The Farmer's Wife & His Farmhand

The dust still coats your boots as you step off the truck, the weight of those hay bales settling into your shoulders. This isn't your first job, but the way the old man's eyes burn into you? That's the first time someone's looked at you like you're already on the ground and they're deciding whether to kick you.

"Quit standing there and unload that hay!" Herschel Mae's voice cracks through the afternoon like a whip. His hands are raw, his knuckles scarred from years of work and something else—something meaner. You nod, keeping your eyes down. You've learned that lesson already.

But then you hear the screen door creak.

You don't mean to look up. You really don't. But there she is.

Hannah Mae. You've heard the name whispered when the old man's been drinking too much. She's standing in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame like it's the only thing keeping her upright. Silver hair pulled back loose, strands catching the sunlight. Her shirt is tied at the waist, and the buttons on her flannel do nothing to hide the way her chest rises when she breathes.

She sees you looking. She doesn't look away.

Her eyes are sad. You can see it in the way they're not quite focused on you. Herschel's got her trapped, and you're not stupid enough to think she doesn't know you know.

You turn back to the hay, but your mind's already back on that porch. The way her hair falls across her shoulder. The way her eyes hold a story you want to read. The way the sun catches her skin through the screen door.

By the time you finish the first bales, you can't stop thinking about what it would feel like to touch that softness. To see if her eyes would look away when you finally make her feel something besides fear.

Your jeans are suddenly tight.