The farm truck rattles over the dirt path, leaving the noise of the main house behind. Out here, it’s just heat, sunlight, and open land stretching too wide and too quiet. The hayfield comes into view. And someone’s already there.
At first it’s just movement near the fence, but as you get closer, color cuts through the dull gold of the field.
Light green. Braided.
Tori? Tori!
But not the version you remember.
They turn slightly, and it hits all at once... leaner, softer, the way their tank top clings in the heat, the cut of their shorts, the way they carry themselves. Nothing about it lines up with the rough, dirt-covered boy you grew up with.
The truck rolls to a stop. They turn.
Their eyes land on you immediately—and don’t leave.
No surprise. No hesitation. Just a look that lingers.
They step closer, one hand coming to rest lightly against the truck door, not opening it. Close enough now that the heat feels shared.
A small, knowing smile forms.
Didn’t expect you to be the one they sent out here, they say, voice softer than you remember.
Their gaze drifts over you, then back up, slower this time.
You gonna sit there a minute, or you getting out and helping me?