Page 9

He sets the coffee mug down. "Harper."

"No, it's fine. You were clear from the start. One weekend, no foot traffic after dark, no pumpkin spice on your precious land. I got the terms."

"That's not what that call was about."

"Then what was it about?"

He's quiet for a beat. Two. Three. The man uses silence the way other people use words, to build a wall nobody can climb.

"Silas heard I let someone use the south field. He wanted to know if I'd consider leasing it permanently. For development."

"And you said no because it's your land."

"Because it's the last piece of my family's land." His voice drops. "My father sold everything else. Three hundred acres that belonged to my grandfather and his grandfather before him. Sold it because he got in over his head with debt and didn't know how to ask for help. The couple who bought the parcel your pumpkin patch sits on? They bought it from my father's creditors at auction. I was sixteen. I watched from the driveway."

The air leaves the kitchen.

"Emmett."

"The south field is the only piece left. It doesn't grow anything. It doesn't earn anything. But it's mine, and as long as I'm alive, nobody's turning it into a parking lot or a subdivision or anything else that erases the fact that Drakes built this land."

I understand. I do. Generational loss. Legacy. The specific kind of grief that comes from watching something your family built get handed to strangers. I understand it because my parents had a version of it. They ran a small farm in Ontario that got swallowed by a corporate agriculture buyout. They didn't lose everything but they lost enough to make the word property feel like a bruise.

But understanding doesn't undo what I heard. A favor. Temporary. The field goes back to grass.

"What am I, then?" I ask. Not accusatory. Honest. "Because last night didn't feel temporary. Last night felt like something, Emmett, and if I'm reading it wrong, I need to know now before I read it worse."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His hands grip the counter edge. Big, scarred, capable hands that held me like I was something precious eight hours ago.

"I don't know how to answer that."

The honest answer. The wrong one.

"Okay." I nod. Set the coffee down. "I'm going to go finish setting up the field. You don't have to help. It's your land and it's my project and those things can stay separate."

"Harper."

"Thank you for the eggs."

I walk out before my face can betray what my voice is hiding. Bear follows me to the door, tail low, sensing the shift the way dogs do.

The south field is beautiful in the morning. Frost on the grass. Pumpkins in neat rows waiting to be arranged. String lights coiled on the ground like sleeping snakes. It's going to be gorgeous. My best work. A festival display that will save the Autumn Harvest and prove to every person who called this a hobby that Harper Coleman builds things that matter.

I just wish the man whose land I'm standing on could say the same about me.

My phone buzzes.

Sage:

How was the steak dinner? Winking emoji energy.

Me:

The steak was great. The morning after was educational.

Sage:

Oh no. What did he do.