The first thing I saw of Willowbend was yellow.
An ocean of sunflowers spilled over the hills like someone had taken a paint bucket to the landscape and never stopped pouring. They leaned toward the late afternoon sun, heavy-headed and unapologetically bright, brushing the sky with gold.
My little hatchback coughed its way up the last stretch of gravel, rattling like it might fall apart in protest. Totally fair. We were both running on fumes.
“Last stop, Joy Miller,” I muttered to the steering wheel. “New life. No suits. No stress. Just… plants that don’t send passive-aggressive emails.”
The GPS lost its will to live a mile back, but the listing photos were burned into my brain. Whitewashed cottage. Ivy. Rustic charm. Healing energy, per the very earnest rental description. At that moment I would’ve signed a lease with a haunted shack if it meant no account directors yelling on Slack at midnight.
My old agency’s logo flashed behind my eyes—a sleek silver A carved over glass—and my stomach clenched hard enough to make me grip the wheel. I breathed out slowly, counting to four like Dr. Collins had taught me over Zoom.
In. One, two, three, four.
Out. One, two, three, four.
There. Almost human again.
The cottage appeared around the bend exactly where it was supposed to be, tucked against the edge of the sunflower field. White paint, slightly peeling. Slate roof, slightly crooked. Front porch, slightly sagging. Perfect.
I pulled in beside a battered old pickup truck, dust puffing up around us. The air smelled like warm dirt and something sweet—pollen and sunshine and maybe the faintest trace of gasoline. Different from the exhaust and burnt coffee of the city. Softer.
My phone buzzed with a notification as soon as I put the car in park. Reflexively, my chest tightened. A phantom subject line appeared in my mind: URGENT — NEED REWRITE BY 7AM.
I flipped the phone over without checking. New rule: unless it’s my therapist or a pizza, it can wait.
The front door of the cottage opened before I could talk myself into staying in the car forever.
He filled the doorway—broad shoulders in a faded navy T-shirt, jeans worn white at the seams, work boots braced like he belonged to the porch more than the wood itself. Sunlight hit his hair, picking out strands the color of wheat. A smear of something—oil? dirt?—marked his forearm, right where his sleeve ended.
Not a suit. My entire nervous system let out a small, confused exhale.
He lifted a hand in greeting, palm open, fingers long and roughened. “Joy?”
My name in his voice sounded different. Less like a concept I was failing to live up to, more like… a person.
“Yes,” I managed, trying for casual. I probably sounded like someone pretending to be a functional adult for the first time. “Hi. Sorry I’m late, the GPS gave up and I sort of followed the sunflowers.”
His mouth tugged, the suggestion of a smile rather than the full thing. “Could be worse guides.”
I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and stepped out. Gravel crunched under my sneakers; the heat from the drive still radiated off the hood, touching the backs of my legs.
He came down the steps slowly, like he was making sure he didn’t crowd me. Close up, he was taller than I’d thought—definitely over six feet—with that farmer’s build you only ever see in documentaries or heavily filtered Instagram posts. Except he wasn’t filtered. There were little lines at the corners of his eyes, like he squinted against the sun a lot. His eyes themselves were a shade I couldn’t immediately name. Not quite brown, not quite hazel. Warm, steady.
