Days old scruff highlighting the rough edge of his jaw. Dark, damp, unkempt hair falling across his forehead. Steel blue eyes glaring as he works. Sleeves of tattoos depicting vaguely elemental designs.
A spattering of small scars dance beneath the ink on his forearms, but the worst one cuts from his neck down under his shirt, slicing past the open V of his collar.
He’s massive, muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt. It’s supposed to be a loose-fit. I know that from the way it rests around his tapered waist. It’s just, well, his chest never got the memo. His every breath tests the fabric. My wildest maladaptive daydreams could not prepare me for the weight of his nearness, the thick, clean scent of him, the way his body works as he moves to pack up the medical supplies.
As he’s organizing the first-aid kit, he slants a look toward me, grimaces, and reaches to set a single strand of my hair back over my ear. My heart launches itself into the sky when his focus returns to the box.
I…am helpless.
Utterly helpless.
I love him.
I am in love with him.
Beautiful, perfect, kind, precise, guarded, hates-everyone-but-the-new-farmer-who-becomes-his-friend-through-sheer-persistence-and-unsolicited-gifts Samson.
My Samson.
I have spent half a decade pining over his pixelated portrait, learning his ways, hoping, wishing, praying, dreaming.
The man has a sweet tooth, but he never goes into town unless he absolutely has to, and he definitely doesnotgo to Chrysa’s sweets shop because he refuses to let on to anyone that he’s softer than a standoffish retired warrior. People make him just as uncomfortable as they make me. He’s just as worried about how he’s perceived as I am.
Basically, our social anxieties are soulmates, and they are going to grow up to have many babies together.
Before I am entirely done beholding the impressive girth of his shoulders, Samson rises. “Leave as soon as you can stand.”
His voice sends a shudder careening down my spine.
But that isnothis first dialogue.
In the game, he says,Another farmer? That fool finally conned someone into taking over the land beside mine, huh? Just stay on your side, and we won’thave any problems.
Unlike with most farm sims I’ve played, you actually need to build a relationship with Samson before he’ll sell you any animals.
In other words, to progress the game youhaveto interact with Samson. Youhaveto learn all about this angel’s lore, then you have to stand idly by as you reach eight friendship hearts with no hope of requited love.
In other, other words, WonderGlass is a monster.
Gathering my strength, I say, “Hello. I’m the new farmer, Citrus.”
“I don’t care.”
Years of childhood neglect make that statement basically flirting, so my silly little face heats. A lost cause, I trot blindly ahead, proceeding with the safest dialogue path I have ever found. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Surelyit hasn’t been.”
I present my arms. “Thank you so much for taking care of me.” My heart hammers as I catch a glimpse of the appendages I am presenting. Faintly freckled. Fully dirt spattered. I am amess. A complete mess. I need to make so much money soon and buy cute clothes from Ines and figure out how to bathe and have thebiggestglow up montage ever.
It’s important.
For mental health.
For morale.
ForSamson.
Since I’m adrift aboard S.S. Delusion, it takes me a long while to realize Samson does not look pleased. He mutters, “Can you not stand?”
