanic called earlier,” she lies calmly, defaulting to professionalism even now. “They’re backed up because of Christmas. Apparently everyone’s car chooses this week to fall apart.”

She leans against the counter, fingers tightening around the sleeve of the flannel.

“They said they won’t be able to come out until after the holidays.”

A pause. She could end it there. She could mention that she hasn’t had her phone on. That help could arrive within hours if she asked. That this delay is... optional.

Instead, she speaks again, softer.

“I wanted to ask—are you okay with me staying longer?”

Her gaze lifts to them, steady but unguarded. She doesn’t say how she’s been sleeping better here. How the quiet no longer feels empty. How each morning hurts just a little more because she knows it has an ending.

She tells herself it’s temporary. She tells herself she’s in control.

And she ignores the way her heart hopes they’ll say yes.

The morning crept in quietly, pale winter light slipping through the thin curtains of the farmhouse guest room.

She woke slower than usual.

Not to alarms, not to emails, not to the familiar weight of decisions stacked on her chest—but to silence, broken only by the distant lowing of cattle and the whisper of wind against wood.

For a moment, she forgot where she was.

Then she remembered.

The fields. The cold. Them.

She sat up, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, and glanced at the clock. Early. Earlier than she ever used to wake back in the city. Earlier than she needed to.

Something pulled her to the window.

Outside, the fields stretched pale and frosted, the grass bending under a restless wind. Near the far shed, they were already moving—steady, purposeful—guiding the cows in from the open pasture. Their breath fogged faintly in the cold air.

They were wearing a tight crop top, fabric clinging from movement and effort, a light sheen of sweat catching the morning sun where it slipped through the clouds. The wind tugged at the hem, the chill obvious, yet they didn’t seem to notice—focused, calm, completely at home here.

She didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing.

A month ago, this life would’ve looked unreal to her. Inconvenient. Temporary. Something to endure until the phone call she never made.

Now, it felt... grounding.

She leaned against the window frame, watching. The way they spoke softly to the animals. The way their hands moved with quiet confidence. The strength in their posture that wasn’t showy, just there—earned, lived-in.

Her chest tightened, guilt and warmth tangling together.

She told herself she was only observing. That she wasn’t attached. That she still planned to leave.

But she didn’t move away.

Then, as if sensing her gaze, they looked up.

Their eyes met hers across the field.

Her breath hitched.

For a split second, she considered retreating, pretending she hadn’t been watching—but she didn’t. She straightened instead, lifting her chin, schooling her expression into calm composure. CEO composure. The one she was good at.

When they approached the house, she was already at the door, wrapped in a sweater, barefoot against the cold floor.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said lightly, voice smooth despite the warmth rising in her face. “You can... keep going.”

A pause.

Then, softer—more honest than she intended—

“I’d like to watch.”

The wind carried the scent of earth and hay between them. Christmas was close. The shed was filling. The days were growing shorter.

And the lie in her pocket—the untouched phone, the mechanics that were never called—felt heavier than ever.

But for now, she stayed where she was.

Watching.