It Was Always You

Five Days Until Market

…Lucas’ POV…

Day one of market prep was always the longest. Even with a solid team, there was just so much to do. Cleaning produce, bottling last season’s preserves, setting aside crates of eggs, milk, and honey—we had a system, but it only worked if everyone kept pace. And now that Olive was here, I wasn’t just thinking about timing and sorting. I was thinking about her. Constantly.

She met me outside the barn just after breakfast, hair pulled back in a low ponytail, wearing a soft gray t-shirt that clung in all the right ways. I forced my eyes away.

“You ready to get your hands sticky?” I asked, lifting a basket of apricots.

“Born ready,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

We spent the morning packaging preserves—apricot, plum, and cherry—and labeling them. She caught on fast. Of course she did. By midday, we were both sweaty and laughing, fingers stained with fruit and sugar.

“This is the most fun I’ve ever had working,” she said, tossing a cherry pit at me.

I smiled. “You’re not bad for a city girl.” She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks turned pink.

We spent the rest of the day bundling herbs and taking inventory of our crates. As the sun started sinking low behind the orchard trees, I glanced at Olive, who was standing by the herb table, gently tying twine around a bundle of lavender. The breeze lifted strands of her hair and the golden light caught her face. For a split second, everything else disappeared. I walked over before I could talk myself out of it.

“That was a hell of a first day,” I said. “Ready for four more?”

She looked up, smiling. “I think I can handle it”

I laughed and reached for the lavender she was tying. “Here, let me—” Our hands brushed. She didn’t pull away. Neither did I.

The air changed. Slower. Still.

Her eyes flicked to my lips, and I felt myself leaning in without thinking. My heart pounded. She didn’t pull away. She tilted slightly, just enough, and

“Hey! I’ve got fresh lemonade if you two are thirsty!” Owen’s voice rang out from the porch.

We jerked apart.

“Be right there!” Olive called out, her voice a little too high.

She looked at me, her cheeks began to blush, but her expression was unreadable. “That was, yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

She turned and walked toward the house. I stood frozen for a second longer before following her.

…Olive’s POV…

What the hell just happened?

My face was still burning as I stepped into the kitchen. Thankfully Owen hadn’t seemed to notice it, maybe he had written it off as a side effect of the temperature outside. He handed me a glass of lemonade and launched into a rundown of tomorrow’s tasks—harvesting carrots, bagging microgreens, packing eggs and the best way to protect the glass bottles of milk.

I nodded along, trying to focus, but my brain was tangled up in that almost-kiss.

It scared the hell out of me.

Not because I didn’t want it. God, I did. I wanted to kiss Lucas. I wanted to feel his hand on the back of my neck and to melt into whatever that was about to be. But it also terrified me.

Because what if it wasn’t just a kiss? What if he meant it? What if I let myself fall for him and it ruined everything? This place,this farm, was supposed to be about starting over. Healing. Not falling into another relationship. Not risking more heartbreak. Not complicating things with the one person who helped make this place feel safe.

Tyler had seemed safe once, too. Until everything turned. Until the soft words became weapons, and I started questioning my own reflection. I wasn’t ready to open that door again.

But Lucas wasn’t Tyler.

Lucas had never once made me feel small.

That only made it worse.

Because if this turned into something and it fell apart, I wouldn’t just lose a boyfriend—Losing Lucas would mean losing a life long friend. A safe place. A home.

And I’m not sure my heart could handle that.

And yet, my heart still leapt when he walked into the kitchen, cheeks flushed, pretending not to be breathless from what almost happened. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to punch him or kiss him, or maybe just keep pretending none of this was happening.

…Four Days ’Til Market

We spent the next morning harvesting carrots and radishes. Lucas kept things light, careful not to push, extremely careful not to let our hands brush, but the tension between us was impossible to ignore.

He handed me a bundle of radishes and our fingers finally grazed again. I flinched. He looked at me like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.

By lunch, Sofia had joined us and kept the conversation moving enough that I didn’t have to say much. Thank God.

That night, as I lay in bed, I stared at the ceiling fan spinning above me and thought about what it would’ve felt like if Owen hadn’t walked out when he did. I wasn’t sure if I felt more relieved or disappointed.

…Three Days ’Til Market

It rained.

Not enough to ruin the crops, but enough to keep us indoors most of the morning. Lucas brought crates into the garage for sorting, and I spent a solid hour standing across the table from him, trying not to imagine what it would be like to close the space between us. We finally talked while cleaning kale bunches.

“I’m sorry if I made things weird,” he said quietly, not looking up from the greens.

“You didn’t,” I said, even though we both knew that was a lie.

He glanced at me. “It won’t happen again.”

My stomach dropped. I nodded.

But I didn’t want it to not happen again.

I just didn’t know how to tell him that

….Two Days ’Til Market

We packed the non-perishables—jars, soaps, handmade lotion bars—and loaded them into the trailer. Everything felt efficient, mechanical. We were finding our work rhythm. Lucas didn’t flirt. I didn’t tease.

Owen noticed.

“You two okay?” he asked while we prepped dinner.

“Of course,” I lied. “Just tired.”

He didn’t press, but I caught him looking between us more than once that day. Like he could sense something simmering under the surface.

He wasn’t wrong.

…One Day ’Til Market

Lucas and I walked to the far side of the orchard together, away from the house, to cut fresh flowers. The silence between us was heavy again, but this time not in a bad way. It was full of unspoken things, of could-have-beens and not-yets.

As I clipped the last sunflower, I finally spoke.

“Lucas…”

He looked at me, waiting.

“I’m scared.”

His brow furrowed. “Of what?”

“Of this. Of you. Of liking you.” My voice cracked.

He stepped closer, not touching me. “I’m not going to hurt you, Oli.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But that doesn’t make it less scary.”

He nodded, understanding without needing the whole story. And I loved that about him.

He didn’t ask for more than I could give.

I looked at him, at the way the sun lit his eyes, and thought: Maybe I’ll be brave tomorrow.

But not tonight.