Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The valley smelled like wet grass, old dreams, and something sweet blooming just out of reach. Aly stepped off the rickety bus with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a cat carrier in the other, boots muddy from the last pit stop and her heart doing somersaults beneath her flannel.

Peach let out an offended little mewl — the mewl of a creature who’d endured hours of public transportation and now expected red carpet treatment, thank you very much.

“I know, I know,” Aly muttered, nudging the carrier gently with her boot as she took in the sleepy little town blinking back at her. “But hey. No more cramped apartments. No more angry upstairs neighbors banging on the ceiling. Just fields, skies, and dirt under our nails.”

Peach did not look impressed.

Aly squinted toward the worn sign pointing down the winding road to Willow Grove Farm. Her grandfather’s old land. Overgrown, abandoned, hers now. It felt… big. In the terrifying kind of way.

It was still early. The light had that fuzzy spring softness, like the whole day was wrapped in gauze. She was supposed to head straight to the farmhouse, but something tugged at her — a sign just past the path, half-hidden behind a hedge:
Marnie’s Ranch →

Peach let out a suspicious purr as Aly veered off course.

(...)

The bell over Marnie’s door jingled like it hadn’t been used all winter. Inside, the shop smelled like feed, sawdust, and something distinctly animal. A sleepy-looking cow blinked at her from a pen in the back. The register counter was unmanned.

“Hello?” Aly called out, stepping cautiously inside, Peach still safely tucked in her carrier and absolutely not approving of this detour.

A thud sounded from the back. Then—

“One second!” came a voice — warm, worn, and rushing. A moment later, Marnie bustled into view, apron dusted with straw and sleeves rolled up like she'd been elbow-deep in something questionable.

“Oh! You must be the new farmer!” she said, wiping her hands and smiling wide. “Aly, right?”

“That’s me,” Aly said, shifting awkwardly. “Sorry to drop in unannounced. I just... saw the sign. Thought I’d check it out.”

“Well, you’re welcome anytime,” Marnie said. “Though I’m not sure you’ll need anything just yet — unless you’re thinking of jumping straight into livestock?”

Aly opened her mouth to say no, obviously not, who does that on their first day — and then she heard it.

A low, impatient whinny. Hoofbeats in the paddock just outside.

She turned to the window, and there — flame-colored, proud, practically glowing in the morning sun — stood a horse. Wild-eyed. Wind-tossed. The kind of creature that looked like it could carry you away from all your mistakes and straight into a better story.

Aly blinked. “Who’s that?”

Marnie followed her gaze. “Oh, that’s Wildfire. Nobody’s claimed him yet. Bit of a free spirit — doesn’t take to just anyone.”

There was absolutely no logic in what happened next. Aly could practically feel Peach judging her from the carrier floor, ears pinned in disbelief.

“I’ll take him,” she said, voice firm.

Marnie blinked. “You… don’t even have a stable.”

“I’ll build one,” Aly replied, already moving toward the door like she hadn’t just decided to adopt a whole horse before unpacking her toothbrush.

Outside, Wildfire snorted as she approached — not spooked, not quite friendly either. Just watching her with that wild, burning look in his eye like he was sizing her up too.

Aly smiled. “Yeah, I don’t know what I’m doing either. But I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”

Behind her, Marnie was still rambling about tack and stable permits when the side gate creaked open and in walked a man in a brown jacket and mayoral energy. Slightly hunched, mustache trimmed like he trimmed it with rules and regrets. Mayor Lewis.

“Oh!” Marnie said, jumping slightly. “Lewis, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Lewis tipped his hat. “Mornin’, Marnie. Just thought I’d… check on things. You know. Post-winter inventory and all.”

His eyes slid to Aly. She noticed how he avoided looking at Wildfire. Or at Marnie. Too directly, anyway.

“You must be the new farmer,” he said, mustache twitching. “Welcome to the valley.”

Aly nodded. “Thanks.”

A pause. Too long. Too polite. Something unsaid humming just beneath the surface, like a wire pulled tight.

“Well,” Lewis said at last, adjusting his collar. “I won’t keep you.”

He left with a nod and a shuffle. Marnie watched him go, her hands clasped tight in front of her. Then she turned back to Aly, all smiles again — a little too fast.

Aly didn’t say anything. Just scratched behind Peach’s ears and watched the mayor walk away down the path. She had a feeling she'd walked into more than just her grandfather’s land.

And she was very good at noticing things.

(...)

The path wound higher into the hills, flanked by wildflowers and mossy rocks that seemed to glow in the morning light. Peach had finally stopped meowing, either resigned to her fate or planning revenge in silence.

Just ahead, a hand-painted sign swung gently in the breeze:
ROBIN’S WOOD SHOP
Custom Carpentry • Home Upgrades • Friendly Advice

Below that, in smaller, more chaotic letters:
Please don’t knock during hammer time.

Aly snorted. “Good to know.”

She climbed the porch steps, the creak of old wood beneath her boots oddly satisfying, and knocked anyway — because she had never feared consequences in her life.

A sharp THWACK rang out from inside, followed by footsteps. Robin opened the door with a bright, breezy energy, sleeves rolled up and curls pulled back like she was ready to rebuild the entire town if given an afternoon and enough coffee.

“Hey! You must be Aly, the new farmer, right?”

“That’s me,” Aly said, shifting Peach’s carrier to the other hip. “I made a... bold decision this morning.”

“Oh?” Robin leaned her weight against the railing, intrigued.

“I bought a horse.”

There was a pause. Robin blinked once. Then: “You don’t have a stable.”

“I’m aware.”

Robin let out a low chuckle. “That’s kind of iconic, actually.”

“Can you build me one?” Aly asked, setting Peach down with a dramatic sigh. “Like, soon? Before Wildfire starts making a nest in my attic?”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “You already named him?”

Aly smirked. “Didn’t have to. Marnie said his name was Wildfire. Guess he came with a personality and a warning label.”

Robin laughed, a full, ringing sound. “That’s very Marnie.”

“Yeah,” Aly said, half-grinning. “Fits him, though. He looked at me like he’s already planning his jailbreak.”

“Well, you’ll need some materials first. And gold,” she added with a sympathetic wince, like she knew the early-game struggle intimately. “A lot of gold.”

Aly sighed and glanced toward the trees. “Guess it’s time to make this farming thing actually happen.”

“I can draw up the plans for you today,” Robin offered, already pulling out a clipboard. “And hey — for what it’s worth? That’s a damn fine start. Most people just plant parsnips on day one.”

Aly cracked a tired grin. “I’ll get to the parsnips.”

Peach sneezed delicately. As if to say, you better.

(...)

The bell above the general store door gave a cheery jingle as Aly stepped inside, boots still dusted with dry soil, pockets significantly lighter after her visit to Robin. The place smelled like hay, paper, and the faint trace of apples gone just a little too soft.

Pierre glanced up from behind the counter, his eyes lighting up with the gleam of a man who could smell a transaction from across the valley.

“Ah! You must be the new farmer,” he said, smoothing down his apron. “Welcome! You’ve come to the right place. Everything you need to get started — seeds, fertilizer, energy tonics, the occasional decorative gnome...”

“I’ll pass on the gnome,” Aly muttered, already eyeing the packets on the shelf. Parsnips, cauliflower, beans... Her fingers hovered over the colorful little envelopes, mentally tallying what she could afford now that Wildfire’s new real estate had wiped her out.

She grabbed a handful of parsnip seeds, a couple cauliflowers, and a lone green bean starter out of pure optimism. By the time she made it to the counter, her wallet was crying.

Pierre rang her up with the speed of a man who’d done this dance a thousand times. “Anything else?”

“No,” Aly said, staring at the receipt like it might apologize. “Unless you sell regrets by the bundle.”

“Only in the back, next to the impulse purchases.”

She was halfway out the door when something on the wall caught her eye — a bulletin board, pinned with notes and flyers, and beside it, a calendar in neat handwriting. “SPRING” was scrawled across the top, days lined with names and flowers.

Haley — 14th
Egg Festival — 13th
Lewis — 7th
Flower Dance — 24th

Aly leaned in. Someone had doodled a daffodil next to Haley’s name. Cutesy, a little smug. It felt like it had been there a while.

She filed that away, quietly. Just like she had the glance between Marnie and Lewis.

The bag of seeds crinkled at her side as she stepped back out into the spring sun. The town was waking up. A few people milled around the square. Kids’ laughter echoed from the south path.

Aly adjusted the strap on her shoulder, let out a breath—and took the long way home, her boots clicking against cobblestone.

And then she saw her.

She was standing near the fountain, arms crossed, bathed in sunlight like the world had personally requested her for the morning.

Blonde hair — not just blonde, but that storybook gold that caught every beam of light and threw it back tenfold. Perfectly waved, not a strand out of place, like the wind had signed a peace treaty with her. Her eyes were piercing blue, sharp as lake ice and just as unforgiving.

She wore a sleeveless blue blouse, cinched and gathered delicately around the bust in that way Aly only ever saw in magazines or boutiques she never walked into. Her skirt was bubblegum-pink and puffed out gently like cotton candy, complete with a hidden petticoat that gave it bounce. Everything about her shimmered, from her polished nails to the gleaming necklace at her throat — a single gem, almost the same color as her eyes. Sapphire, maybe. Or something rarer.

She looked like a birthday card.

And then she looked at Aly.

The glance was swift, thorough, and not even trying to be subtle. A slow rake of her eyes, from the scuffed boots to the dirt-streaked flannel, to the loose braid sliding down Aly’s back. Peach let out a soft mrrp from the carrier, offended on her behalf.

Haley tilted her head.

“You’re that new farmer, aren’t you?”

Aly blinked. “Uh. Yeah.”

The blonde gave a breezy, almost bored smile. “Oh... I’m Haley.”  Then, like a blade slipped between ribs:  “Hmm... If it weren’t for those horrendous clothes, you might actually be cute.”

It hit with all the grace of a glitter bomb and none of the charm.

Aly opened her mouth. Closed it. Peach growled low in her throat like a fancy little kettle.

Well, Aly thought, guess I met the queen bee.

(...)

The soil was still cool under her palms as Aly dug her fingers in, pressing each seed gently into its new home. Parsnips, beans, cauliflower — her future, buried one packet at a time.

Peach sat like a cream-colored loaf beside the tilled earth, tail flicking with judgy precision. She hadn’t forgiven Aly for the horse impulse buy. Now she was watching her human mutter to herself like someone who’d stared too long into the abyss — or a pair of really blue eyes.

“‘Horrendous clothes,’” Aly echoed under her breath, stabbing a parsnip into the dirt with unnecessary force. “She said that. She really said that. Just—right to my face.”

Peach blinked slowly. Aly could feel the meow that wasn’t said vibrating in the air between them.

“I mean—what was that?” Aly grumbled. “Who meets someone and leads with an insult? In broad daylight? While looking like she walked out of a fairytale and into a fragrance ad?”

She tossed a bean seed with more passion than accuracy.

“And the worst part?” she added, wiping her hands on her pants, “She was pretty. Like, annoyingly pretty. That hair probably smells like fresh lilacs and social privilege.”

Peach sneezed delicately, clearly not impressed.

“I don’t care if she’s got a sapphire necklace and a royal decree,” Aly muttered. “She doesn’t get to look at me like I’m something she stepped in.”

She stared at the last seed packet in her hand, her fingers slack.

“…Do you think I am cute?”

Peach stood, turned her back on Aly, and walked away — tail held high like a banner of indifference.

“Rude,” Aly mumbled, dropping the final seeds into the dirt. “You're just like her.”

But later, as the sun dipped behind the treeline and the breeze carried the faintest hint of daffodils, Aly caught herself thinking about Haley again.

Not what she said. But how her lips curled when she said it.

And worse — the way Aly’s heart had skipped, just a little, before the insult even landed.

(...)

The stars glittered like rhinestones scattered across black velvet, and the beach was nearly empty — just the hush of waves and the soft scuff of Haley’s sandals against the sand.

He was already there, leaning against the driftwood log like he always did, arms crossed over his broad chest like he thought he belonged on a billboard. Alex grinned when he saw her, all white teeth and boyish charm.

“Took you long enough.”

“I had to make sure Emily was asleep,” Haley said, brushing a lock of golden hair over her shoulder. “She’s been snooping again. You’d think she actually cared what I was doing.”

Alex chuckled, stepping forward to slide an arm around her waist, tugging her close like he always did. Familiar. Easy.

They kissed. Passionate, in the way things are when there’s more heat than feeling. His hands in her hair, her fingers curled against his shoulder. A choreography they’d performed too many times to count.

When they finally pulled apart, Alex’s lips curved smug.

“Hey,” he said, breath still a little uneven, “heard something funny at the saloon today. Gus was talking about some new farmer that moved in. Girl. Real mystery-type.”

Haley arched a brow. “Yeah. I ran into her.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned in again, nipping playfully at her ear. “You didn’t seem too excited to chat. Feeling threatened?”

She stiffened.

Alex grinned. “Come on, babe. You don’t have to be jealous. No farmer girl’s gonna steal me away from you. ”

Haley rolled her eyes so hard it gave her a headache.

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, pulling him back into another kiss — partly to shut him up. Maybe partly to silence the weird twist in her stomach that she couldn’t quite name.

They kissed again. His hands wandered. The ocean hummed.

But Haley didn’t feel there. Not really.

She kept thinking about dirt under fingernails and a braid slung over a shoulder.

And about how that girl didn’t look at her like Alex did.

Didn’t touch her.

Didn’t need to.

Haley shoved the thought down with the rest and let herself disappear into the kiss.

For now.

[---]

The sun was already high by the time Aly wiped the sweat from her brow, boots caked in dirt, sleeves rolled up like a farmhand from a postcard. She’d helped Robin hammer beams into place for Wildfire’s future stable — mostly by handing her tools and trying not to look winded — and watered what felt like a thousand tiny baby crops gasping under the Spring sun.

Her stomach let out a dramatic growl. Like, Shakespearean levels of betrayal.

Robin raised a brow mid-swing of her hammer. “You eaten today?”

“Does coffee count?”

Robin made a face like Aly had personally offended her ancestors. “Go to the saloon. Tell Gus I sent you — I’ll cover it.”

“You sure? I can just—”

Robin waved her off. “No arguments. You’ve worked hard. Go eat before you pass out and fall into the well or something.”

Aly, too tired to protest again, trudged off toward town, dust in her hair, braid fraying at the ends.

(...)

Stardrop Saloon

It was cooler inside, with the low murmur of conversation and the smell of fried onions and something sweet wafting through the air. Gus greeted her with a booming hello, took one look at her and said, “Robin’s tab?” with a grin.

“Is it that obvious?”

He laughed and went off to plate something magical.

Aly spotted a girl behind the bar — wild blue hair, bright earrings, twirling a rag between her fingers like it had rhythm. Her eyes sparkled like she'd swallowed a disco ball.

“Hey,” the girl said, cheerful. “You’re the new farmer, right? Aly?”

“That’s me.” Aly slid onto a stool with a sigh. “And you are?”

“Emily. Resident bartender-slash-seamstress-slash-vibe curator.”

Aly chuckled. “Multi-talented. I respect that.”

They chatted for a bit — about birds (Emily loved them), weird dreams, the way the clouds looked like jellybeans today. The kind of oddball banter that made Aly feel, for once, like she wasn’t being measured and sorted into categories.

Somewhere between laughing about Gus’s mullet and discussing the emotional impact of ravens, Aly let her guard down.

“Well,” she said, poking at a curly fry, “at least not everyone here’s rude. I met this blonde yesterday — just dripping in judgment. Told me if I dressed better I’d be cute.”

Emily blinked.

Then grinned. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“That’s Haley.”

Aly paused mid-chew. “Haley as in...?”

“...My sister.”

Aly groaned and sank down onto the bar like she’d just been told she insulted the mayor’s prized cow. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Emily cackled. “Don’t worry. She’s... like that. She’ll grow on you.”

“Like mold?”

“Like those rare orchids that only bloom when insulted.”

Aly groaned and buried her face in her hands, but Emily just winked.

By the time Gus dropped off a plate piled high with roasted vegetables, buttered rolls, and some mystery stew that made Aly’s eyes water with joy, she’d even exchanged a few words with the guy brooding in the corner — Shane, apparently. He was quiet, sarcastic, and weirdly passionate about chickens. Emily did most of the talking for him, but Aly didn’t mind.

For the first time since stepping off the bus, Aly felt like maybe — maybe — she could belong here.

Or at least she wouldn’t starve trying.

[---]

By the time the stable was finished, Aly’s shoulders ached in ways she didn’t know they could. Robin packed up her toolbox with a proud little nod, brushing a stray curl from her forehead as she gave Wildfire a final pat on his velvety nose.

“He’s got good legs,” Robin said. “Strong. Smart, too.”

Aly wasn’t sure how you measured horse intelligence, but Wildfire had managed to avoid stepping on her foot all week, so maybe that counted for something.

Peach, of course, remained unimpressed. The cream-colored cat had spent most of the past few days perched on a nearby fence post, watching the new addition with narrowed eyes and the occasional disapproving tail flick. She’d accept the horse eventually. Probably. Maybe.

As Robin headed off down the path, waving goodbye and promising to stop by next week to check on the beams, Aly stood beside the freshly-built stable and let the silence settle in. The sun was dipping low, stretching golden over the fields. Her rows of sprouting parsnips looked like soldiers in formation — tiny, stubborn, full of promise.

The farm was coming to life. So was she.

(...)

That night, the ache in Aly’s shoulders told her she’d earned a break. Her hands were raw from hauling lumber and planting in stubborn soil, and her lower back had declared mutiny around noon.

Emily had mentioned Fridays were when the saloon came alive — "Everybody's there," she’d said with a wink. "Loud music, spilled drinks, small-town drama… it’s like dinner theater, but with more beer."

Aly hesitated. She wasn’t exactly in the mood for a crowd. But her fridge held one sad potato and half a jar of pickles, and her only conversation lately had been with her horse. So she scrubbed the dirt from under her nails, threw on the cleanest shirt she could find, and made the walk down.

The place was already buzzing. Lantern light pooled across tables where villagers leaned close, laughing too loud, clinking glasses like it was a sport. It was a different kind of Stardew — louder, looser, full of life and liquor.

Gus gave her a friendly nod from behind the bar. She didn’t even have to ask — “It’s on Robin’s tab,” he said, sliding over a plate and a cold drink.

She settled in. Shane was already at his usual seat, slouched low, beer in hand, wearing the expression of a man hoping the world wouldn’t notice him. Emily moved between tables like she was dancing instead of working, earrings catching the light with every toss of her head. There was something electric about her — soft chaos wrapped in sequins and kindness.

As Aly bit into something hot and fried, her eyes flicked toward the far end of the room — and there they were.

Marnie and Mayor Lewis.

They were talking — closely. Not scandalously. Not even particularly intimately. But Marnie’s body language was... telling. The way she tilted toward him, the way her face lit up at something he said. Like he was the only one in the room.

Aly blinked. Then looked away. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything. Either way, it stuck in her head like a burr.

Emily eventually made her way over, arms full of glasses, smile wide.

“You made it!” she chirped. “Told you — Friday night’s when the real Stardew shows up.”

Aly raised her glass in greeting. “It’s like a barn party in here.”

“You haven’t even seen Pam sing karaoke yet.”

They talked — about the stable (Robin did good work), the farm (Aly’s shoulders were dying), and birds again somehow (Emily adored the bluejays that sometimes nested near the forest edge). Even Shane tossed a comment or two her way, mostly about crop rotation and how you can’t trust cauliflower.

Between bites and banter, Aly’s gaze drifted again toward Marnie and Lewis.

“They seem close,” she said, as casually as someone commenting on the weather. “Marnie and the mayor.”

Emily looked up from stacking glasses, her smile twitching into something knowingly amused.

“They’re just good friends,” she said breezily. “Super good friends. The best of friends — just ask Marnie.”

Aly hummed low. “Right.”

Emily leaned in slightly, like she was letting Aly in on a secret that wasn’t a secret at all.

Then came the crash course. A glitter-covered cheat sheet to Pelican Town.

“That guy with the long hair and dramatic voice? That’s Elliott. Lives by the beach in this tiny cabin that somehow smells like old books and cologne. Wears button-downs and talks like he’s narrating a dramatic audiobook.”

Aly smirked. “Romantic type?”

“Oh, painfully. He’ll probably write a poem about you before you even learn his last name.”

Emily kept going, counting them off on her fingers.

“Leah’s the redhead — lives in a cottage near the river. She sculpts and forages and probably has deep thoughts about tree bark. Harvey’s the doctor — glasses, mustache, quietly polite. Penny’s the one with the braid — super sweet, teaches the kids. She and her mom live in the trailer near the river. Not easy, but Penny does her best.”

She nodded toward the back.

“Abigail has purple hair, loves the arcade machine, plays the flute sometimes. She’s Pierre and Caroline’s daughter. Sam’s her partner-in-chaos — blonde, hyper, wants to start a band. Then there’s Sebastian — their third musketeer. Wears black, lurks like it’s his job. He’s Robin’s kid, by the way. Quiet. Real ‘bad poetry in high school’ vibes.”

Aly chuckled. “Sounds like a crew.”

“It is. Pelican Town’s full of characters. We may not be big, but we’ve got range.”

Aly nodded slowly, mentally filing the names and quirks away.

“And your sister?” she asked, letting the question hang like it wasn’t loaded.

Emily didn’t even flinch. Just leaned back and smirked like the answer was obvious.

“Good luck getting her in here. Haley doesn’t do bars. Says they smell like sweat and desperation.”

Aly huffed a laugh, but her brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Interesting…”

And it was interesting — this little enigma wrapped in pink skirts, blue gems, and a perfectly arched eyebrow. The way Haley had looked at her like a passing curiosity. The way she said “might actually be cute” like it was a backhanded blessing. Aly wasn’t sure why she cared.

She just... did.

She took another sip — the drink going down easy now. Maybe it was the warmth in the room, or the way Emily talked with her whole self, or how Shane grunted something that almost passed for friendly.

But something about tonight felt like the start of belonging.

And maybe — just maybe — she was starting to like it here.

Chapter Text

Aly wasn’t keeping track of Haley. Not really. But she did notice her.

Like how the blonde would breeze by on the path from the fountain, head held high, camera slung over her shoulder like it belonged in a museum, eyes trained anywhere but on Aly. Not a glance. Not a nod. Just this queen-of-the-crop energy that somehow made Aly feel like a weed in her own field.

“She saw me,” Aly muttered one afternoon, elbow-deep in compost. “We literally locked eyes. And she looked through me. That’s a superpower.”

Peach, sunbathing nearby, blinked once and went back to ignoring her too. Traitor.

(...)

On Tuesday, while Aly watered her newly finished stable — Wildfire tossing his mane like a diva — Emily swung by with a bright wave and a pouch of jazz seeds.

“They grow these funky little blue-petaled things,” she said, holding the seeds like treasure. “Totally impractical, but they sing if the wind hits them right.”

“They what now?”

“Well, not like literally, unless you’re super dehydrated. But they’re pretty.”
She winked. “Every garden needs a little drama.”

They chatted about crop growth, dream vacations (Emily wanted to see a gemstone cave in the desert), and the best bar snack Gus made ("the crispy radish bites, no question").

That’s when Shane arrived, muttering about work and holding two beers.

“Don’t let her talk you into tasting her kombucha experiments,” he warned Aly, deadpan.

Emily gasped. “It’s not kombucha, it’s elixir of the forest.”

“You put pinecones in it.”

“They’re full of minerals!”

“...You tried to poison me with tree water.”

Aly snorted so hard she nearly spit her drink. These two, she realized, were weird in exactly the way she liked.

(...)

By Wednesday, Clint started showing up wherever Emily was. It wasn’t subtle.

He’d hover at the saloon door, pretend to polish the same stool for twenty minutes, and go bright red every time she looked his way. Aly caught him mumbling into his beer once, something about “her smile.”

Emily smiled at everyone.

One night, Clint cornered Emily behind the bar, rambling about upgrading her copper tools “any time, totally free,” standing too close, his eyes not quite on her face.

Aly stepped in fast. “Hey, Em, Shane and I were just talking about how the jukebox is definitely haunted. You gotta hear this.”

Emily’s grateful glance said it all. Shane raised a brow but followed her lead, launching into a deadpan ghost story involving polka music and Pam’s missing shoe.

After Clint finally slinked out, Emily exhaled. “He’s… harmless, I guess. But it’s still gross. I’ve told him I’m not interested.”

“You want me to dump pinecones in his lunch?” Shane offered.

“I’ll help,” Aly added.

“Aw,” Emily beamed. “My weird little guard dogs.”

(...)

By Thursday, Aly noticed something new: the little garden near Emily and Haley’s house.

Not the tidy vegetable patch — the one just past it, where wild daffodils were blooming in a crescent under the window.

Delicate things. Soft yellow, sunny-faced, scattered with intention. Aly tilted her head.

Haley’s garden?

And suddenly, something clicked.

That day at the fountain. The way she said “cute” like it meant “pitiful.” The camera. The flowers. The walls she built with lip gloss and pointed silence.

Aly found herself holding one of the daffodils later, absentmindedly. It fit oddly perfect in her hand. Light. Fragile. Kind of like a peace offering.

(...)

Friday, at the saloon, Aly asked Emily casually — as if it were nothing. Just... conversation.

“Hey, does your sister like flowers?”

Emily looked over with a crooked smile. “She does. But don’t expect her to admit it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Haley’s allergic to sincerity.”

That got a laugh out of Shane. “She once told me smiling too much gives you wrinkles.”

“She’s a peach,” Emily said, affectionate but honest. “But she is complicated.”

Aly stared at her drink for a beat. “I think I’m gonna give her a flower on her birthday.”

Shane nearly choked on his beer. Emily looked intrigued.

“Brave,” she said. “Or maybe a little dumb.”

“Same thing sometimes,” Aly replied, grinning.

And so the seed was planted.

[---]

The light was almost perfect.

It slanted through the trees in soft gold ribbons, catching the fresh green of new leaves and the gentle ripple of the riverbank. Haley crouched, carefully adjusting the focus on her camera, boots sinking just a little too far into the mud for her liking. She grimaced, lifted one heel.

“Gross,” she muttered. “Why can’t nature be beautiful and clean?”

But the shot? The shot was stunning. A heron lifting off from the water, wings mid-arc, sun touching every feather. She pressed the shutter just in time.

A perfect moment.

She was just reviewing the photo when she heard footsteps behind her—slow, hesitant ones. She didn’t even bother turning around. Nobody normal walked like that.

“Hi,” said a voice. The farmer voice.

Haley didn’t move.

“Hey, uh… I know this is kind of random. But, um…” A pause. The sound of someone shifting their weight, probably trying not to spook her. “Happy birthday.”

Birthday? Haley blinked, finally glancing over her shoulder.

There stood the farmer — Aly — holding out a daffodil. It was small, a little crumpled at the edge, but undeniably bright. Golden. Spring in flower form.

Haley raised an eyebrow, trying to decide if this was a joke.

“You got me a birthday gift?” Haley asked, eyebrows lifting just slightly. Her voice was neutral, maybe a little caught off guard. She looked down at the daffodil in her hand.  “…Well. I really like it.”

She didn’t sound excited, but she didn’t not mean it. And she took the flower. Turned it slowly in her fingers.

Aly smiled. Not a smug smile, not even a hopeful one — just… real. Like she’d won something small, and precious, and secret.

It threw Haley off more than she liked to admit.

“I saw them growing near the forest path,” Aly said, still casual. “Thought it might be your thing.”

Haley narrowed her eyes, as if that might reveal some ulterior motive. But all she saw was dust-smudged boots, sunburned cheeks, and a softness behind Aly’s eyes that felt wildly out of place.

“Thanks,” she said at last, and it wasn’t sarcastic.

The farmer nodded and left her to her camera and the heron and the half-dried mud. Haley watched her walk away, daffodil in hand.

Then she looked down at the flower in hers.

It wasn’t wrapped. There was no note. Just a daffodil — picked, carried, given. No fanfare.

Haley wasn’t used to that.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

So she tucked the flower gently into her bag, zipped it shut, and got back to work.

Sort of.

Because the light wasn’t as perfect anymore.

But maybe that was okay.

Chapter Text

By the third week of Spring, Aly was finally seeing green — literal and financial. Her parsnips had sold well, potatoes even better, and there was a neat little pouch of gold jingling on her hip for the first time since she’d stepped off the bus. The farmhouse was still mostly empty, her mattress still too firm, but it felt hers now — even if the floors creaked like old bones and the wallpaper had definitely seen better decades.

She packed up some seeds for replanting, scratched behind Peach’s ears, and decided, on a whim, to stop by the Carpenter’s — maybe ask Robin about a kitchen upgrade. But halfway through her walk, something tugged her feet in another direction.

Emily.

Aly wasn’t sure what she needed exactly. Maybe advice. Maybe a laugh. Maybe just someone who didn’t expect her to be anyone but a girl trying her best.

So she turned toward town.

The sisters’ house looked normal from the outside — quaint, sunny, flowers swaying politely in the breeze. But the moment Aly stepped inside, the tension hit like humidity before a storm.

“I cleaned under the couch last week, Emily!” Haley’s voice rang from the living room. “God, are you keeping a tally or something?”

“It’s literally covered in crumbs again! You eat in front of the TV and then pretend it’s not your problem!”

“I eat gracefully, thank you—”

“You dropped an entire cookie and pushed it under with your foot!”

Aly lingered awkwardly near the door. Peach, tucked under her arm, blinked at the noise like not my circus.

Emily noticed her first. “Aly! Oh—uh—sorry, come in! We’re just... having a healthy exchange of household responsibilities.”

Haley was on the couch, arms crossed, expression set in marble. She looked like she belonged in an art gallery titled ‘Petulance in Pink.’ She scoffed like a martyr. “Tell her I did it last week.”

Emily crossed her arms. “Tell her it still looks like a raccoon nest.”

Aly bit the inside of her cheek, then said, as diplomatically as a girl with dirt under her nails could, “Haley, why not make this your one weekly job? Like… your domain. The sacred realm of the couch cushions.”

There was a long pause. Haley glanced at Aly, then at Emily, then at the abyss that was the crack between sofa and frame.

“…Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m not touching anything fuzzy.”

“Deal,” Emily said brightly. “No fungi, no mysterious fluff. We’ll glove you up.”

Haley rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. A truce had been struck. Aly, somehow, had emerged victorious from the Great Cushion Conflict.

(...)

Later, Emily disappeared into her room, claiming she needed a moment to "rebalance her aura." Aly didn’t question it.

She was about to leave when she noticed the door was ajar — and heard chanting.

Aly peeked in.

Emily was levitating. Not high, just a breath above the floor, legs crossed, eyes closed, a soft hum vibrating in the room like tuning forks against her ribs. Her crystals glowed faintly in the window light.

“...power, clarity, joy,” she murmured. “Openness. Radiance. Flow.”

Aly blinked. “Emily?”

The woman didn’t open her eyes — just slowly floated back to the ground and smiled. “You have good timing.”

“That’s one way to describe it.”

Emily stood and smoothed her skirt. “I was just centering. The energy’s been strange lately. Fluxy.”

Aly tilted her head. “Fluxy?”

“You,” Emily said, pointing gently, “are part of it. I’ve been picking up on something since the moment you arrived. You’ve got... threads, Aly. Tied into things you haven’t seen yet.”

“Like fate?” Aly asked, half-skeptical, half-intrigued.

“Like possibility,” Emily corrected, her smile soft and strange. “The Valley’s waking up. And you’re tangled in the dream.”

Aly didn’t know what to say to that. But she didn’t hate hearing it.

She left the house feeling a little lighter.

And maybe — just maybe — a little more curious about what this strange place had planned for her next.

[---]

The next few days passed in a quiet rhythm — plant, water, sell, repeat. Aly’s hands were rougher now, her back a little sorer, but there was something satisfying about seeing neat rows of green poking up from the earth like promises. Even Peach seemed to respect the routine, snoozing in sunbeams like a feline deity.

On Wednesday, Emily caught her in the town square. “Hey!” she called out, waving a reusable bag full of oddly shaped vegetables. “It’s my day off. Want to come over for a super chill, veggie-powered meal? I’m making salad. Or something like salad. Possibly soup. Possibly chaos.”

Aly, who had been subsisting mostly on bread and mild despair, didn’t need convincing.

They ended up in the sisters’ sunny kitchen, elbows-deep in sliced carrots and chopped kale. Emily hummed while she worked, occasionally tossing something leafy toward Aly like a game of edible darts.

Aly wiped her hands on a dish towel and leaned against the counter, grinning. “So… how’s the Great Couch Crusade going? Did Haley acknowledge your heroic victory, or is she still pretending you imagined the crumbs?”

Emily snorted, nearly slicing a radish sideways. “She vacuumed this morning with the rage of a thousand suns. It was beautiful. I think she’s processing responsibility like it’s a new and offensive fashion trend.”

Before Aly could reply, a very real Haley appeared in the doorway, wrestling with a glass jar like it owed her money.

“Ugh. I hate this stupid thing,” she muttered, twisting the lid with all the fury of someone wronged by condiments. Then she looked up, saw Aly, and without missing a beat: “You’re strong, right?”

Aly blinked. “Uh. Sure?”

“Great,” Haley said, marching over and shoving the jar into her hands. “Then you shouldn’t have any problem opening this.”

Aly twisted once — pop! — lid surrendered.

Haley blinked. “Stronger than you look,” she muttered, and walked off like it hadn’t bested her for ten solid minutes.

Emily leaned over the counter, eyes wide. “That was her version of a love confession.”

Aly, still holding the warm jar lid, raised an eyebrow. “She handed me fermented beets.”

“Exactly,” Emily whispered. “Scandalous.”

(...)

It was nearly midnight when Haley slipped out the side door, jacket barely hanging on her shoulders, boots light on the old path that curved behind Alex’s house. The moon was high, full and heavy, casting silver over the tide. The grass whispered against her legs. Everything was quiet except the sea.

He was already there, waiting, half-shadow beneath the old cypress tree they always met under — like something out of a bad romance novel and too proud of it.

“Hey, babe,” he said, voice low and eager, pulling her in like she was a habit.

Their mouths met quick and hot, no preamble. He tasted like cheap mint gum and something sweeter — probably the energy drink he loved. Haley kissed him harder. Desperate to feel something. Anything. To remind herself she wanted this. Wanted him.

His hands roamed her waist, bold and familiar. Her fingers brushed the curve of his bicep, tracing the muscle as if memorizing proof of his strength.

Strong.

But suddenly — stupidly — her brain flashed to the farmer. Aly, fingers wrapped around a jar she couldn’t open. The easy pop of the lid, the way Aly had barely reacted. Like strength was just a thing she wore, like denim. Practical. No flexing needed.

“Haley,” Alex murmured, lips grazing her jaw. “You’re spacing out.”

She blinked. “No. I’m here.” A beat, then her voice turned sugary, teasing — automatic. “You’ve gotten stronger, though. You working out more or what?”

He laughed, clearly appeased. “Told you. I’ve been crushing it. Might be the protein powder.”

She hummed and leaned back into him, kissing him again, trying to drown the flicker of something else. Someone else.

Aly. Always with that calm, grounded stare. Like she was watching the world from somewhere deeper.

Haley shoved the thought down and kissed harder, nails pressing into Alex’s shoulder.

She didn’t come out here for complications.

She came for escape.

Chapter Text

The morning of the Flower Dance dawned in soft pastels, like the Valley itself was trying to match her dress.

Haley stood before the mirror in her bedroom, tilting her head this way and that, watching the sunlight dapple her bare shoulders. The dress was white, pure in color but decadent in detail — a sweetheart neckline, a soft flare at the bottom, and a dainty, handmade flower crown perched in her golden waves. She looked like something out of a storybook. A princess, yes, but the kind that would politely decline your invitation and ruin your day without smudging her lipstick.

Emily peeked in and gave a low whistle. “Wow. You look like the goddess of passive-aggressive comments and garden parties.”

Haley smirked. “Thanks.”

She didn’t care what anyone else wore. Today, she was the main event.

(...)

The clearing in the forest was strung with banners and petals, villagers milling about like bees drunk on pollen and gossip. The mayor was making the rounds, puffed up and cheerful. Marnie stood beside him, laughing a little too brightly, her hand brushing his sleeve now and then.

Haley narrowed her eyes. God, it’s so obvious, she thought, sipping her punch with just enough poise to look uninterested. How does nobody else see it? She practically giggles every time he says the word “fertilizer.”

She turned away, scanning the crowd.

Alex found her before she could pretend to look busy. “There you are,” he said, flashing his usual smug grin. “Was starting to think you'd gone soft on me.”

Haley laughed. Not because it was funny — because it was expected. She slid her arm around his. “Please. You think I’d miss the chance to show up every girl here?”

They stood near the punch bowl, chatting and preening like two lions sunbathing in the middle of the savannah. Haley laughed at something Alex said — sharp and sugary. No one could tell it was fake.

Well. No one but her.

She was halfway through another empty giggle when she caught movement from the edge of the clearing.

Aly.

The farmer approached with that earthy, unbothered gait, like she’d just wandered in from planting stars instead of potatoes. Her sleeves were rolled, a smudge of dirt near her collarbone. And yet — she looked like she belonged there, among the wildflowers and music, in a way Haley couldn’t explain or stand.

“Aly.” Haley said her name like a reflex, not quite a greeting.

The girl offered a shy smile. “Hey. You, uh... look great.”

Haley raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Aly shifted her weight. “I was wondering if... maybe you’d dance with me?”

Alex snorted. “What is this, a rom-com? Sorry, farmer. She’s taken.”

Haley turned, and for a single moment, she thought about it. About saying yes. About shocking everyone, just to feel something real.

But then her mouth opened, and something sharp fell out.

“ Ew. ”

It landed between them like a stone in a pond. The music kept playing, unaware.

Aly’s smile faltered. Just a flicker. Not enough to cause a scene. But enough.

She gave a quick nod — not quite a bow, not quite defeat — and turned away.

Haley didn’t watch her go. Couldn’t. She just looped her arm tighter around Alex’s and said, “So. You gonna twirl me or not?”

(...)

The dance began.

Penny beamed at Sam like he’d hung the moon. Abigail and Sebastian did their usual sarcastic shuffle, pretending not to care. Leah leaned into Elliott like he was made of poetry. Emily and Shane surprised everyone with their clumsy, laughing spins — two puzzle pieces from different boxes, somehow fitting.

Haley moved with Alex through the steps, the picture-perfect pair.

She smiled.

And she hated every second of it.

[---]

Three days had passed since the Flower Dance, but Aly could still feel it like a splinter under the skin.

She hadn’t gone into town since. Hadn’t seen Haley. Hadn’t wanted to.

The image kept replaying in her head: Haley in that white dress, crown of daisies resting like a halo, laughing at something Alex said—maybe something dumb, maybe not. Aly hadn’t heard it. She’d only heard her own voice asking, quietly, awkwardly, if Haley wanted to dance.

And Haley’s reply, sharp and sweet like a poisoned candy:

“Ew.”

Aly had smiled. Nodded. Stepped back.

Alex had laughed. Haley hadn’t.

Now it was the end of Spring, and Emily’s birthday had arrived like a bright note in a melancholy week.

Aly almost didn’t go.

She’d stood on the porch with Peach curled around her ankles, hands full of wrapped quartz and locally foraged tea leaves, wondering if it would be easier to just pretend she forgot. But the idea of Emily waiting on her birthday, scanning the door, hoping for people to show—nope. Couldn’t do it. That was worse.

Peach meowed at her like get over yourself, and that was that.

The house smelled like warm herbs and cardamom when Aly knocked.

Emily answered in a blue velvet dress that caught the light like moonwater. “Aly! You came! I had a feeling you would.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Aly said, stepping inside.

The living room had been transformed. Paper lanterns floated lazily in the corners. A record played soft lo-fi jazz. Someone had strung together wildflowers and crystals along the mantelpiece.

Shane was already there, somehow. Sitting awkwardly on the edge of the couch with a beer and a box from the Saloon in his lap.

“Hey,” he said to Aly, with a half-shrug. “Cake.”

“Thanks, Shane,” Emily said brightly, plucking the box from him. “You always bring the good kind. You pretend to be all grump, but deep down you’re a dessert romantic.”

“I’ll deny it under oath,” Shane muttered, but there was a tiny smile lurking there.

Haley showed up twenty minutes later.

She looked different. Jeans, hoodie, hair tied back. No gloss, no gold shimmer. Just Haley, stripped of her princess armor.

She nodded toward Aly once. No words.

The evening drifted like smoke.

They ate cake. Emily opened gifts and gasped theatrically at every single one. Shane brought her a polished geode; Haley gave her a necklace she’d clearly borrowed from their mother’s old stash. Aly handed over the quartz and tea blend, and Emily’s eyes went soft.

“This feels... like something sacred,” she whispered. “You have a gift, you know. Not just farming. Intention.”

Aly flushed. “It’s just a rock and some leaves.”

Emily smiled like she knew something Aly didn’t.

At some point, Aly slipped into the kitchen to help clean up. Haley followed. It was probably accidental. Or not.

Aly rinsed a plate. Haley hovered near the counter, fidgeting with a spoon.

“Hey,” Haley said, after a too-long silence. “About the Flower Dance.”

Aly didn’t look up. “What about it?”

“I was kind of a jerk.”

A beat.

Aly set the plate aside. “You think?”

Haley winced. “Okay, yeah. I just—I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It came out wrong.”

Aly turned to her. “So what did you mean?”

Haley opened her mouth. Closed it. Shook her head. “Never mind. Just… sorry.”

Aly studied her for a moment. Then shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Haley said. But she didn’t push it.

They went back to the living room.

Emily and Shane were laughing. Not loud, not dramatic—just something soft and shared. He said something under his breath, and she elbowed him. He stole one of her grapes. She let him.

Aly watched them. The way Emily leaned just a little too close. The way Shane didn’t pull away.

Something was blooming there. Slow. Subtle. Like a seed tucked in quiet soil.

Aly didn’t say a word.

She just smiled.

And stayed a little longer than she planned.

Chapter Text

The first day of Summer arrived like a paintbrush dipped in sunlight — bright, golden, and humming with the scent of ripe grass and lavender. The breeze held a different kind of warmth now, one that didn’t just kiss the skin but curled around it like silk.

Emily stepped out of her house barefoot, eyes still blinking sleep from their corners, arms stretching overhead like she was reaching for the sky. Her earrings shimmered in the light, catching morning like they’d been waiting for it.

Three parrots swooped down in an arc above her, colorful blurs in a blue canvas. Emily gasped — delighted, not startled — and spun around like a child. “Good morning, my beautiful friends!” she sang, waving as they fluttered over her roof and off toward the mountains.

She took one step toward town.

And then heard a thud.

A fourth parrot — smaller than the others, maybe younger — veered in too low and crashed into the front window with a sickening bonk. The sound made her wince. Emily spun on her heel, heart leaping into her throat.

“Oh no—no, no, no—”

The little thing had tumbled onto the porch, feathers ruffled and body still. Emily knelt beside it instantly, gentle hands hovering as if afraid to make things worse. Its chest moved — faintly, shakily.

“You poor thing…” she whispered, scooping it up carefully. “What were you thinking, flying like that? You’ve got to learn how to steer, sweetheart.”

The parrot let out a weak, confused squawk.

“That’s okay,” Emily said softly, cradling it like glass. “You’re safe now. I’ll take care of you.”

And with that, Emily stood, carrying the injured bird back into the house like it was a sacred little flame.

(...)

Aly had woken with the sun, just like always — half from habit, half because her rooster was still a wild fantasy. No animals yet. Just crops, cracked boots, and the occasional existential crisis over whether her beans were thriving emotionally.

Peach trailed after her like a shadow with a purr, tail flicking in rhythm as they headed into town. The first day of Summer buzzed with potential, all soft blue skies and warm breezes that smelled like basil and freedom. Aly had a letter for Pierre’s and plans to maybe — maybe — talk to Clint about a new hoe upgrade.

She turned the corner past the saloon and paused.

Emily was sitting on her porch — legs crossed, a cup of tea steaming beside her — whispering to what looked like… a tiny parrot wrapped in a dish towel.

“...Okay,” Aly murmured to Peach, “either I need more sleep, or that’s happening.”

Emily looked up and beamed, her whole face lighting up like the sun had been invented just for this conversation. “Aly! You’re just in time to meet my new friend!”

Aly blinked. “Your… towel?”

Emily laughed, musical and unbothered. “Not a towel. This is Skye.” She gently unwrapped the fabric, revealing the fluffiest, dazed little parrot Aly had ever seen. Its eyes blinked unevenly. One feather stuck straight up like bedhead.

“It flew into my window,” Emily continued, stroking its head with a pinky. “Got a little banged up. I’m nursing them back to health.”

Aly squinted. “Is that… safe?”

“She told me her name,” Emily said dreamily, as if that explained everything.

The bird sneezed.

Aly, who’d spent her whole morning debating whether to buy more wheat or just cry into fertilizer, let out a snort. “Okay. Skye. Got it. You keeping her forever, or is this a temp gig?”

Emily looked down at the bird. “I don’t know. We’ll see what the universe decides. But for now… she’s here. And she’s loved.”

That stopped Aly in her tracks for a beat. The softness in Emily’s voice. The gentleness.

“…You name everything, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Emily said. “Don’t you?”

Aly glanced at Peach. Then at her hoe, which she may or may not have once called “Old Reliable” during a particularly emotional thunderstorm.

“...Maybe.”

The parrot sneezed again. It was oddly delicate for something so fluffy.

Emily chuckled, then stood. “I’ll grab her some lemon balm. Want to stay a bit? She likes company.”

Before Aly could answer, a front gate creaked open with a groan like a guilty conscience. And who else but Mayor Lewis shuffled in — looking suspiciously overdressed for a summer morning, hat low, eyes darting like a kid who’d stolen candy and was still chewing it.

“Ah! Aly,” he said, far too brightly. “Just the young woman I was looking for.”

Emily, sensing something deeply off, paused on her doorstep. She glanced between the two of them, her expression somewhere between curious and amused. “I’ll, uh… let you talk,” she said, vanishing back inside like a curtain drawing shut.

Lewis cleared his throat, removing his hat like he was about to confess to a crime.

“I need your help. Quietly.”

Aly crossed her arms, intrigued. “With…?”

He lowered his voice. “I’ve misplaced something. Very personal. Purple. Of the… uh… shorts variety.”

“…I’m sorry,” Aly said slowly, “did you just say you lost your—?”

“Yes,” he hissed, panic in his eyes. “Yes. My purple shorts. It’s embarrassing enough without everyone knowing about it. I need you to find them and return them. Discreetly.”

Aly stared at him for a moment, genuinely trying to decide if this was some weird small-town prank initiation.

“Can’t say I’m thrilled about tracking down your… missing underthings, Mayor.”

He fidgeted. “I’ll pay you.”

Now that got her attention.

“Seven hundred and fifty gold,” he added, like it physically pained him to say it.

Aly blinked.

“Alright,” she muttered. “I guess I can keep an eye out for your scandalous shorts.”

Lewis visibly relaxed. “Thank you. You’re doing the town a great service.”

“Sure,” she said. “Mayor.”

Then, after a beat—

“I haven’t even told anyone about the time Shane fell into the river trying to pet a duck.”

Lewis looked truly horrified. “That happened?”

Aly smirked. “Did it?”

With that, she turned and headed toward the beach, already regretting everything. She had no idea where to even begin looking for a pair of secret shorts…  But maybe a walk by the ocean would clear her head.

Or maybe the tide was already bringing something else in.

(...)

The sun was already high by the time Aly reached the beach, casting golden reflections over the waves. Seagulls screeched overhead, and Elliott’s cabin stood quiet against the backdrop of calm blue.

She didn’t expect to see Haley there.

The blonde was pacing along the shoreline, barefoot in the sand, one hand gripping her opposite elbow, the other scanning the ground with an expression somewhere between frustration and grief.

Aly stopped short. This wasn’t the usual version of Haley—the polished, put-together queen of the valley. This was Haley mid-meltdown, makeup half-applied, hair loosely pulled back, and eyes searching like she’d lost a piece of herself.

“…Haley?” Aly called gently.

Haley startled and looked up, then sighed, pressing her lips into a tight line. “Oh. It’s you.”

Aly approached slowly, cautious of invisible lines not to cross. “Everything alright?”

Haley gave a bitter little laugh, no sugar in it. “No. I lost something really important.”

Aly glanced around. “Can I help?”

She hesitated, then looked out at the water, her voice dropping low.
“It was my great-grandmother’s bracelet. I was wearing it this morning, showing it off to Emily, like an idiot.” She huffed. “Then I came here to take a few photos and… I don’t know when it slipped off.”

She looked down at her wrist like she couldn’t believe it was still bare.

“I’m really sorry,” Aly said, genuinely.

“…Maybe it’ll wash up on another shore,” Haley muttered. “I can’t bear to think of it at the bottom of the ocean.”

That hit Aly harder than expected. “I’ll help look,” she said quickly, “if you want.”

Haley hesitated again. “…Okay.”

Aly started along the path by the tide, scanning the sand with care. A few shell shards, an angry crab, a wet soda can… and then, tucked behind a sun-warmed shrub near Elliott’s cabin—something silver caught her eye.

She bent down, brushed it off. A delicate bracelet with a blue stone in the center, just as Haley described.

Jackpot.

She jogged back, lifting it triumphantly. “This it?”

Haley gasped, rushing forward and snatching it from Aly’s hands like it might disappear again.

“You found it—oh my god, you actually found it.”

Before Aly could say anything else, Haley threw her arms around her neck in a sudden, fierce hug. Aly froze for half a second, then hugged her back gently.

“I won’t forget this,” Haley said quietly. “Like… ever.”

Aly pulled away, flustered but smiling. “Glad to help. We’ve got enough ghosts in this town without you summoning your great-grandma’s spirit.”

That got a real laugh from Haley—light and surprised.

Then, after a moment, Aly cleared her throat. “Hey, random question. Have you heard anything about… the mayor’s missing purple shorts?”

Haley blinked. Then started giggling. “Oh no. He asked you?”

“Yeah?”

She smirked, tucking the bracelet back onto her wrist. “That’s so classic. Well, if I were you, I’d check over at Marnie’s.”

Aly squinted. “Why?”

Haley’s smirk deepened. “Just a hunch.”

She turned and walked away, shoes in one hand, wind catching the hem of her sundress. Aly watched her go, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.

“Marnie’s, huh?” she muttered.

She looked out over the waves, then down at the sand where the bracelet had been hiding, and shook her head with a half-laugh.

Some mysteries practically threw themselves into your hands. Others wore purple.

[---]

The note on Marnie’s door was written in looping, cheerful cursive:

“Out for a bit! Be back later~ ❤️”

Aly stared at it. Then knocked anyway, just to feel something.

Nothing.

She crossed her arms, backing away. So much for her grand detective work. No Marnie, no shorts. Not even a hint of suspicious purple fabric dangling from a clothesline or suspicious barn affair energy in the air.

Just when she was about to head off, Shane’s gruff voice called out from behind her. “You looking for Marnie?”

Aly turned, shielding her eyes. “Yeah. You seen her?”

He took a sip of Joja Cola like it offended him. “Probably at Pierre’s.”

Aly blinked. “...Pierre’s?”

Shane nodded, making exaggerated air quotes. “‘Exercise classes.’”

A beat.

“You’re telling me all the moms of the valley gather in the general store to—”

“—flail around to old cassette tapes while sweating in yoga pants from the 90s? Yes,” Shane deadpanned. “I call it Sweatin’ to Stardrops. ”

Aly laughed. “That’s either adorable or terrifying.”

“Both,” Shane muttered, then waved her off. “Anyway, don’t expect her back till late. They do this whole post-workout gossip cooldown. Real intense.”

Aly gave a mock salute. “Good to know.”

(...)

Aly tossed her gloves aside and wiped the sweat from her brow. Rows of blueberries, corn, and tomatoes stretched under the summer sun, little sprouts beginning to peek through the tilled soil. Peach, her cat, was sprawled in the shade with zero intentions of helping.

She watered her last row, then plopped onto her porch steps with a sandwich in hand. Sweetpea jam and goat cheese. Not fancy, but satisfying.

The wind rustled the trees. Wildfire neighed in the distance. A pair of dragonflies danced by the pond.

Quiet. Peaceful. Normal.

Almost.

Because no matter how much she tried to focus on her seeds or her sandwich or her lazy, spoiled cat... Aly couldn’t stop thinking about two things:

1. Marnie’s weird little smile whenever the mayor walked by.
   
   
2. Haley’s laugh echoing on the beach.
   
   

Aly took a bite of her sandwich and muttered, “I live in a soap opera.”

Peach meowed in agreement.

(...)

The sun had dipped below the mountains, painting the sky with strokes of lavender and burnt peach. Town was quieting down for the night—crickets chirping, lanterns flickering on, and the faint scent of bar food wafting from the Stardrop Saloon. Aly stretched her back with a soft groan and strolled through the square, a bundle of mixed seeds tucked under her arm. She had half a mind to pop into the saloon and see if Emily was working—maybe steal a drink, maybe just the sight of a friendly face.

But as she passed near the mayor’s manor, something made her slow.

Voices. Low, urgent, just behind the house by the riverbank.

Aly stepped softly, curiosity piqued like a cat with one ear flicked toward trouble. She eased beside the fence, close enough to catch the murmured conversation—but hidden behind the shadowed edge of a cedar tree.

“I’m just saying,” Marnie’s voice floated up, taut with restraint, “you can’t keep putting your job before everything.”

“It’s not just my job,” came Lewis’s familiar baritone, tight with frustration. “It’s the whole town. I’m the mayor, Marnie. If people thought I was compromising my role for personal affairs—”

“No one would care!” she snapped, then immediately softened. “I mean, they might gossip. But they already gossip, Lewis. You think they haven’t noticed you slipping away to my house three nights a week?”

A beat of silence.

“I don’t want them to confirm it,” Lewis said quietly. “I don’t want them to stop trusting me. What if they think you’re influencing my decisions?”

Marnie’s laugh was soft. Sad. “They already think that. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

“I can’t risk it. Not now.”

A pause. Water lapped gently against the river rocks. Then:

“Fine,” Marnie whispered. “We’ll keep pretending.”

Aly stepped back as if stung. Her heart beat faster—not in fear, not quite in anger, but in that chaotic rush when you know something no one else does. Something that could change things.

She walked away before they could notice her, boots crunching softly over the gravel path. Her thoughts whirled like a beehive kicked open.

So that’s why Lewis wanted discretion. So that’s why the shorts were so vital to keep quiet.

He didn’t want scandal.

He wanted control.

Aly’s jaw set as she turned toward the saloon’s welcoming lights. She wasn’t going to be cruel. She wasn’t planning revenge.

But she wasn’t going to let Lewis hide behind his office either.

[---]

Summer light streamed through Aly’s window in bold, honey-colored bands. She rose early, tugged her boots on, and made her way to Marnie’s Ranch with the calm confidence of someone who absolutely was not about to commit minor political blackmail.

The scent of fresh hay and warm animals wrapped around her as she stepped into the open barn. Marnie stood near the stable door, brushing down one of the cows.

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite new farmer,” Marnie greeted her with a warm, work-worn smile. “How’s Wildfire adjusting? He still racing the wind every morning?”

Aly grinned, leaning on a nearby post. “He almost trampled my beans yesterday, but yeah, we’re becoming besties. I think he dreams of becoming a racehorse.”

Marnie chuckled. “Sounds about right. Shane was the same way as a boy—ran everywhere, broke everything.”

As if summoned, a sharp clang! echoed from inside the house, followed by a very Shane-like grunt and a muttered, “It’s fine, I got it.”

Marnie sighed. “That boy. Probably tried to make toast in the oven again. Excuse me just a sec.”

She headed inside, mumbling something about fire extinguishers and shattered mugs.

Aly waited a beat.

Then, slow and casual, she strolled toward a small laundry nook near the stable wall. Just a pile of jackets. A couple of feed sacks. And… oh. Oh yes.

There they were. Peeking out like a sore royal thumb.

The infamous purple shorts.

She hesitated just for a breath—then grabbed them quickly, folded them like any other piece of laundry, and tucked them into the lining of her satchel.

A glass shattered inside. Marnie’s voice rose: “Shane! That was my good mug!”

Aly adjusted her bag and wandered back toward the barn door just as Marnie returned, looking exasperated but unbothered.

“Crisis averted?” Aly asked, keeping her tone light.

“For now.” Marnie wiped her hands on her jeans. “Remind me never to let that boy near ceramics.”

Aly offered a sympathetic nod and a charming smile. “Thanks for the chat, Marnie. I’ll bring by some peppers soon—Wildfire’s obsessed.”

As she walked away from the ranch, sun on her back and contraband in her bag, Aly didn’t feel guilty.

She felt… powerful.

And just the tiniest bit wicked.

[---]

The morning breeze brought the scent of salt and ripe tomatoes. Aly was up early again, tending her crops, when Wildfire neighed at something fluttering in the mailbox.

She opened it, expecting another seed catalogue or JojaMart ad. Instead, the letter inside was sealed with a little golden sun and signed by Mayor Lewis himself.

"Dear Residents,
You are cordially invited to the annual Stardew Valley Luau
on the 11th of Summer!
As always, each villager is encouraged to bring an ingredient to add to our grand potluck soup.
The Governor will be visiting to taste our creation, so make it delicious!"

Aly snorted. “Oh, I’ll bring something special, alright.”

Still, it wasn’t until later that the full idea simmered into place.

She was sitting on a patch of grass just outside the Saloon, eating a warm veggie skewer Emily had whipped up during a quiet afternoon lull. Emily, radiant as always in her sun-patterned top and moon-shaped earrings, plopped down beside her with a sigh and a bottle of kombucha.

“Hey, did you get Lewis’s letter?” she asked, stretching out like a cat in the sun.

Aly raised a brow. “About the Luau? Yeah. Governor’s visit and everything.”

“Mhm,” Emily nodded. “It’s kind of a big deal. Like, a ‘don’t poison the mayor in front of the state official’ kind of big deal.” She laughed, oblivious. “It’s actually kind of sweet. Every villager brings a little something—makes the soup more communal. Symbolic.”

Aly stared down at her skewer.

A little something, huh?

Communal.

Symbolic.

She chewed slowly, swallowed, and tilted her head to the side, squinting into the sun. There, in her mind, bloomed a wickedly golden idea. Bright. Petty. Delicious.

“What if,” Aly murmured, more to herself than Emily, “someone added a secret ingredient?”

Emily grinned. “As long as it’s not fish heads again, I think the town will survive.”

Aly didn’t answer.

She was already picturing the governor’s face.
The ripple of realization.
Mayor Lewis’s horror.
And Haley’s laugh—loud, unladylike, unapologetic.

She smiled to herself.

Now all she needed was a ladle and a little timing.

Chapter Text

It was already too hot.

The sun hadn’t even hit its peak, but the air clung to Haley’s skin like a desperate ex. She tugged at the strap of her sundress—white with tiny blue hibiscus flowers, a matching ribbon in her hair, glossy lips in a pink shimmer that caught the light just so. She looked perfect. She had to. Especially today.

“Here,” Alex said, tossing her a water bottle like they were at football practice. “You’re gonna melt.”

She caught it, barely. “Thanks,” she muttered, twisting the cap, then immediately regretting it when her fresh manicure caught on the plastic seal.

They were walking down from his house, side by side, not quite touching. Haley made sure of it. Close enough to keep up the illusion, far enough that no one could accuse her of being too obvious.

People were already whispering, anyway.
Good. Let them.

Haley could control a rumor better than she could control her own feelings. And the last thing she needed was anyone asking why she didn’t really smile when Alex kissed her, or why she flinched when he reached for her hand.

Just keep the act going. She was good at that.

(...)

They stopped by Evelyn’s on the way. Her house smelled like cinnamon and pickles and home. Haley didn’t hate it.

“Don’t forget to add something hearty to that soup, dear,” Evelyn said, stirring a massive pot on her stove like it contained the secrets of the universe. “The governor’s coming, and we don’t want him thinking Pelican Town's gone soft!”

Alex laughed. “We’ve got this, Grandma. Right, Hales?”

Haley nodded. “Oh, yeah. Soup’s basically my second language.” She smiled sweetly, tucking her hair behind her ear with the ease of someone used to performing sincerity.

Evelyn handed her a bouquet of herbs and a wink. “A little fresh mint always brightens things up.”

(...)

By the time they reached the beach, the party had begun to bloom. Tables were lined with local dishes, baskets of produce, jars of preserved summer. The big black pot stood at the center like a cauldron at a fairy tale feast, steam curling lazily into the salt-kissed breeze.

Haley scanned the crowd—Sebastian and Abigail had brought spicy mushrooms, probably to poison someone on accident. Penny and Sam were giggling as they chopped strawberries. Leah had sculpted some weird fruit art, and Elliott was waxing poetic about it with a flair that made Haley roll her eyes. Emily was dancing barefoot near the tiki torches with Shane watching from a safe, emotionally distant three feet away.

Perched on the edge of a palm umbrella nearby was a parrot. Not just any bird—Skye, Emily’s latest feathered roommate. Blue as a summer twilight and twice as dramatic. The bird let out a whistle and mimicked someone’s laugh (maybe Lewis’s, awkward and nasal), flapping his wings like he was about to emcee the entire event.

Haley raised a brow. “Seriously? She brought the bird?”

“Better than your last date,” Alex muttered.

She ignored him. Skye cackled.

Then there was Marnie. Pacing near the soup like she was preparing for a royal inspection. Her smile was too tight. Her eyes kept flicking to Lewis, who was sweating more than usual in his little mayor vest. Something was up.

Haley didn’t care.
...Okay, maybe she cared a little.

“Let’s get this over with,” Alex muttered, grabbing a handful of green beans from their basket and chucking them in like a boy tossing rocks in a pond.

Haley followed, pausing just a second longer as she added her mint and herbs. Not because it mattered. But because she wanted it to look like it did.

Everyone else began taking turns. One by one, they dropped their ingredients in—some serious, some silly, some sweet. It was a ritual, stupid and old and yet... weirdly comforting. Like they were all in on something together.

But Haley?
She had no idea what was about to hit them.

(...)

Haley was already bored.

She’d paraded in with Alex, hand brushing his, laughed at his stupid joke, even let her fingers linger on his bicep when they passed by George and Evelyn’s bench. Evelyn had offered them sweet corn tips— don’t forget the honey butter, dear, —and Haley had nodded politely, all while internally screaming. She didn’t even like corn.

But the important part was that people saw. They were looking. Whispers always came after looks. Haley had a reputation to keep, a pretty lie to wear like perfume. Maybe she didn’t have love, but she had speculation. That had to count for something.

She leaned in again, fingers resting lightly on Alex’s forearm. “You actually brought green beans? Wow. Look at you, culinary icon,” she teased loud enough for Maru to overhear.

Alex grinned. “You know it, babe. Gonna blow the governor's tastebuds off.”

Good. Let them talk.

And then—

A shadow of flannel entered her periphery.

Aly.

Worn jeans, boots with just enough dirt to prove she earned them, and a flannel shirt the color of firewood and sun-bleached red. She looked like the kind of person you'd see on the cover of one of those magazines Emily kept for vision boarding— Modern Homestead, or Crops & Confidence. Her hair was tousled from the wind, cheeks a little pink, and she had a wildflower tucked behind one ear like she didn’t even know it was there.

Haley’s fingers tightened slightly on Alex’s arm.

She hated how her stomach twitched. Like a dropped stone in water. Like something she couldn’t name curling up behind her ribs.

Aly didn’t look at her, not right away. Just gave a polite nod to someone—Robin maybe—and slowly walked toward the table of ingredients, a brown paper bag in her hand.

The festival went on. Laughter bubbled. Skye squawked dramatically as someone dropped a mango. Emily twirled barefoot through the sand and Shane didn’t move, but Haley swore his eyes never left her.

And then came the moment.

Haley didn’t see it until after it happened.

Marnie had bent over, fussing with her shoe strap, face pink and distracted. Mayor Lewis was mid-rant about the importance of community effort and culinary pride.

Aly, silent as the tide, reached into her bag—and in one quick, seamless movement, dropped something into the pot.

Purple.

Familiar.

No.

It couldn’t be—

Haley blinked. It was.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the laugh that nearly tore out of her.

The shorts. Lewis’s purple shorts.

And Aly—stone-faced, casual, like she hadn’t just committed social arson—walked away, slow and steady, as if all she’d added was parsley.

Haley looked between her, the soup, and Lewis’s oblivious grin.

Her heart did a weird flip.

Something shifted.

She wasn’t sure what to call it. Admiration? Awe? The delicious, terrifying hum of recognition?

All she knew was this:

The farmer had guts.

And for the first time since arriving, Haley felt awake.

(...)

The Governor lifted the golden ladle with the ceremony of a royal decree, his face a portrait of polite anticipation. Villagers leaned in—some hopeful, some smug, some clearly just hungry. Haley smoothed her skirt, a soft pink confection of a dress, and looped her arm through Alex's again.

Just for the show.

Alex didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and pretended not to. He was still grinning about the green beans he’d tossed in. Evelyn had told him they were "wholesome, just like you, dear," and he’d puffed up like a rooster in mating season.

But Haley’s eyes weren’t on Alex.

They were on the farmer.

Aly stood near the edge of the beach crowd, hands shoved in her pockets, the sleeves of her ocean-blue flannel rolled just so. She looked like she didn’t care what anyone thought. Like she could dismantle a tractor engine with her bare hands, then recite poetry about it.

Haley hated that.

...Right?

"This..." the Governor said, after the first taste, his brow furrowing. He smacked his lips, frowned deeper. "This is... highly inappropriate."

A collective gasp.

Haley leaned forward. Lewis blanched. She caught a glimpse of purple in the pot—fabric?

Oh no.

Whispers rippled like wind through wheat. Evelyn clutched her pearls. Gus choked on his own sample spoon. Maru dropped her clipboard. Emily looked between the pot and Skye, her parrot friend, as if one of them might explain.

The Governor turned to Lewis, napkin in hand. "Mayor, care to explain why there are... ahem... unmentionables in the communal soup?"

Lewis opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words came.

Haley watched, stunned, as her carefully curated day crumbled into beautiful, chaotic shambles.

And then she smiled.

(...)

After the Governor stormed off, and the villagers dispersed into pockets of disbelief and gleeful gossip, Haley found Aly sitting on the edge of the tide, tossing pebbles into the sea.

"That was you, wasn’t it?" Haley said, arms crossed, one brow elegantly raised.

Aly didn’t even look up. Just kept skipping stones. "Maybe."

Haley sat beside her, the hem of her dress brushing the sand. "I can’t believe you actually did it."

"Guess I’m not big on cover-ups."

"You risked, like, public soup exile."

"He offered me 750 gold to return those."

Haley turned, mouth open. "Wait— what ?"

"Yup. Could’ve taken the cash. Instead, I made... a statement."

Haley stared at her, genuinely shocked. Then slowly, a grin curved across her lips. "You know, you might actually be more dramatic than I am."

Aly finally looked at her. "High praise."

They laughed—a soft thing, almost secret.

Skye flew overhead and let out a triumphant squawk, like the day had gone exactly according to plan.

Haley shaded her eyes and watched the bird twirl over the waves.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like anyone’s secret. She just felt seen.

Maybe the Luau wasn’t so boring after all.

[---]

In the days after the Luau, Pelican Town buzzed with the kind of energy you couldn’t bottle. Rumors bloomed like summer wildflowers. Kids reenacted the soup debacle with paper pants and dramatic gasps. Lewis, for once, kept to himself. Marnie, too, moved with a quiet caution—as though part of her still reeled from that riverside talk, the sting of secrecy fresh in her mind.

Aly didn’t say much.

She watered her crops. Hauled in a tidy load of peppers and blueberries. Skipped rocks by the tide when the sun got too hot. She caught glimpses of Haley now and then, flitting by in sundresses like butterflies. Once, their eyes met near the fountain. Haley smirked. Aly rolled her eyes. It felt like an inside joke no one else knew the punchline to.

But something about the air was different. Softer. Like the town had exhaled.

And today… today Aly felt it. Like a pull in her gut. Like a whisper in the breeze.

It was time.

She stepped into Marnie’s Ranch mid-morning, the smell of hay and feed warm in her lungs. Marnie looked up from her clipboard and offered a tired, genuine smile. "Hey, Aly. Something I can help you with?"

Aly shoved her hands in her pockets. "I think I’m ready."

Marnie blinked. "Ready…?"

"For a cow."

The words felt big in her mouth. A real commitment. Real farm energy.

Marnie’s whole face lit up. "Well, why didn’t you say so sooner? Got a few sweethearts in the barn. Come take a look."

They walked through the pasture, sun dappling through the trees. One cow nudged Marnie’s side like an affectionate toddler. Another lounged under shade, blinking like she had ancient knowledge to share.

But one caught Aly’s eye right away.

A caramel-brown heifer with white speckles and a freckled nose. She stood up when Aly got close, her ears flicking, curious.

"This one’s been extra gentle," Marnie said. "She likes classical music, and she once ate half a dish towel."

Aly knelt down, resting her arms on her knees. The cow leaned in, their foreheads nearly touching.

"Her name?" Aly asked softly.

"You can choose."

A pause. A smile tugged at the corner of Aly’s mouth. “She looks like a... Buttercup.”

Buttercup let out a soft mooo, like she agreed wholeheartedly.

Marnie beamed. “Buttercup it is.”

(...)

Buttercup walked slow, her hooves a steady clop-clop against the dirt path as Aly led her home. The summer sun hung lazily in the sky, and the whole valley seemed to hum with a kind of sleepy joy. Birds chirped. Bees did their thing. Even the breeze felt like it was in no rush.

Peach spotted them first from the porch, curled on a sun-warmed step like she owned the damn world. Her bowtie collar shimmered in the light. She stood, stretched like royalty waking from a nap, and padded down the path.

Buttercup let out a confused moo.

Peach, unbothered, walked right up to the cow’s snout, gave her a look of mild curiosity, and meowed once, as if to say, Welcome to my kingdom. Don’t eat my snacks.

Aly grinned. “Play nice.”

Then came the sound of galloping—Wildfire, her spirited chestnut stallion, cantering in from the field like he already knew a new girl was in town. He stopped short just a few feet from Buttercup, snorted, and tossed his mane like a dramatic little show-off.

Buttercup blinked slowly and began chewing on a nearby patch of grass.

Wildfire huffed.

Peach walked between them all, tail high, like a tiny referee.

Aly laughed, arms crossed, heart full. “Okay, okay. Farm fam’s looking solid.”

She filled Buttercup’s trough, gave her a few gentle head pats, and watched as the cow settled in like she’d always been there. Like she’d belonged.

A moment later, Aly swung herself onto Wildfire’s back and clicked her tongue. “Let’s ride.”

(...)

The wind whipped past as they galloped down the main road, Aly’s hair coming loose from its tie. The trees blurred. The scent of lavender and sun-baked earth filled the air. It was one of those rare, golden afternoons where the whole world felt wide open.

She slowed as they reached town, easing Wildfire to a trot, then a walk.

That’s when she spotted Emily.

The blue-haired dream girl was standing in front of Pierre’s, arms full of bright fabric swatches, talking to a slightly panicked-looking Caroline. Her earrings danced in the light, and Skye the parrot fluttered nearby, perched on a lamp post.

Emily looked up—and grinned. “Well if it isn’t the hero of the Luau herself!”

Aly laughed. “Don’t start rumors. People already think I put arsenic in the soup.”

Emily gave her a wink. “It was iconic. You did what needed to be done.”

She stepped forward, brushing a bit of dust off Aly’s sleeve. “And now you’re just riding through town on a stallion like a mythic queer cowboy. What’s next, lassoin’ a rainbow?”

Aly shrugged. “Just got a cow. Thought I’d celebrate.”

Emily gasped. “You what ? What’s her name?”

“Buttercup.”

“Oh my goddess, that’s adorable.” Emily tilted her head. “You’re really building a life here, huh?”

Aly met her eyes for a second too long. “Guess I am.”

Just then, Skye let out a piercing squawk and fluttered down onto Aly’s shoulder like she was claiming her for Team Parrot now.

Emily smirked, hands on her hips. “So tell me—did you actually build a barn this time, or are you expecting the horse and the cow to, like, bunk together in the stable and sort out a chore chart?”

Aly blinked. “...Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Emily said, laughing. “Please tell me Buttercup isn’t currently free-ranging her way into your vegetable patch.”

“She might be sniffing my cauliflower right now.”

Emily gave her a playful shove. “You absolute chaos muppet.”

“Look, she followed me home. What was I supposed to do? Say no to her big brown eyes?”

Emily rolled her own. “Come on, before you go bribe Robin with gold and guilt—swing by my place. Just a quick stop. I’ve got something to show you.”

(...)

The moment Aly stepped into Emily’s room, it was like entering another world. Warm glowing lights, crystals catching the sun, fabrics draped like soft rainbows across the walls. Skye fluttered to his usual perch and let out a contented coo.

Emily closed the door behind them, practically bouncing with excitement.

“I’ve been working on something,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Secret hobby. Long time coming. And now that you’re officially a local menace, I figured... you’ve earned the reveal.”

Aly raised a brow. “Is it interpretive crystal reading? Or a potion to ward off barn-related forgetfulness?”

“You wish.”

Emily turned toward the stereo, pressed play.

A pulsing beat filled the room—dreamy, electric, a little strange. Very Emily.

And then she danced.

It wasn’t just moving to music. It was like her soul had been waiting for this song, this moment. Every step, every spin, told a story—wild and fluid and full of light. The scarves on the wall trembled with the air she stirred. Even Skye seemed mesmerized.

Aly sat on the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.

Emily finished with a twirl and a pose that ended in a breathless laugh. “Okay. Now you have to be honest. What did you think?”

Aly blinked. Then:

“That was amazing!” she said, the words tumbling out with zero hesitation. “Like... you were glowing. I didn’t even know people could move like that without summoning a weather event.”

Emily’s smile lit up the whole room. “Really?”

“Really really.”

“Even with the accidental elbow flail in the middle?”

“It was part of the magic.”

They both laughed, easy and bright, like they were made of summer and secrets. The music faded into a gentle hum behind them.

Outside the window, a breeze played with the curtains like it was dancing, too.

(...)

Aly showed up at Robin’s carpentry shop looking like someone who hadn’t slept since adopting a cow on impulse.

Because she hadn’t.

Her boots were caked in mud, her hair was frizzy from riding Wildfire halfway across the valley, and her expression screamed I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Robin looked up from her workbench just in time to see Aly stumble through the doorway.

“Oh no,” Robin said, deadpan. “What did you do.”

“Technically?” Aly held up her hands in surrender. “It’s not illegal to let a cow live in a stable. Temporarily. With supervision. And snacks.”

Shane snorted from the corner of the shop, where he’d been casually going over blueprints with Robin. “Let me guess. You bought the cow before building the barn.”

“She followed me home!” Aly protested, the edge of desperation creeping into her voice.

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Did she also input her own name into the registry and pay the adoption fee?”

“Her name is Buttercup, and she has excellent taste in dandelions.”

Shane leaned on the counter, smirking. “What’s next? Gonna bring home a goat and let it sleep in your kitchen?”

Aly squinted at him. “Don’t tempt me.”

Robin laughed, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. I’ll help. I’ve got an opening tomorrow morning. You’ll need wood, stone, and a better sense of planning.”

“I have... one of those things,” Aly muttered.

Shane rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll come help too. Could be fun watching you try to hammer a nail without hurting yourself.”

Aly blinked. “Seriously?”

“You’ve grown on me,” he shrugged. “Like mold. Or maybe a weird cat. Either way, I’m invested now.”

Robin was already jotting notes. “We’ll swing by your farm at sunrise. Be ready. And please keep Buttercup out of the mailbox until then.”

“No promises,” Aly grinned.

As she turned to go, Shane called after her, “Try not to adopt anything else on your way home!”

“I make no guarantees!” she yelled over her shoulder, hopping onto Wildfire’s saddle with a grin spreading across her face.

The wind caught her flannel, the valley stretched wide and golden before her, and Buttercup was probably trying to eat her seed packets again.

But hey—she was getting a barn.

Progress.

[---]

The sun rose over the valley with that soft golden hush that made even Aly pause and take a breath. A rare moment of peace.

Naturally, it didn’t last.

By the time she’d finished her coffee, Robin had already arrived with her toolbox, her measuring tape, and a kind of builderly determination that could only be described as ominous.

Shane showed up ten minutes later, balancing a crate of nails in one hand and chewing something that may or may not have been beef jerky. Wildfire neighed at him. Buttercup tried to lick his elbow.

“Your cow has no respect for personal space,” he muttered.

“She’s affectionate,” Aly said, sipping her coffee with the smugness of someone whose barn was finally becoming real.

By mid-morning, beams were going up, hammers were flying, and sawdust clung to every surface like glitter from a failed craft project. Aly tried to help—she did—but mostly she ended up handing Robin the wrong tools and almost tripping over Buttercup, who had decided the construction site was a perfect nap zone.

That’s when Emily arrived.

She came dancing up the path like a breeze in a gemstone shop—light and glittery, a little chaotic, carrying a basket of snacks.

“I brought carrot tops for Buttercup!” she called out, waving the fronds like a flag. “And sandwiches for you humans, in case you forgot how to eat.”

Shane looked up from where he was holding a beam in place, eyebrows raised. “Are you bribing the cow?”

“Maybe,” Emily grinned. “She and I have a connection. She’s a Taurus.”

“I thought that was the farmer,” Shane deadpanned.

Emily laughed and walked over to Buttercup, who was already sniffing the basket like it held ancient treasure. As she knelt to feed the cow, Shane came over, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

(Yes, Aly noticed. No, she did not react. She was absolutely focused on holding this ladder. Definitely not eavesdropping.)

“You really didn’t have to bring food,” Shane said, and something about the way he said it made Aly glance over.

Emily shrugged, still kneeling by Buttercup. “I wanted to. You’re working hard.”

“You’re weird,” he said, but his voice was softer than usual.

She looked up at him with a smile that had way too many sparkles in it for 11:00 a.m. “Takes one to know one.”

They just... stood there for a moment. Not saying anything. Not moving.

Aly cleared her throat. Loudly. “I’m still on a ladder over here, in case either of you forgot.”

Shane blinked. Emily turned pink.

“Right,” he said, walking off a little too quickly to pretend he hadn’t noticed the pause.

Buttercup let out a moo of mild judgment.

Aly leaned down from the ladder and whispered, “I saw that.”

Emily didn’t respond, but her smile lingered.

The barn was half-built by noon. Buttercup was full of carrot tops. And Aly? She was definitely not writing imaginary fanfiction about her friends in her head. No sir.

Everything was coming together.

Almost.

(...)

The light was perfect. That late summer gold that made even the rusted mailbox at Marnie’s Ranch look romantic. Haley stood just beyond the fence, camera in hand, framing a shot of a particularly photogenic cow—Big Moo Energy, this one—when a familiar voice interrupted the silence.

“You shootin’ a cow calendar or just flirting with the livestock?”

Haley lowered her camera, already smirking. “Farmer Aly,” she said, teasing. “Didn't realize you were a photography critic and a rancher.”

Aly swung a leg over the fence with casual ease. “Actually, I just got my first cow. Buttercup. She and Peach are still negotiating territory.”

Haley snorted. “Please tell me Peach tried to climb her like a tree.”

“Only once. Wildfire was not impressed.”

They laughed, the kind that rolls easy when the sun’s warm and the cows are content. One of Marnie’s cows moseyed over, chewing thoughtfully and blinking like it held all the secrets of the valley.

“I was gonna ask…” Haley rubbed the back of her neck. “How do you even approach one of these things? Without getting, like, kicked?”

Aly looked at her like she’d asked how to pet a marshmallow. “You just talk to them. Be gentle. Let them sniff you.”

“What if they judge me?”

“They will judge you,” Aly said solemnly, then cracked a grin. “But if you’re lucky, they’ll love you anyway.”

Haley leaned against the fence, handing Aly her camera. “Wanna take a photo of me with that one?”

Aly lifted the camera. “Sure. Just don’t do anything dramatic—”

Too late. Haley was already swinging a leg up, trying to climb onto the cow like some kind of fairytale princess. For a moment, it worked. Then the cow shifted, unimpressed. Haley let out a squeal as she slipped off and landed in the dirt with a loud oof.

Aly rushed over, laughing. “You okay?!”

Haley sat up, bits of hay and mystery barn dust clinging to her hair and dress. She was laughing too—giggly, breathless, not even a little embarrassed. “Do not post that.”

Aly held up her hands. “Scout’s honor.”

Haley stood, brushing herself off and still laughing. “Well. I’m gonna go take a long, luxurious, soap-filled shower now and pretend that didn’t happen.”

She turned, pausing halfway to the house. “...Hey,” she called back, “thanks for not laughing harder.”

Aly grinned. “Oh, I absolutely did.”

Haley stuck her tongue out and disappeared through Marnie’s front door.

The sun dipped lower. Somewhere behind the barn, Buttercup mooed like she’d just witnessed something deeply undignified.

(...)

The steam still clung to the corners of the bathroom like ghosted clouds, softening the edges of the mirror as Haley stood in a towel, brushing out her hair in long, patient strokes. The scent of wildflower soap lingered on her skin—lavender, vanilla, and something faintly citrus, like the memory of summer. She’d already washed, scrubbed, perfumed, and moisturized. Everything was clean. Everything was polished.

So why did she still feel messy?

She tied her robe tighter and leaned in close to the mirror, inspecting her reflection with a furrowed brow. No dirt, no smudges. Just Haley, and behind her eyes, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. Something the cows had kicked up earlier —or maybe the way Aly had laughed at her when she tumbled into the dirt.

It wasn’t mean. It wasn’t pity. It was… warm.

She shook the thought off, grabbing her phone. A message from Alex lit the screen:

"Same spot. Midnight. You coming?"

She stared at it for a long beat. Then, without replying, she tossed the phone onto her bed.

She crossed to her desk, tugged open a drawer until she found a pale yellow notepad. She hesitated, chewed on the end of her pen, and began to write.

(...)

Aly,
I thought it would be fun to write you a note.
I had so much fun with the cows earlier... I'm
starting to understand why you chose the farmer's
life! Hope to see you soon.
–Haley

(...)

She folded the note carefully, then slipped on her shoes. The farmhouse was quiet when she arrived, the lights out, only the porch lantern humming faintly in the dark.

She didn’t knock.

Instead, she crouched and slid the note under the door, letting it disappear into the shadows like a secret, or maybe a seed.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked back into the night.

Off to meet Alex.
But her heart was already somewhere else.

(...)

The tide was low, and the moon sat swollen and silver above the beach, painting the waves in streaks of cold light. Haley walked barefoot across the sand, her heels dangling from one hand, her phone buzzing quietly in the other.

Alex was already there, leaning against the rocks where they always met. Shirt half-unbuttoned like he was trying too hard, or maybe like he didn’t have to try at all. He gave her that grin—the one that made girls blush in high school, the one she used to think meant something.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he said.

“I was busy.” She shrugged, tried to sound breezy. “Takes effort to look this good.”

He laughed and pulled her in like always—one arm around her waist, one hand on her cheek. And she let him.

Because this was familiar.

Because she used to believe this was what romance looked like: hot breath, wandering hands, sand in her hair and no one watching.

His lips found hers, warm and practiced, and for a second she tried to match him, tried to remember what it felt like to want this.

But all she could think about was Aly’s stupid flannel shirt.
The way she’d laughed when Haley fell off the cow.
The note she’d written.
How she hadn’t even seen Haley drop it off—and that made it feel safe, and precious, and hers.

Alex kissed her harder. His fingers slid along her jaw.
She flinched.

“Relax,” he murmured, and kissed her again.

She did. She melted, but it felt like sand under a tide. Nothing held. Nothing stayed.

She hated this part. The part where she had to pretend.

Pretend she was here because she wanted him. Pretend she wasn’t trying to scrub away the phantom scent of wildflower soap and ocean-blue flannel. Pretend she wasn’t craving a laugh instead of a groan. Eyes that saw her instead of undressing her.

She gasped when Alex pulled her closer, but it wasn’t out of pleasure. It was a breath of panic. It passed. She shoved it down. Like always.

“You wanna stay the night?” he asked against her neck, voice low and coaxing.

Haley froze.

She didn’t want to.
But she didn’t want to explain.
Didn’t want to admit anything—not even to herself.

“…Yeah,” she said.
And smiled like it didn’t hurt.

[---]

The morning sunlight spilled across the farmhouse like honey, slow and golden. Aly stirred in her bed, blinking against the light, with Peach nestled warm and purring on her stomach. She stretched, her joints popping softly, and gave Peach a gentle scratch behind the ears.

It was peaceful—the kind of slow morning that begged for tea and quiet thoughts.

Then she saw it.

Something folded and left at the door.

Curious, Aly padded over, barefoot on the wooden floorboards, and picked it up. The paper was smooth. The handwriting neat, with a little flair on the loops. Aly’s heart beat a little faster as she read:

"Aly, I thought it would be fun to write you a note. I had so much fun with the cows earlier... I'm starting to understand why you chose the farmer's life! Hope to see you soon.

-Haley"

Aly stared at it, lips parting in surprise. A laugh almost bubbled up, small and stunned. She sat down at the kitchen table with the note, reading it again like it might vanish.

There wasn’t much in it, but something about the way it was written—the tone, the ease—it felt... sweet. Genuine.

Unexpected.

(...)

The streets of Pelican Town were still mostly asleep, shadows long and cool against the cobblestones. Birds chattered in the trees, and the scent of flowers and distant salt clung to the breeze.

Haley walked fast, her arms crossed tight over her chest, trying not to look suspicious—or guilty. Her hair was brushed but still damp, her eyes ringed faintly in leftover mascara. She’d reapplied lip gloss, but the shine felt hollow.

She’d left Alex’s house before dawn. The moment his arm flopped over her like she was part of the bedspread, she knew she couldn’t stay.

She wasn’t ashamed.

Not exactly.

Just tired. Confused.

Haley didn’t go straight home.

She wandered a bit. Past the saloon. Down by the river. Anywhere the air might feel clean again. Her limbs still felt heavy, like regret had curled up in her muscles overnight.

When she finally reached her front door, she didn't hesitate. Straight to the bathroom.

She stripped off her clothes, tossed them into a heap, and turned the water on hot. It scalded her skin, but she didn’t care. The lavender soap Emily liked sat on the ledge, and she scrubbed at herself like she could erase the whole night. Like she could lather away the feeling of Alex’s hands.

She hated when he touched her.

She didn’t know why she kept letting him.

Well. Maybe she did.

People already thought they were a thing. It was easier that way. Easier to stay in the mold she’d been poured into.

But her chest tightened when she thought of Aly.

Did she see her?

Haley pressed her palms to her eyes. "It doesn’t matter," she whispered aloud. "It doesn’t matter what she thinks."

But the lie tasted sour.

(...)

From across the square, Aly saw her.

Haley.

Walking fast, hair damp, hoodie zipped up like armor. Eyes not meeting anyone's. Not even Aly’s.

And she was coming from the direction of Alex’s house.

Aly blinked.

The realization landed like a stone in her stomach. Heavy. Cold.

She tried to make sense of it. Maybe Haley was just visiting. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she left something there the day before. Maybe—

But she wasn’t stupid.

And somehow, it stung more than she expected. More than it should.

Aly reached into her pocket and touched the letter again.

"Hope to see you soon."

Yeah. Okay.

She ran a hand through her hair and turned away, pretending she hadn’t seen anything at all.

Chapter Text

The rhythm of the farm had finally softened in Aly’s hands.

Morning mist clung to the fields like a sleepy sigh as she stepped through rows of glossy, thriving crops. Tomatoes plumped and proud. Melons sunbathing on the vine. Her boots pressed a comforting rhythm into the soil—work, walk, breathe, repeat.

Buttercup mooed lazily in the distance. Wildfire snorted near the fence, mane glinting gold. Peach chased a butterfly with single-minded purpose and zero success.

Everything felt—dare she say— settled.

She’d earned this. The aching muscles. The full shipments. The steady coin clinking in her chest every evening. The land knew her name now. And she knew its secrets.

By noon, the sun poured down like warm syrup, and she was scrubbing dirt off her forearms when Emily’s voice chimed from the gate.

“Aly! My favorite radish goddess!”

Aly grinned and waved her over. “You’re just here to steal my veggies again.”

“I’m here to borrow your soul for lunch,” Emily said, bounding up the path. She carried a basket under one arm and wore earrings made of bottlecaps and whimsy. “Today, I teach you how to make Red Plate. Trust me—it’s a culinary awakening.”

Inside the farmhouse, they cooked together—Aly chopping red cabbage while Emily hummed a tune that might’ve been about planets. The whole kitchen smelled like spice, vinegar, and satisfaction.

They ate on the porch, feet kicked up, plates balanced on their laps.

“This is good,” Aly said around a mouthful. “Like... really good. What’s the secret?”

Emily leaned in like it was a scandal. “Love. And also a pinch of solar essence. Kidding! Kind of.”

Aly chuckled, and for a moment they just existed—two women, sun-warmed and full of flavor.

Then Emily cleared her throat. “Sooo. I actually came here with... ulterior motives.”

Aly arched a brow. “You don’t say.”

“I had this dream,” Emily said, eyes lighting up with that Emily glow, “and in it, I was running a wellness group, but for clothes. Clothes that speak to your soul. I woke up and thought—YES. This is the moment. It’s called Clothing Therapy.”

“Clothing... therapy,” Aly repeated, trying not to smile.

“Yup! It’s revolutionary. And I want you to come. I’ve booked the Mayor’s Manor for tomorrow at three. Don’t worry, Lewis is mysteriously absent. Probably hiding from his scandal soup fame.”

Aly snorted.

Emily beamed. “Please come. It won’t be weird. Or, well—it will be weird, but like, healing weird.”

Aly looked out over the fields, at the sky, at the strange, lovely world she was becoming part of.

“Alright,” she said. “Clothing therapy it is.”

(...)

The sun slanted lazily through the tall windows of the Mayor’s house as Aly stepped inside. The room had been transformed. Gone were the dusty ledgers and town planning scrolls. In their place stood a makeshift changing area, a full-length mirror, a rack brimming with wildly eclectic clothes—and in the middle of it all, Emily, bouncing on her heels like a caffeinated cloud.

“You came!” she squealed, clapping her hands.

“I said I would,” Aly said, eyeing a glittery scarf with suspicion.

Emily beamed. “Welcome to Clothing Therapy ! The idea is simple: pick clothes that speak to your soul, transform into who you really are inside, and show the world. No judgment. Just expression.”

Abigail lounged in the corner, arms crossed and curious. Robin leaned against the wall, chatting with Shane, who looked like he wanted to disappear into his hoodie. Clint hovered near the snack table, eating like it was a shield.

“Who wants to go first?” Emily asked, voice sing-songy.

Abigail stood. “Let’s get this over with.”

She disappeared behind the curtain. A few rustles, a metallic clank, and then she stepped out—fully clad in a gleaming suit of armor, dented at the edges and twice her weight.

“Dang, Abby,” Robin said. “You’re gonna start a war or something?”

“I am the war,” Abigail said, striking a pose.

Emily clapped. “Fierce and fabulous!”

Next up, Shane grumbled but shuffled behind the curtain. For a full minute, no one heard a sound. Then—

Shane emerged in a black mesh shirt, leather pants, spiked choker, eyeliner smudged like he'd been in a 2003 music video.

“...Goth?” Aly said, trying not to laugh.

“I was goth once,” Shane muttered. “Back when The Cure still made sense.”

Emily smiled warmly. “You’re allowed to still be.”

Robin’s turn came next. She came out in a flowing burgundy dress that hugged her waist and shimmered in the light. Her long auburn hair, normally tied up in a practical bun, spilled down her back.

Abigail let out a low whistle. “Wow, Robin. You better show Demetrius—he might forget how to speak.”

Robin rolled her eyes, laughing. “Please. That man once complimented me for how efficiently I sanded a staircase.”

Emily clutched her heart dramatically. “The romance !”

Emily was already getting misty-eyed.

Then the front door creaked open.

Mayor Lewis poked his head in, looking alarmed. “What on earth is going on in here? Why is there a curtain in my living room?”

Emily turned to him with a beaming smile, completely unfazed. “Mayor! Perfect timing! It’s called Clothing Therapy ! We’re helping people express their true selves through fashion.”

He blinked. “Fashion? In my—my house ?”

Robin gave him a thumbs-up. “It’s therapeutic!”

Mayor Lewis stared at the group—Abigail adjusting her helmet, Shane in full goth regalia—and visibly calculated how much control he actually had over the situation.

“Well...” he muttered, tugging at his collar. “If it’s... for the community.”

Emily clapped. “That’s the spirit! Curtain’s all yours, Mr. Mayor.”

He disappeared behind the curtain. When he returned, he wore a silk-lined cape, an oversized emerald hat with a feather, and a cane tipped with a silver beet.

“Behold!” he declared. “Mayor Fancyboots!”

Aly applauded despite herself.

Then it was Clint’s turn.

He shuffled in reluctantly. “I don’t... I mean, I’m not sure this is... uh.”

“You got this, Clint,” Emily said gently. “Just pick what calls to you.”

The curtain closed. Time passed.

More time passed.

“Clint?” Robin called.

Then the curtain opened.

Clint stepped out in a blindingly gaudy button-up shirt dotted with rainbow fish, neon pink shorts, and a beret that tilted dramatically over one eye.

There was a beat of silence.

Emily lit up. “Awww... cute! ”

Something in Clint’s expression crumpled. His face turned red, then pale. He muttered, “I—uh, I need to use the—excuse me,” and fled the room before anyone could stop him.

Emily blinked. “What just happened?”

Aly frowned. Shane rubbed the back of his neck, then muttered, “Jeez, Emily... he was just starting to get over his creepy crush on you.”

Emily’s mouth fell open. “That wasn’t—he—oh my god.”

Shane shrugged, glancing toward the door Clint had bolted through. “Well. He’s definitely regressed now.”

They all started cleaning up a little after. Abigail clanked over to the punch bowl. Mayor Fancyboots bowed out.

A moment later, Emily found herself standing near Shane, who still wore his goth persona like an old memory come home.

“I forgot what this felt like,” he said. “Being seen.”

Emily smiled at him, something soft flickering in her eyes. “You look... real. Like yourself.”

Shane gave a small, self-conscious shrug. “Guess it’s still in there somewhere.”

Their eyes held for a moment. The air changed. Emily’s smile tilted.

Then—

The front door creaked.

Clint was back—face flushed, eyes stormy. He paused in the doorway, gaze landing squarely on Emily and Shane, who stood a little too close, still caught in the echo of laughter.

“Oh,” he said, voice clipped. “Didn’t mean to interrupt… whatever that was.”

Emily took a step forward, concern flickering across her face. “Clint, wait—I didn’t mean—should I go after him?”

Shane scoffed, folding his arms. “Nah. Let him cool off. Chasing after him won’t fix it.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” Emily said softly, more to herself than anyone else.

Shane’s jaw ticked. “He’s just pissed reality didn’t match whatever fantasy he cooked up in his head.”

Aly watched the tension spark like static. She was starting to realize: for a therapy session, this was starting to feel a lot like emotional triage.

No one mentioned how Shane’s voice had gone tighter. Or how he didn’t quite look at Emily when he said it. Or how maybe—just maybe—he was a tiny bit jealous.

Of course not. No one noticed a thing.

(...)

The sky above the valley was a velvet curtain brushed with stars, still warming from the last gold of sunset. The crickets were tuning up their night symphony as Aly, Emily, and Shane stretched out on the hill behind the farmhouse, where the breeze smelled like tomatoes and fresh hay.

“I still can’t believe you got Robin to wear a dress,” Aly murmured, hands folded behind her head.

Emily laughed. “She looked amazing! You saw how she twirled.”

“It was a little terrifying,” Shane muttered. “In a majestic kinda way.”

“Hey, I needed that session,” Emily said, glancing up at the sky. “Sometimes people just need to be seen, you know? For the stuff they don’t usually show.”

There was a silence then, soft and easy. A shooting star zipped across the sky. Emily gasped and clutched Aly’s arm. “Did you see that one?!”

“Make a wish,” Aly grinned.

“I already did,” Emily whispered. But she didn’t say what.

Shane was uncharacteristically quiet. He kept sneaking glances at Emily when he thought neither of them were looking. But Aly caught one.

And then… Emily’s hand brushed his. Not on purpose. Or maybe completely on purpose. Their pinkies bumped. Stayed.

Shane blinked like a deer in the headlights.

“Oh crap,” he blurted, sitting bolt upright. “I, uh. I forgot. Gotta… check on Sir Cluckles. Make sure she’s not eating the coop roof again.”

“You don’t have a roof-eating chicken,” Aly said flatly.

“Not yet, ” he mumbled, already power-walking away toward the road.

Emily watched him go, lips pursed in something close to amusement—and maybe something else. She sighed, hugging her knees to her chest.

“So…” Aly said, nudging her. “Shane?”

Emily gave her a look, half-flustered, half-laughing. “Don’t you start.”

“I’m just saying,” Aly grinned. “He panicked like you’d kissed him.”

“I didn’t!”

“Yet.”

Emily groaned, but the tips of her ears were pink. “We’ve always been close,” she said, voice quieting. “He’s… complicated. You know that.”

“Complicated’s not the same as impossible.”

Emily drew a slow breath, letting her eyes trace the stars. “For a long time, I just wanted to help him. Be there. Be a friend. But lately…” Her words faltered like they weren’t used to being out loud. “Lately I feel like something’s shifting. And it scares me.”

“Why?”

“Because if I get it wrong, I lose him.” Her smile was soft, a little sad. “And I don’t want to lose Shane.”

Aly didn’t say anything right away. She just bumped her shoulder gently against Emily’s. The stars above glittered like they were rooting for them.

And far off in the distance, some chicken squawked like it was eating the coop roof.

(...)

Shane sat on an overturned bucket outside the coop, the kind that used to hold chicken feed but now served better as a throne for bad decisions and emotional spirals. The stars were out in full force, unbothered and beautiful. Sir Cluckles was snuggled on his lap, cooing softly, utterly unaware that her human was having what could only be described as a crisis.

He scratched under her beak. “You ever touch someone’s hand and feel like your entire nervous system needs a reboot?”

The chicken blinked. Unhelpfully.

“Yeah, me neither.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. The farm stretched out around him in hushed silhouettes — the barn, the field, the farmhouse on the hill. He’d practically fled from it like it was on fire. Because of one stupid brush of fingers. One glance from Emily that was too long, too real.

“She deserves someone... better,” he muttered. “Someone who doesn’t spiral over pinky contact like it’s a declaration of love.”

Sir Cluckles made a noise like a disapproving cluck.

“Oh don’t start,” Shane sighed. “You like everyone.”

The worst part? For a second, he’d almost stayed. The stars, the quiet, Emily beside him — it had felt like... something. Like the beginning of something soft and dangerous. He could’ve leaned in. He could’ve—

“Nope,” he cut himself off, standing abruptly. The chicken protested, then hopped off his lap indignantly. “Nope nope nope. Not happening.”

He dusted off his jeans and stared up at the sky like it owed him answers. “It’s just a phase. She’s just being... Emily. Friendly. Glittery. Sparkly. She hugs everyone. Right?”

Sir Cluckles pecked at his boot.

“Exactly.”

He sighed again, longer this time, and looked toward the farmhouse lights. “Besides,” he mumbled, quieter now, “She deserves someone who doesn’t hate himself.”

He didn’t know how long he stood there, letting the stars do all the talking. But eventually, he crouched down and opened the coop door.

“Come on, Sir Cluckles. Let’s get inside. I’ll leave the roof for tomorrow.”

[---]

It was the 23rd day of Summer. Just another day, Aly told herself. A normal morning. Sun on the fields, buzz of bees over the zinnias, the sound of Wildfire pawing at the dry earth. She’d already milked the cow, watered the beans, trimmed the stray weeds by the mailbox. It was all routine now, the kind of steady rhythm that settled deep into your bones like a lullaby.

She hadn’t told anyone it was her birthday.

Not on purpose, exactly. It had just... never come up. The past two seasons had been a whirlwind—moving to Stardew, planting roots, meeting people who tangled her world in new, strange ways. And with every day a little fuller than the last, the date slipped through the cracks like rain through loose floorboards. It felt easier that way.

So she was heading to Marnie’s, dust on her boots, a satchel of gold jangling at her side for hay and maybe some wheat seeds—when she nearly collided with someone on the road.

"Whoa—careful," Haley said, stepping back with a hand on her hip. She was in a pale yellow sundress, the kind that made her look like she’d been plucked straight from the sun. Aly caught herself, blinked.

“Hey,” she said.

Haley tilted her head. "You look busy."

“Just heading to Marnie’s. I need to stock up before the chickens revolt. They’re getting ideas.”

Haley gave a breath of a laugh, then paused. Something flickered in her eyes, unreadable. "Come to my house instead."

Aly hesitated. “Now?”

“Yeah. Emily’s working, it’s just me. I want to show you something.”

She said it like a dare. Like an invitation laced with something heavier. Aly swallowed. “Alright.”

(...)

Inside the house, it was quiet in the way lived-in spaces are—cushions slightly off-center, the faint scent of fabric softener and tea leaves. Haley led her through the hallway, past the kitchen, to a door tucked into the corner that Aly had never really noticed.

“My darkroom,” Haley said, with a small, almost shy smile.

Aly blinked. “Of course you have a darkroom.”

Haley pushed open the door.

The room inside was dimly lit in soft red tones, warm and enclosed like a secret. Rows of photographs hung from wires stretched across the ceiling—landscapes, oceans, peach trees in bloom. A black-and-white of a smiling Jas. A soft-focus shot of Wildfire mid-gallop, dust curling behind him like smoke. Aly’s chest swelled.

“Haley… this is amazing.”

Haley leaned against the counter, trying to hide her smile behind a shrug. “Still figuring it out. I want to paint that wall—maybe add some floating shelves over here. What do you think?”

They talked about colors. About lighting and display ideas. Aly offered to build her a custom shelf. Haley said only if it came with a ladder and a flower vase. The banter felt easy. Familiar. But beneath it, a current.

Then Haley glanced over, her voice quieter: “So... what do you want to do next?”

Aly turned toward her.

The air between them changed—like a string had pulled taut between their chests. Something unspoken, trembling in the hush.

She looked at Haley, really looked at her. The gentle curve of her mouth, the way the soft red light grazed her cheekbones. She shouldn't be thinking this. Haley had a boyfriend. This wasn’t part of the plan.

But... the way Haley was watching her—like she'd been holding her breath for days. Like Aly was something she'd been trying not to reach for.

Aly swallowed. Her voice was quiet, rough around the edges.  “I want to do this.”

Her feet moved before her fear could pull them back. One step closer. Another.

Haley’s eyes flickered—shock, breathlessness—but not fear. Not rejection.
She didn’t step away.

“I was wondering...” Haley whispered, gaze never leaving Aly’s.  Her voice cracked like silk.
“When you’d finally do that.”

A pause. One second. Two.

And then—slowly, deliberately—Haley reached behind her and flipped a switch.

The room dimmed, shadows washing over the floor. Only a warm, focused glow remained—cast over the both of them like a secret they were finally letting happen.

They leaned in together. No more questions. Just heat.

The kiss was soft. Careful. Like testing the surface of a dream.

When they finally pulled apart, Haley lingered close. Her cheeks pink, her breath warm.

“That was...” she exhaled, eyes fluttering.  “That was nice.”

Aly stepped back just a breath. Her lips still tingled, and her heart was trying to beat straight through her ribs.

Holy crap. She kissed Haley.
She kissed Haley.

And Haley kissed her back.

The silence in the darkroom buzzed like an amp at full volume. Aly opened her mouth—no thoughts, just heat—and then nervously laughed, a little breathless.

“I—I can’t believe I just did that,” she muttered, touching her fingers to her lips. Her face was on fire.

Haley tilted her head, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smile. “I can,” she said quietly. “Took you long enough.”

Aly looked away, suddenly shy. “Well... I guess I wanted to make this birthday one to remember.”

Haley blinked.
Wait.

“Wait— what? ”
Aly flinched. “What?”
“Did you just say—today’s your birthday? ”

Aly winced like she'd spilled state secrets. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

Haley stood up straight, eyes wide. “You’ve been walking around all day like it’s any other day?!”

“Well, yeah, I mean—I just didn’t tell anyone. There wasn’t really a good time and then—”

“No. Nope. We are not just going to sit here like nothing happened. You kissed me on your birthday and I refuse to let that be the highlight—no offense.”

“None taken,” Aly mumbled, still dazed.

Haley’s eyes sparkled with the force of a decision. “You’re coming with me to the saloon.” Haley tossed her hair back, already marching toward the door. “Tonight I’m breaking all my rules.”

Aly just stood there, stunned.
She kissed Haley.
And now Haley was dragging her to the saloon ?

Emily would never believe this. Honestly... Aly barely did either.

(...)

It was already loud when they arrived, full of music and the golden clatter of laughter and pint glasses.

Emily spotted them first. “GIRLS’ NIGHT!” she yelled, raising her glass. Shane groaned beside her, visibly tipsy, with a dramatic slump over the bar like he’d just fought a war against sobriety and lost.

Aly waved awkwardly. Haley looked like she'd just stepped onto another planet.

“You sure about this?” Aly murmured.
“No,” Haley whispered back. “But also yes. And you’re not allowed to stop me.”

Emily came bounding over. “Oh my GOD is this Haley at the saloon ? On a weekday?! ” She gasped like it was the gossip of the year.

Haley just shrugged, casual as moonlight. “It’s her birthday. It had to happen.”

Emily’s eyes went wide. She spun on Aly like she’d discovered a national secret. “ It’s your birthday? And you weren’t going to tell me?!”

Shane lifted his head off the bar. “It’s your birthday? Damn. That makes sense. You’ve got ‘secret birthday girl energy.’”

Haley shoved him. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re glowing, but also suspicious,” he said, straight-faced, then hiccuped.

Aly covered her laugh. Emily handed her a drink that may or may not have had multiple mystery liquors in it.

“To the birthday girl!” Emily announced. “And to... whatever this chaos is!”

They clinked glasses. Haley leaned a little closer to Aly with a smirk.

“So... is this the part where I get you drunk and win you at darts?”

Aly grinned. “You can try.”

(...)

The saloon was alive with its usual hum: clinking glasses, lazy guitar, Gus humming behind the bar. But tonight, something buzzed brighter. Emily had turned into a glitter tornado, weaving through people with her arms full of party napkins and whatever vaguely festive item she could find—streamers, a dusty party hat from the back closet, a single sparkler she was definitely not supposed to light indoors.

“Do you think Gus will let me set this off inside if I promise to dance interpretively around it?” she asked Shane, who was seated beside her with the air of a man witnessing a small, unstoppable storm.

“Yeah,” he drawled, nursing his beer. “And if the saloon burns down, we can all just move into the community center.”

Emily blinked, then grinned. “Okay, but only if I get the fish tank room.”

Aly laughed, leaning into the corner booth while Haley—yes, Haley —sat beside her, sipping ginger ale with a straw and pretending not to be having the best time of her life.

They stayed until the night settled soft and syrupy around the town, and the moon dusted everything in pale silver. Shane finally convinced Emily to leave before she started crafting birthday balloons out of empty kegs. Aly helped her down the steps, and Haley slid in quietly beside her.

“I’ll walk you home,” Haley said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They walked side-by-side up the winding hill road, past the carp pond where frogs croaked like sleepy violin strings. Crickets murmured in the tall summer grass. The wind smelled like warm hay and ripe tomatoes.

Haley kept stealing glances at Aly—who still had a stray confetti streamer caught in her hair—and something soft bloomed behind her ribs. The night felt... gentle. Like it wanted to keep a secret.

When they reached the farmhouse porch, Haley paused.

Fireflies blinked lazily across the yard. The barn loomed quiet in the dark, and Peach the cat snored softly near the watering trough. Aly turned toward her, her eyes reflecting starlight like dew.

Haley reached out, brushing the streamer from Aly’s hair.

Then, without a word, she leaned in and kissed her again—slower this time, like sealing a letter she wasn’t ready to send.

When they parted, Haley rested her forehead against Aly’s.

“Happy birthday,” she whispered.

Aly was still smiling when she stepped inside.

And Haley stood on that porch for a long time, staring at the sky like it had just told her a secret too.

Chapter Text

Haley hadn’t meant to kiss her. Not really.

She’d meant to be charming. A little playful. Maybe flirt in the darkroom, close the space between them just enough to watch Aly squirm.

But Aly had kissed her back. And Haley had felt something.

So of course, once the day ended, Haley had to avoid her. For a whole week.

A week of nothing. No words. No darkroom. Just fields and silence and the question of what that kiss had meant—if anything at all.

And now? Now she was standing at the beach, arm looped through Alex’s, and the sea smelled like salt and endings.

Their posture was all wrong. Too casual. Too practiced. Like a scene she’d lived a hundred times and still didn’t know the lines for. She leaned into Alex’s side because it was easier than being alone. Because if she didn’t, she might look for Aly.

God. What was she even thinking? Kissing the farmer?

Haley swallowed hard and smiled at a joke Alex made. It didn’t land. She wasn’t really listening.

(...)

Aly stood across the sand, watching.

She hadn’t planned on crying tonight. Not during a festival. Not under the stars.

But there was Haley—standing close to him. Wearing a soft blue sundress that fluttered around her knees, hair like moonlight, a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Aly’s heart thudded dully against her ribs.
Did that kiss mean nothing? Or too much?

She looked away.

Beside her, Emily appeared like magic. A quiet, protective presence with a cup of sweet wine in her hands. “You good?” she asked softly, not needing an answer.

Aly nodded. It wasn’t true, but it was enough.

Emily didn’t say anything else. She just stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder with Aly, the way people do when they know words won’t fix it but presence might help soften the sting.

(...)

Mayor Lewis cleared his throat and tapped the podium. “Let us begin the Dance of the Moonlight Jellies!”

A hush swept over the beach.

He lit the torch. Flames flickered, casting golden reflections across the dock—and one by one, glowing jellyfish began to rise from the waves.

The ocean became a painting.

Bioluminescent ribbons drifted like spirits. Silent. Serene. As if time itself had paused to admire them.

A hush fell over the crowd. Even Alex shut up. Even Haley looked up.

Aly swallowed the ache in her chest. Watched the jellyfish dance. Pretended they weren’t glowing in the same place her heartbreak was.

(...)

Haley didn’t look over.

She couldn’t.
Because if she did—if she caught even a glimpse of Aly in the dark—she knew something inside her would slip.

She’d leave Alex. She’d ruin everything.

So she kept her eyes on the water.
Tried to believe it was beautiful enough to distract her from what she’d done.

From the farmer with the dirt-streaked smile and soft eyes.
From the kiss that still burned like starlight on her lips.

(...)

And that’s how Summer ended.

Not with fireworks. Not with music.
But with glowing jellyfish, a kiss no one talked about, and too many questions left behind in the tide.

Chapter Text

The first morning of Fall arrives soft and gold. Aly wakes before the sun crests over the hills, the sky still tinted with that watery pre-dawn blue. Peach, curled at the foot of her bed, stretches and yawns like a diva.

She pulls on her thickest flannel, rubs the sleep from her eyes, and steps out into a world changed. The green of summer has dulled into burnished coppers and deep reds. The trees whisper a different kind of wind.

Her boots crunch over the straw-strewn path as she checks on Wildfire, her horse, who flicks his ears and nudges her pockets for treats. The stable smells like hay and warmth. Next, Buttercup, who gives a soft moo as Aly freshens the hay and gives her a scratch behind the ears.

Then comes the planting. She kneels in the dirt with a quiet focus, placing cranberry, pumpkin, and yam seeds into the tilled soil. The earth feels different now—cooler, more solemn. She hums a tune without thinking. Just her, the soil, and the season turning.

Lunch is simple: roasted yams left over from Marnie’s kitchen, a crisp apple, and strong tea. She eats on the porch, legs stretched out, eyes on the shifting trees. It should feel peaceful. It almost does.

She still hasn’t seen Haley since the festival.

She’s halfway through her apple when she hears the gate creak open.

(...)

Haley stands there in high-waisted jeans and a vintage jacket that definitely didn’t belong to her this summer. Fall suits her—like she was meant for these dusky tones and long shadows.

“Hey,” Haley says. “You busy?”

Aly wipes her hands on her pants. “Always.”

Haley smiles, a flicker of realness behind it. “You said you’d help me with the photo room.”

Aly blinks. She did say that. Almost two weeks ago. Before the jellyfish. Before everything got weird.

“Yeah,” Aly says slowly. “I remember.”

(...)

It smells like old paper and developing fluid, with a hint of something sweet—maybe from a forgotten cup of tea Emily left behind. The room is a mess. Boxes, loose prints, tangled string lights.

They work in near-silence at first. Haley’s good at pretending things are normal. Aly’s trying not to stare too long when she leans over a crate.

Then Haley finds it. A faded photo, a little girl with bright blonde hair and a plastic toy camera, beaming at something just outside the frame.

“God,” Haley mutters, pushing it to the bottom of the pile. “I was such a nerd.”

“You looked happy,” Aly says, without thinking.

Haley stills. The air shifts.

“…I guess,” she says, voice quieter. “It was before I learned people didn’t care about stuff like that.”

Aly doesn’t respond. Just carefully lifts the photo again, smoothing the crease across the top.

(...)

They walk out together. No kiss. No flirting. Just that silence between two people who might’ve been something, once.

At the gate, Haley pauses. “Thanks for coming.”

Aly gives a half-smile. “Anytime.”

Haley hesitates. She opens her mouth like she wants to say something— but doesn’t. She just turns and walks off, leaves crunching under her boots.

(...)

Haley stares at the photo long after Aly’s footsteps have faded.

It’s the one with the crooked frame and the smudged corner. She remembers taking it—bare feet in the backyard, sun blazing, the disposable camera too big for her hands. In the picture, she’s maybe eight. Her grin is too wide, too earnest. There's dirt on her knees and light caught in her hair like a halo. She looks… happy. Not posed. Not perfect. Just—real.

And Aly saw that. Aly looked at it and said she looked happy.

God.

Haley exhales through her nose, annoyed at the sting behind her eyes. She flops onto her bed and lets the photo sit beside her on the blanket, staring at it like it might blink first.

Okay. So what were they doing?

They were friends. Sure. Getting along. Laughing more. Talking about things that weren’t weather or town gossip. Friends.

Friends who kissed. Twice.

And now everything felt like walking a tightrope made of spiderwebs—delicate, strange, and just one wrong step away from falling into something real. Something terrifying.

So she avoided Aly. Not because she didn’t care—but because she did. And she didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

Alex was easier. Predictable. Familiar. Like autopilot with abs.

But Aly?

Aly saw through her.

And that—that was dangerous.

(...)

The air was cooler by the time Aly wandered into Cindersap. The trees whispered in shades of auburn and rust, and the sky was dipped in indigo, stars just beginning to stitch their light overhead.

She found Shane already at the pond dock, legs dangling over the water, a half-empty beer in his hand. He gave her a nod as she approached, a grunt that somehow meant hey, you.

Aly sat beside him without a word. Wildfire was grazing somewhere nearby, and Buttercup was tucked safely in the barn. Her day was done—but something inside her wasn’t quiet yet.

Shane cracked open another beer and held it out to her. “Peace offering,” he said, half-smirked. “For surviving summer.”

Aly took it, let the fizz settle. “Cheers to that.”

They drank in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to frogs and the occasional rustle of some sleepy squirrel. The dock creaked beneath them, old and soft.

“So,” Shane finally said, voice rough like gravel but not unkind. “You and Haley, huh?”

Aly choked on her sip. “We’re… not.”

“You think people don’t notice,” Shane said, glancing sidelong at her. “But they do. Especially when the blonde one keeps looking at you like she’s about to either kiss you or commit arson. Could’ve fooled me.”

She stared out at the water, the reflection of stars quivering in the dark. “I don’t know what we are.”

Shane took a long pull of his beer. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Silence again. Then, slowly, like it had been ripening on his tongue all day, he said, “I used to come out here every night. Not ‘cause it was pretty. Just ’cause it was quiet. Could drink myself stupid and no one would care.”

Aly glanced at him, but he didn’t meet her eyes.

“It gets bad,” he said. “The kind of bad that doesn’t make a lotta noise. You wake up one day and everything tastes like dust, even the things that used to matter.” He finally looked at her then, and his gaze wasn’t sharp—it was tired. Honest. “You’ve got something good going here. The farm. The people. Don’t drown it with beer just ‘cause you don’t know what to do with your feelings.”

Aly swallowed hard. The beer suddenly felt heavier in her hand.

“I’m not saying don’t drink,” he added, a flicker of a grin. “God knows I still do. Just… don’t let it be the only thing that listens.”

She nodded. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Don’t thank me,” Shane muttered. “Just stay weird and grow your damn crops.”

The stars blinked above, the forest hushed around them. The dock swayed a little under their weight.

And for the first time all day, Aly felt a little more grounded.

[---]

The morning came with crisp air and the scent of wet earth—like the world had exhaled overnight. Aly moved through her farm in a slow rhythm, checking the late-summer blueberries clinging stubbornly to their vines, brushing fallen leaves from Buttercup’s back, feeding Wildfire an apple she’d tucked into her pocket. Her boots crunched on gravel, and for a moment, everything felt simple. Almost peaceful.

Almost.

Because under it all still buzzed the memory of Haley's eyes in the photo room, the look she gave just before turning away, and the ghost of a kiss Aly couldn’t stop tasting.

So when someone knocked on the farmhouse door—three sharp raps and a pause—Aly wasn’t expecting Shane.

He stood on her porch like he was trying not to look like he cared about being there. He held a small paper bag in one hand.

“I, uh… got peppers,” he said. “You got cheese, right? Thought we could make those popper things.”

Aly blinked. “Like… together?”

Shane shrugged, shifting his weight. “Unless you think I’m gonna set your kitchen on fire, which—fair. But I got a new skillet. Might as well break it in.”

Inside, the kitchen filled with the scent of peppers and frying oil. Shane was surprisingly competent, though he swore like a sailor every time the cheese tried to escape its crusty shell. Aly, meanwhile, accidentally flipped one onto the floor, which Buttercup—somehow inside the house now—immediately lunged for.

“Okay, what in the actual—does the cow have a sixth sense for snacks?” Shane asked, clutching the counter as Buttercup trotted proudly past with a half-melted popper.

“Don’t question Buttercup’s methods,” Aly said. “She’s got farm priority.”

They laughed. It came out easier than expected.

Midway through frying the second batch, the door swung open without ceremony.

“I sensed a culinary disturbance,” Emily said, breezing in with a woven basket and dramatic flair. “And I brought thyme. Both literal and metaphorical.”

Emily immediately took over seasoning, throwing in herbs with intuition and chaos. The kitchen turned into a lowkey war zone of oil pops and sarcastic one-liners. At some point, someone spilled shredded cheese and they all slipped on it. Twice.

By lunch, they were on the porch, paper plates balanced on knees, sun stretching long shadows over the path.

Emily gestured vaguely at the trees. “This… is so nice. It’s giving cottagecore heartbreak, but make it found family.”

Aly snorted. “That’s oddly specific.”

“It’s a vibe.”

Shane didn’t say much, just ate slowly, eyes thoughtful.

When the food was gone and the sky had begun to tint gold, he leaned back against the porch post and said, not looking at anyone, “I forgot food could taste good when you’re not… y’know. Miserable.”

A beat passed.

“Thanks, Farmer.”

Aly nodded, her chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the peppers.

Emily raised her glass of water like a toast. “To hot snacks and emotional breakthroughs.”

Buttercup mooed her approval from the doorway.

Chapter Text

Aly hadn’t meant to overhear anything. She was just there to pick up some hay, maybe a bag of feed or two. Buttercup was growing, and Wildfire had developed a sassy taste for the fancy oats. Normal chores. Normal afternoon.

The barn was quiet—too quiet for Marnie’s usual bustle. The air hung heavy with the smell of old hay and something sour underneath. Aly was halfway to the feed room when she noticed Shane’s door cracked open.

And that’s when she saw it.

He was sprawled across the floor, back against his bed. A minefield of empty beer cans glinted in the dull light, forming a crinkled constellation around him. One arm dangled limply, the other shielding his eyes.

“Shane?” Aly stepped closer, cautious.

No answer.

Her jaw set. She spotted the old watering can by the door, half-filled from earlier. Well. Desperate times.

A splash of cold water hit Shane square in the face.

He sputtered and jerked upright, blinking hard like he wasn’t sure if he was waking up or still dreaming.

“What the hell—Aly?” His voice was raw. “You watering the crops or staging an intervention?”

“You were passed out. And smelling like the Saloon’s trash bin.” Aly crossed her arms. “You okay?”

Before he could answer, Marnie’s voice rang from behind. “Is he drunk again?”

She marched over, expression tight with frustration and something heavier beneath it. “Shane, you promised. You said you were trying.”

He groaned, rubbing his face. “Trying’s overrated.”

“All you do is mope around and drink beer,” Marnie snapped, her tone the closest Aly had heard to real anger.

“What do you want from me?” Shane barked, eyes suddenly blazing. “You want me to say I’ve got it figured out? That I’ve got plans?” He stood, swaying slightly. “Fine. Here’s my plan—I hope I won’t be around long enough to need one.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

And then, a small, choked voice from the hallway: “Shane?”

Jas stood frozen at the doorway. Her wide eyes filled with hurt faster than Shane could take the words back.

“I didn’t—Jas, wait—” he stammered, stumbling forward, but she was already running.

“Jas!” Marnie called, rushing after her.

And then there was just Shane.

He dropped to his knees, like the weight of what he’d said finally caught up to him. His hands curled into fists against the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “God. I’m sorry.”

Aly didn’t say anything.

She just knelt beside him, gently brushing aside an empty can, and stayed. The room was thick with dust and regret. And quiet.

But she stayed.

(...)

The sun was already beginning to sink by the time Aly made her way across town, the sky painted in bruised pink and soft flame. Her boots crunched over brittle leaves, her breath visible in the cooling air. It was a beautiful evening. Unfairly so.

Emily answered the door with her usual kaleidoscope of earrings and a smile that faltered the second she saw Aly’s face.

“Hey… you okay?”

“No,” Aly said honestly.

Emily stepped aside without needing an explanation. The house was warm and smelled faintly of sage and old wood polish. Aly followed her into the cozy living room, where the windows caught the last of the golden light.

“I was at the ranch,” Aly said, sitting down on the couch like her legs had given out. “I went to get feed and… found Shane.”

Emily’s hands froze mid-movement as she was lighting a lavender-scented candle. “Found him?”

“He was passed out in his room. Beer cans everywhere. Marnie yelled. Jas heard him say something—something really dark. She ran off crying.”

Emily set the lighter down too fast. It clattered on the table.

“Oh no,” she whispered, her voice folding in on itself. “I… I thought things were getting better.”

Aly blinked at her. “Better?”

“Yeah. I mean…” Emily wrapped her arms around herself. “He’s been… showing up more. Laughing again. Eating dinner with us sometimes. I thought he was turning a corner.”

Aly looked at her, confused. “But… he seemed happy.”

“That’s the thing,” Emily said, staring at the flame flickering in the candle now. “Sometimes people get really good at pretending. Especially when they think it’ll make things easier for the people around them.”

A long silence settled between them, soft and sad.

“I just thought he was funny,” Aly said, her voice small. “He’s dry and sarcastic and kind of a mess, but I didn’t realize how deep that mess went.”

Emily nodded slowly. “He’s all of that. And he’s also hurting. Has been for a long time. Some days are better. Some aren’t. But when the bad ones hit… they really hit.”

Aly’s gaze drifted toward the photo frame on the mantel—an old picture of Emily and Haley as teenagers, both sunburnt and squinting at the beach. A ghost of a smile touched her lips, then faded.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she admitted.

“You stayed,” Emily said gently. “That’s more than most people would.”

A log cracked in the fireplace. Outside, the wind rustled the last stubborn leaves on the trees. For a while, they just sat together, letting the quiet do what words couldn’t.

Eventually, Emily stood and offered Aly a mug of herbal tea. “You can crash here if you want. I can take the couch.”

“Nah,” Aly said, grateful but shaking her head. “I’ve got a cow to tuck in.”

Emily smiled. “Tell Buttercup I said hi.”

Aly paused at the door. “Emily?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

[---]

Aly hadn’t planned on running into Haley in the middle of town. She was just passing through, flannel rolled to her elbows, a list in her pocket, and pumpkin seeds on her mind.

But there Haley was—leaning against the bulletin board outside Pierre’s, arms crossed and camera slung across her chest like it belonged there. Her sweater was off-white and oversized, her boots perfectly impractical. She looked like a magazine spread brought to life.

“Hey,” she said, like it was casual. Like her voice hadn’t gone all soft around the edges.

Aly raised a brow. “Hey.”

Haley kicked at a pebble, then met her gaze. “You busy?”

“I was gonna grab seeds,” Aly said, patting her pocket. “Pumpkin invasion’s coming.”

“Well… I was thinking,” Haley said, and the way she said it made Aly pause, “you remember that idea I mentioned? Ages ago? About doing a photo shoot around the valley?”

“You mean when you said the leaves would look good on you, not just the trees?”

“That’s the one.” Haley smirked. “You in?”

Aly looked her up and down. “Am I gonna regret this?”

“Absolutely,” Haley said sweetly, grabbing her wrist. “Let’s go.”

(...)

They hiked out past Cindersap and found the ridge where the old maple trees lined up like sentinels. The world was burnished gold and copper, and the leaves fell like soft little exclamations.

Haley had Aly pose beside a stone wall, backlit by the overcast sky. Then beside the riverbank, where water mirrored the fire of the trees. At one point, she directed Aly to lean back on a mossy boulder and look anywhere but at the camera.

Aly tried. She really did. But Haley’s gaze behind the lens was like static—like Aly could feel it brushing against her skin.

“You’re good at this,” Haley murmured, adjusting the settings. “I mean, really good.”

Aly huffed. “I’m literally standing here, doing nothing.”

“That’s the trick,” Haley said. “You don’t pose. You just… are. ”

And maybe it was the way she said it. Or the way she looked at Aly then—like she was discovering something. Or maybe it was the sudden hush of the air that shifted just before the first raindrop fell.

They scrambled under a nearby tree, breathless with laughter. The leaves above them caught most of the downpour, but stray drops slipped through, cool against warm skin.

Aly wiped her sleeve over her damp forehead. “Well. You better not say I never commit to your artistic vision.”

“You’re gonna be iconic,” Haley said with mock-seriousness.

A drop landed on Aly’s cheek, sliding down slow.

Haley reached out, thumb brushing it away. Her hand lingered.

The air snapped.

Aly didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

But Haley blinked, swallowed, and dropped her hand like it burned. She took a half-step back, eyes unreadable now.

“We should head back,” she said, too fast. “Before it gets worse.”

Aly didn’t answer. She didn’t know how to.

(...)

That night, the rain kept falling. Aly stayed in, peeling squash and pretending it didn’t bother her. That she wasn’t still thinking about the way Haley had touched her face like it meant something.

But somewhere across town, lights flickered behind Alex’s window.

And Haley was there.

Again.

(...)

It’s late when she walks up to Alex’s house.

The streets are empty. The rain has gone soft, just a mist now. Haley’s jacket is too thin for the cold, but she doesn’t turn back. Her boots echo a little on the wood of the porch.

She doesn’t knock. She just texts:
“You up?”

The porch light flicks on. The door opens a crack.

Alex doesn’t say anything. Just lets her in.

(...)

Inside, it’s warm, too warm. The air smells like sweat and old gym socks. Haley leans against the wall by the door, arms crossed, trying not to shake.

Alex looks at her, confused. “Didn’t think I’d see you this week.”

She shrugs. “You were never much for thinking.”

“Still a charmer.”

He steps closer, already reaching for her. She lets him kiss her because it’s easier than saying no.

But it’s not like before. Not quite.

It’s mechanical. Rehearsed. Haley’s body moves like it remembers the motions, but her mind is a thousand miles away—still under that tree, still hearing Aly laugh, still feeling the ghost of fingers on her cheek.

Alex tugs her toward the couch. She lets him.

But she doesn’t close her eyes.
She doesn’t moan.
She doesn’t even feel much.

And when it’s over (quick, clumsy, unsatisfying), she stares at the ceiling and thinks:

Why do I keep doing this?

She slips out before he can say anything. Her jacket’s still damp. She pulls the hood up and walks home in the cold, stomach hollow and heart tight.

She doesn’t cry.

But god, she wants to.

Chapter Text

The morning was made of drizzle and silence. Not the playful kind of rain—the melancholic, bone-deep sort that soaks the trees in stillness and smells like loss.

Aly hadn’t meant to wander this far. She was out to forage, boots damp, Wildfire back at the barn, Buttercup fed and chewing hay. The basket slung over her arm was still half-empty. But something tugged her south, deeper into the forest, until the trail grew muddy and the birds stopped singing.

That’s when she saw him.

Shane.

Face-down near the edge of the cliff. Soaked through. Surrounded by a confetti of crushed beer cans.

Her breath caught.

“Shane?” she called, voice sharp with fear.

No response.

She broke into a run, nearly slipping on the wet grass, and dropped to her knees beside him. “Shane. Hey—hey, come on.” She touched his shoulder. It was warm. Good. He was breathing.

He groaned, barely lifting his head. “Oh. It’s you.”

His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, unfocused. His words slurred around the corners.

Aly looked at the edge. Then back at him. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

He gave a hollow, humorless chuckle. “Thinking.”

The rain pattered on her shoulders, down her back.

“Shane—”

“I’m miserable,” he interrupted, his voice breaking around the word. “Every goddamn day I wake up and wish I hadn’t. I—I don’t see a future. I don’t even see a point.” His fingers clawed weakly at the grass. “So tell me. Tell me why I shouldn’t just roll off the cliff and be done with it.”

Aly’s heart hammered. The forest faded. There was only Shane and the storm between his ribs.

She could say a lot of things. Lecture him. Beg him. Lie. But she didn’t.

Instead, she crouched beside him. Her voice low, steady.

“I’m not gonna pretend to have the answer,” she said. “But I know this: the decision’s yours. Always will be. I just… want you to know I’m here. I see you. I care.”

For a moment, it was like the rain stopped, like the whole world held its breath.

Shane blinked. His lip trembled. “You shouldn’t.”

Aly shook her head. “Too late.”

He gave a weak, choked laugh. Then scrubbed his face with his sleeve, smearing water and tears and dirt together like some kind of war paint.

“Thanks,” he said hoarsely. “I appreciate that… I really do.”

He didn't try to stand, just looked out at the cliffside like it had something to say.

She waited with him, not speaking. Just holding space in the mud and mist.

Eventually, he asked in a whisper, “You think there’s any version of me that gets better?”

Aly didn’t flinch. “I think there’s a version that tries.”

(...)

The room was sterile and warm and smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and dried herbs. Shane lay on the cot, bundled in a scratchy blanket. His face was pale, and his breath had finally evened out into something resembling sleep.

Harvey finished jotting notes on his clipboard, then turned to Aly, concern lining every word.

“His physical injuries are minor,” he said. “But I’m… deeply concerned about his mental state. I’ll be recommending long-term counseling in Zuzu. He needs help. Serious help.”

Aly nodded, her hands jammed deep into her coat pockets. “Yeah. I figured.”

Harvey studied her. “You were the one who brought him in?”

She gave a tight nod.

“Good,” he said, voice gentler now. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Aly didn’t feel lucky. She felt hollow. Wet socks. Cold fingers. A heart full of thunder that wasn’t hers.

She turned her gaze to Shane, who looked smaller in that bed than he ever did in real life. Younger. Like a kid who’d just been rained on too many times.

She pulled up a chair, sat beside him.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

She just stayed.

Because sometimes, surviving the fall meant having someone at your bedside when you woke up.

(...)

The light through the window was soft and grey, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Haley sat cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by glossy photo prints—some in color, some stark in black and white. Aly in overalls, brushing hair from her face. Aly laughing under a maple tree. Aly, quiet, hands tucked into her sleeves, looking like she belonged to the season more than the landscape itself.

Haley didn’t know why she kept coming back to that one. The photo where Aly wasn’t smiling. Just… watching. The expression unreadable. Vulnerable, maybe. Or brave. Or both.

She held it between her fingers like it might answer something.

Then the door creaked open.

Alex stood there, all confidence and cologne. “Didn’t think you’d answer if I knocked,” he said, smirking like he thought he was charming.

Haley startled, nearly dropping the photo. “What are you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d check in. It’s been a while.” He stepped in without asking, eyes sweeping the mess of pictures on the floor. “You working on something?”

Haley moved to gather them, too slow.

His foot stopped on one. Aly, eyes turned toward the camera like she could see the photographer.

Alex picked it up, turning it in his hand. “Huh.”

Something about his tone made Haley stand. “Don’t.”

He didn’t look at her. “So this is the farmer. The one who tried to dance with you. You're still thinking about her?”

“She’s a friend.”

Alex scoffed, low and bitter. “You take pictures like that of all your friends?”

Haley crossed her arms. “You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said too quickly, too hot. “I’m just saying—if she’s your new charity case or whatever, maybe don’t look at her like she hung the damn moon.”

The silence after that was sharp. Haley’s hands were shaking, but she didn’t let him see.

“I think you should leave.”

Alex blinked. “C’mon, Hales. We were just—”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. The words trembled at the edge, but she swallowed them like glass.

“…You should go.”

Alex stared at her, confused for half a second, but his ego stitched itself back together. “Fine,” he muttered, tossing the photo down. “Call me when you stop being weird.”

The door slammed behind him.

Haley didn’t move. The room smelled like rain and dust and something sour she couldn’t name.

She crouched slowly, collecting the fallen photos, one by one. Her hands shook, and she hated that they did. She hated how the quiet in her chest had turned sharp, how the picture of Aly felt like a secret she didn’t mean to confess.

Haley looked at it again—Aly in profile, eyes soft, rain-kissed and radiant.

Friends. Just friends.

She pressed the photo face down, hiding it from the ceiling, the sky, herself.

(...)

The rest of the afternoon was gray in that specific kind of way that made everything feel more like a memory than a moment. Haley walked without meaning to, without knowing where her feet were headed. Just moving to move. Just… empty.

Alex had left hours ago, but his voice still echoed like mud on her tongue.

She rounded the bend near Harvey’s clinic, arms crossed tight. That’s when she saw them.

Aly, stepping carefully down the steps, her hand hovering just behind Shane’s elbow. He looked pale, like he’d lost a war, but he was upright. Walking.

When his eyes found Haley, something flickered. Then died.

“Yeah,” he muttered to Aly, pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders. “I’m out of here. I can walk myself home. You don’t need to babysit me, Farmer Sunshine.”

Aly hesitated. “You sure?”

Shane shot a look between the two girls, then gave a grunt that might’ve been a laugh. “Positive. Go be dramatic youths or whatever it is you two do.”

And just like that, he turned toward the trees, footsteps crunching damp gravel as the wind picked up.

Haley looked at Aly. Aly looked back.

They stood in the gray stillness.

Then, softly: “Do you want to walk?”

They walked.

Neither of them said anything for a while. Until they did.

“I hate it sometimes,” Haley said, her voice sudden, raw. “Being around him. Alex.”

Aly glanced at her, but didn’t speak.

“I know it looks easy,” Haley went on. “The whole ‘hot athlete boyfriend’ thing. The summer dream. But I’m not happy. I’m not even me when I’m with him. I’m—just—” Her hands trembled as she shoved them into her pockets. “I don’t know who I am around him anymore.”

A pause.

Aly's voice came quiet. “Then why do you still see him?”

The question dropped like a stone in her chest.

Haley opened her mouth. Closed it. Her throat locked up. “He’s just a friend,” she said, automatically.

But the words were dust. Lies. Lies that tasted like lipstick you forgot to wipe off.

They reached a fork in the path. The air was colder here, biting.

“I should head back,” Aly said, gentle, no judgment in her eyes. That made it worse somehow.

Haley nodded, stiff. Watched her turn. Watched her go.

The guilt surged fast and ugly. Too much, too soon. She couldn’t let it sit. She couldn’t sit with herself.

“Not everyone wants to play farmer fairy tale, okay?” Haley snapped.

Aly stopped.

Turned slowly.

Hurt bloomed behind her eyes like frostbite. She didn’t say anything. Just gave a little nod, jaw tight, and walked away.

Haley stood in the emptying path, shoulders up, arms crossed so tight it hurt.

The silence hit harder than any scream.

“Damn it,” she whispered, under her breath. “I didn’t mean that.”

But the words were already loose in the wind, and Aly was already gone.

[---]

The sky was a pale pewter when Aly stepped out onto the porch, boots scuffing against the wood. Dew clung to everything, delicate and trembling, like the world had been crying overnight and hadn’t quite gotten around to drying off.

Buttercup mooed her usual morning complaint from the barn, and Wildfire flicked his tail with theatrical drama, as if he hadn’t been spoiled with carrots just yesterday. Aly rubbed her eyes, cracked a smile, and got to work. The motions were familiar—scooping hay, brushing flanks, checking the trough. Everything calm. Everything normal.

And yet.

Haley’s voice lingered like a splinter under her skin.

"Not everyone wants to play farmer fairy tale, okay?"

It had been sharp, dismissive. But more than anything, it had hurt. Aly didn’t want a fairy tale. She just wanted—

“Hey,” came a voice from the fence line. Shane, in a hoodie that had definitely seen better years, lifted a hand in greeting. “You, uh… need a hand?”

Aly blinked. “You volunteering to shovel manure?”

“I’ve done worse,” he said with a smirk. “Don’t ask me what.”

She handed him a rake without a word, and he joined her in the barn. For a while, they worked in easy silence, just the sound of hooves shifting and chickens clucking in the background.

Eventually, Shane broke it. “So... I wanted to say thanks. For... y'know. Everything.” He looked down, focusing hard on the rake. “For not letting me do something stupid. For hauling my sorry ass back to the land of the living.”

Aly paused, one hand on Buttercup’s warm flank. “I’m just glad I was there.”

“…Yeah,” Shane said softly, his gaze distant, like he was watching something behind his own eyes. “Me too.”

There was a beat. A soft shuffle of hay. Then:

“I’m gonna go to that counseling thing. Harvey gave me a name, and… I guess I’m not ready to check out yet.” He gave a lopsided shrug. “Even if I still feel like crap most days.”

Aly nodded. “That’s brave.”

“Pfft.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s pathetic.”

“It’s not.”

He didn’t argue that.

They finished the chores. Buttercup mooed again, this time more content, and Peach, Aly’s cat, rubbed against Shane’s leg with a purr that startled him.

“She likes you,” Aly said.

“Great. Now I’ve got expectations to live up to,” Shane muttered, crouching to scratch behind the cat’s ears. “That’s a lot of pressure, Peach.”

Peach purred louder.

(...)

The Saloon smelled like pine cleaner, stale peanuts, and tired men. Haley hadn’t been here in weeks—not since before the Fall, when things still felt like a sunlit daze and not this fog of questions she couldn’t answer.

Emily had dragged her out of the house with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a, “You need a change of scenery that isn’t your own reflection.”
Rude. And accurate.

So now Haley was here, leaning against a sticky wooden booth in her oversized cardigan and ripped jeans, arms folded like armor. Her lip gloss tasted like nothing.

Shane was already at the bar.
But it wasn’t what Haley expected.

No half-slouched slump. No beer in his hand.
There was a steaming mug in front of him—her sister’s special blend. The mug had a chip in the rim. Shane turned it slowly in his hands.

Emily slid in beside him with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times, even if she hadn’t. She didn’t say much. Just nudged his elbow with hers, grinning like moonlight slipping through shutters.

“Try not to look like you're mourning the death of joy itself,” she said.

“Noted,” Shane muttered, eyes down, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Haley blinked.
The air around them was... gentle. Unspoken.
Like watching two stray cats learn to sit beside each other without bristling.

She didn’t know why it hurt a little to see it.

Emily glanced back and caught Haley’s eye, gesturing for her to come over. Haley hesitated, then stayed right where she was.

It felt wrong.
Like sitting in the wrong seat of a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

Shane said something—too low to hear—but Emily laughed, real and soft.
And for a second, Haley envied them.
Not just for their odd little rhythm, but for the stillness.
The understanding.
The safety.

Alex had never made her laugh like that. Not without her faking it.
Not without something in her ribs going cold right after.

She didn’t want to think about that. But she did.

About Aly, too.
About the way her eyes looked outside the clinic, full of rain and weight and gentleness.

About how Haley had snapped, cruel and clumsy: “Not everyone wants to play farmer fairy tale, okay?”

God.
What a horrible thing to say.

Aly hadn’t even looked angry. Just... disappointed. Like Haley was a storm cloud that never figured out how to rain.

She ran her fingers through her hair, tugging slightly at the ends. Maybe if she pulled hard enough, something would make sense.

Emily called out, “You want anything, Hales?”

Haley shook her head. “I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t.

And she didn’t know how to say it.

She watched the bar. The chipped mug. The quiet conversations.
And she thought maybe... maybe someday, she could have something like that.
Real, and patient, and slow.
Maybe.

But not tonight.

Tonight she would go home, crawl into bed, and stare at the ceiling until her thoughts stopped spinning.

Tonight, the world would keep being tender to everyone but her.

Chapter Text

The leaves clung to their branches like secrets not yet told. Burnt umber and ochre, barely there. The wind stirred them gently, like the valley itself was exhaling something it had held too long.

Haley stood barefoot on the porch in one of Alex’s oversized hoodies, arms wrapped around herself, camera abandoned at her feet. She had taken three photos this morning and deleted all of them. The light was perfect. The focus was sharp. But there was nothing in them. No soul. No spark.

Much like her lately.

Emily appeared behind her, holding two steaming mugs of something herbal and strange and—knowing her sister—probably infused with moonlight or amethyst or the dreams of forest frogs.

“Chamomile and lavender,” Emily said gently. “You looked like you needed it.”

Haley took it without a word. Their hands brushed. She didn’t pull away.

They sat in silence, curled on the porch steps like the edges of a page, Haley’s knees pulled to her chest, Emily humming a barely-there tune under her breath. The quiet stretched. For once, Haley didn’t fill it.

“I don’t think I’m good at being me anymore,” Haley said suddenly.

Emily blinked. The humming stopped. “Then maybe you’re becoming someone else.”

That night, Haley didn’t sneak off. She stayed in. She cleaned the mirror in her room without knowing why.

[---]

It was cold again, and gray, and around lunchtime the Saloon smelled like spiced cider and wood polish. Haley trailed behind Emily like a ghost with lip gloss. Her mascara was perfect. Her heart was not.

Shane sat in the corner booth, hunched over a non alcoholic beer, eyes sunken but alert. Emily beelined to him and slid into the booth beside him, nudging his elbow and murmuring something low. He muttered back, and a tiny, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Haley watched them, arms crossed.

It was… strange. Subtle. Not the love stories she'd grown up thinking were real. There were no roses. No declarations. Just two tired people meeting in the middle of the storm and sitting together in the rain.

She didn’t sit with them. Not yet. But she saw it.

Shane caught her eye on his way to the bar and quirked a brow. “You think you’re the only one who’s a mess?” he said, not unkindly.

Haley scoffed, but it didn’t have any real heat. “I thought you were supposed to be the brooding one.”

“I’m evolving,” he said dryly. “Try it sometime.”

(...)

She found herself in Emily’s room. She never came in here, not really. The crystals used to annoy her, and the incense gave her a headache, and the rugs never matched. But tonight it felt safe. Dim. Soft.

Emily was meditating, eyes closed. Haley sat on the edge of the bed like it might swallow her.

“I don’t know how to… fix it, ” she whispered. “Any of it.”

Emily opened one eye. “Maybe don’t fix it. Maybe just… feel it.”

Haley stared at the floor. Then nodded, once.

(...)

And somewhere across the valley, Aly was feeding her animals under a pearl-grey sky. The wind curled around her hair like a promise. She didn’t know it yet, but something was shifting. Slowly. Softly.

The first leaf never knows it started the fall.

(...)

Haley didn’t plan to go to Marnie’s. Not really. It was just… the light was good. Her fingers ached for the shutter. And she didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

She said something vague to Emily about “field texture shots” and wandered out with her camera, boots crunching over brittle leaves. The wind tugged gently at her coat. Her chest felt too tight for the sky.

By the time she reached the ranch, the shadows were long and lazy, curling around fence posts and grazing hooves. Marnie looked up from sweeping the porch, a little surprised but not unkind. Jas peeked from behind the barn door like a kitten unsure if it was being called or chased.

Haley lifted the camera. “Mind if I take a few pictures?”

Marnie smiled. “Be my guest. Jas, sweetie, you want to show her the pumpkin you painted?”

Jas blinked up at Haley, then nodded. Small, serious. Haley crouched beside her in the dirt, camera resting in her lap like it might bite. She didn’t ask Jas to smile. Just watched her hold up the lopsided, paint-smudged pumpkin, cheeks pink with pride.

Click.
The shutter whispered, and something inside Haley clicked too.

She took more. Jas spinning in the leaves, Marnie laughing with a hand over her mouth, a flock of chickens catching sunset gold on their feathers. The photos weren’t perfect. But they were honest.
And she hadn’t thought about Alex once.

(...)

She was crouching beside the fence line, adjusting the focus on a shot of a crooked old wheelbarrow when she heard him.
“I thought cows were more your thing.”

Shane’s voice was drier than the air.

Haley didn’t turn. “They moo too much.”

He snorted. “That’s not a real reason.”

“I don’t need real reasons.” She adjusted the zoom. “Isn’t that the perk of being shallow?”

There was a pause. Then the crunch of his boots over gravel. He leaned against the fence beside her, sipping from a steaming mug that definitely wasn’t beer.

She blinked. “Is that tea?”

He shrugged. “Emily’s idea. Said I needed antioxidants.”

Haley almost smiled. Almost. “You drink it?”

He looked at her, one brow raised. “You’re here taking pictures of a child. We all do strange things these days.”

Another pause. The sky stretched open, brushed with pink. Somewhere, a goat bleated.

Then Shane said, offhand, like it wasn’t the exact sentence she’d been dreading:
“You know, Aly’s a good one. The kind you don’t meet twice.”

Her fingers stilled on the camera.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

He didn’t flinch. “Means I’ve seen the way you look at her. And I’ve been drunk, not blind.”

Haley’s heart did something stupid and traitorous, like flutter. She buried it under a scoff. “You’re imagining things.”

Shane’s gaze was steady. “Are you seriously gonna try that on me? I’m not your clueless sister.”

That one hit. Hard.

Haley looked away, back toward the barn. “Why does everyone keep acting like I’m… like I’m some kind of villain?”

“You’re not a villain,” Shane said. “You’re just scared.” Then added, quieter: “Don’t waste it just ’cause you’re scared.”

She swallowed. It felt like chewing glass. “Wow. Since when do you do pep talks?”

He shrugged again. “Like I said: I’m evolving. Try it sometime.”

This time, she did smile. Just a little. Not because it was funny. Because it was true.

[---]

The town square had transformed.

Lanterns hung like nervous hearts strung between trees. Jack-o’-lanterns grinned with crooked teeth, casting lopsided shadows across the cobblestones. The maze loomed beyond, all twists and teasing darkness — a trap for the brave, the bored, and the quietly breaking. Somewhere, laughter echoed — bright and brittle, like wind chimes dropped in a graveyard.

Haley lingered at the edges of it all — not part of the celebration, but not avoiding it either. In her hands, pressed close to her chest, was a folded piece of paper: a scavenger map, worn soft at the creases, smudged at the corners like she’d kept tracing over it, again and again.

Each clue had been written by hand.

Each one would lead Aly further into town — not through the maze (too predictable), but around it. Past the Saloon, behind the blacksmith’s shop, out toward the bus stop where it all began. Haley had walked the path twice. Then once more, just to be sure.

At the end of the trail, Aly would find a final note:

“The things we bury don’t stay gone forever.
But sometimes they come back kinder.
Graveyard. Ten-thirty.”

(...)

Aly arrived at the festival a little after ten, already damp around the cuffs of her flannel from a walk too long and a mood too heavy.

The square was aglow, flickering with lanterns and soft magic. Children darted between jack-o'-lanterns, giggling behind painted masks. The maze loomed in the distance, its entrance swallowing light. But Aly wasn’t drawn to it. Not tonight.

She was halfway to Pierre’s stand when she saw it: a folded paper tucked under a crooked pumpkin by the Saloon steps. Her name was on it.

Aly — underlined once, like someone nervous about being too bold.

She looked around instinctively, but the crowd was too thick. She unfolded the note.

“Even ghosts leave footprints.
Behind the Saloon.”

She raised a brow. “Okay,” she muttered, glancing once more over her shoulder, then turned.

Behind the Saloon, tucked between crates and old barrels, another note waited — this one pinned with a tiny daffodil, dry and crumbling with the season.

“You watched the valley bloom.
Now let it show you what it remembers.”
Next: The forge.”

By the time she reached the blacksmith’s shop, her fingers were trembling — not from cold, not quite. Her boots clicked on cobblestone like they were announcing something. Or summoning it.

Another note.

“Some things soften in fire.
Some in time.
Some just need a second look.”

She was trying not to hope, not to assume. But her chest was tightening in that way it always did when her heart tried to beat through years of caution. When it dared to imagine Haley — Haley — might want to speak again.

The next clue led her to the bus stop.

The wind was stronger here, tousling her hair and the hem of her coat. She found the note tucked against the base of the old schedule board, like a whisper.

“The things we bury don’t stay gone forever.
But sometimes they come back kinder.
Graveyard. Ten-thirty.”

Aly stood there for a long second, the paper in her hand, her breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a storm. Her cheeks felt warm despite the chill. She looked toward the graveyard, toward the final steps of whatever this was.

Then she started walking.

(...)

Aly stood at the edge of the graveyard, boots scuffing against the path, heart full of weather. Her breath came in little clouds, fragile and fleeting, vanishing before they could mean anything.

Her jacket smelled like hay and woodsmoke and maybe just a little like loneliness.

The old tree loomed above her, its branches half-bare, shivering in the wind. And beneath it, glowing soft and gold like it had a soul of its own, was a paper lantern.

She stepped forward.

Inside the lantern was a photograph — one she hadn’t known Haley had taken. Her own face, frozen mid-laugh beside the lake, sunlight dancing across her cheeks. A daffodil tucked behind her ear like it belonged there. Like someone thought it should.

She stared at it for a moment, struck silent. It wasn’t just a picture — it was a memory she hadn’t even known was beautiful. It was the way someone saw her, when she wasn’t looking.

And then she saw Haley.

Curled up on the stone bench, arms wrapped tight around her knees like she could hold herself together with just that. She looked small, and still, and strangely brave.

“I didn’t mean it,” Haley said, her voice not much louder than the wind. “The farmer fairy tale thing. I was mad. At myself. At everything. You were just… there.”

She paused, the silence stretching like a thread pulled taut.

“I wanted to say something real,” she added. “But I didn’t know how.”

Aly’s throat felt tight. She looked down at the photo again. Her, laughing. Carefree. The version of herself she didn’t always get to be.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she slid the photo back inside the lantern. Then she looked at Haley — really looked. Past the practiced confidence, the golden-girl polish, and the pout she wore like armor. To the girl underneath.

The one who left scavenger hunts instead of apologies.

The one who took photos of joy she didn’t know how to ask for.

The one who was scared and soft and trying.

“I’m not good at real either,” Aly said finally, voice low and rough. “I think I’m still figuring out how to be seen.”

Haley didn’t say anything. She just scooted slightly to the side, making space on the bench.

Aly sat.

They didn’t hug. They didn’t kiss.

They just were. Lantern between them. Light flickering like a heartbeat too shy to be heard out loud. Maybe it wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it wasn’t nothing.

It was a beginning. Or maybe a middle. Or maybe just a moment that meant more than either of them could say.

Above them, the trees whispered their last colors into the dark. And for the first time in a long time, the night didn’t feel cold.

For once, the world wasn’t just tender to everyone but Haley.

It was tender to them both.

Chapter Text

The wind outside whispered through bare trees, stirring snow like sifted flour across the frozen ground. Inside Marnie’s Ranch, it smelled like hay, wool, and something baking in the oven — probably courtesy of Jas, who’d recently decided cookies counted as breakfast food “if they had raisins.”

Aly stood behind the counter with Marnie, sleeves rolled up, holding a basket of fresh eggs. Her jacket still smelled faintly of woodsmoke from the morning chores. Her gloves were tucked in her back pocket, her fingers red from brushing down Wildfire and refilling the barn troughs.

She didn’t mind the cold. It made things quieter. Clearer.

And lately, the quiet wasn’t so lonely.

The door creaked open with a gust of snow. Shane stepped in, stamping his boots, coat dusted in frost, hair mussed from the wind.

“Wow,” he said, dryly. “It’s almost like Winter is cold.”

Marnie looked up from her ledger and smirked. “You’re cheerful. What happened, was there a sale on beer?”

Shane gave her a look — that patented, long-suffering deadpan — but there wasn’t any real sting in it. “Hilarious,” he muttered. “For your information, I’ve switched to sparkling water. Peach-flavored. Like a real man.”

Aly bit back a smile as she closed the egg basket.

He shifted, scratching the back of his neck. “Actually... I’ve been feeling better. Happier, even. Weird, right?”  He glanced at them, then quickly away, like the words might crumble if he stared too long.  “I guess... I figured out that having people you can count on doesn’t make you pathetic. Or broken. It just means you're not stupid enough to try and do everything alone.”

Marnie blinked. Aly stilled.

For a moment, no one said anything. The warmth in the room pressed gently against the windows.

Then, without another word, Shane crossed the room and ducked into the kitchen where Jas sat at the table, legs swinging, humming off-key to herself.

“Hey, squirt,” he said, pulling a small, slightly crumpled package from his jacket. “Early present.”

Jas’s eyes lit up. She tore through the wrapping with a shriek of delight. “The sneakers! The red ones from Zuzu Mart?! How did you—these are like, expensive expensive!”

Shane shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes. “Stopped spending 400 gold a day on beer. Turns out sobriety comes with decent arch support.”

Jas launched herself at him, nearly knocking them both over. Shane let out a surprised huff and patted her back awkwardly, then with more confidence.

Back at the counter, Marnie watched them with something like mist in her eyes. Aly stood quietly, fingers brushing the rim of the egg basket, heart full of something soft and slow and proud.

(...)

The cold had teeth, but the barn was a pocket of peace.

Aly moved through the familiar motions with practiced grace. She brushed down Wildfire’s winter coat, ran her hand along the mare’s neck, murmured nonsense into her ears like they were trading secrets. Peach lounged by the hearth back inside, paws tucked, tail twitching, already half-asleep and dreaming of birds she’d never catch.

The animals breathed slow and deep. Their warmth steamed gently in the chilled air.

Aly adjusted the fresh hay, double-checked the water trough, and gently placed a bundle of clean wool in the corner to dry — a soft, cradled quiet settling over the farm like snowfall.

That was when she heard the gate click.

She turned just as Emily appeared, wrapped in a ridiculous patchwork coat — all mismatched colors and joy stitched into every inch of it — and holding something in her gloved hands.

“Hey!” Emily called, beaming. “Hope I’m not interrupting any, uh… cow therapy.”

Aly grinned. “You’re safe. They’re still in group meditation.”

Emily giggled and hopped over a slush puddle. “Okay, so — serious fashion emergency. I’ve been working on this scarf, right? And I don’t know if it’s genius or a little bit hideous. You have to tell me.”

She unfolded the scarf with a little flourish. It was long and sturdy, clearly made with care — thick yarn in muted tones that still held warmth. Moss green, smoky gray, and a deep wine red threaded with quiet gold — not flashy, but thoughtful. Steady. Like a campfire kept alive through snow.

Aly stepped closer, brushing her fingers across the knit. “It’s beautiful,” she said, honest as always. “Feels strong.”

Emily smiled, a little bashful now. “I was thinking… maybe it’d be good for Shane? He’s always out early with the animals, and I don’t know. I just thought…” She trailed off, then cleared her throat. “It’s probably silly.”

Aly looked at her — really looked. The soft worry behind her smile. The way her fingers curled protectively around the scarf.

“It’s not silly,” Aly said. “It’s… kind.”

Emily’s cheeks turned pinker than the cold could manage. “You think he’ll actually wear it?”

“I think,” Aly said slowly, “if it comes from you, he might even wear it to sleep.”

That got a laugh out of Emily — small, surprised, and completely genuine. “Okay. Maybe I’ll give it to him by the end of the week. You know, before I lose my nerve.”

“You won’t,” Aly said, without a shred of doubt. “You’ve got more guts than half this valley.”

Emily’s eyes softened, wide and star-lit. “Right back at you, Farmer.”

And just like that, she turned and headed back through the snow — scarf hugged to her chest, boots crunching, a little hope trailing in her wake like a comet.

[---]

The world had gone pale.

Pelican Town was a painting now: all soft whites, faded blues, and bare branches reaching like questions toward the sky. The snow hadn’t fallen heavy, not yet, but it covered the roads in a hush, muting every footstep, dulling every voice.

Haley stood outside her house in her oversized brown coat — the same shade as cinnamon sticks and tree bark — with matching ear protectors snug against her head. Her hands were buried deep in her pockets. She looked like a shadow dressed in soft things. For once, the monochrome suited her. She looked like she belonged to the season. Muted. Thinking.

She wasn’t sure what made her walk toward the ranch. Boredom, maybe. Or habit. Or the quiet ache in her chest that hadn’t gone away since Spirit’s Eve — since lanterns and almost-forgiveness and the way Aly had looked at her like she was made of more than gloss and spite.

A flutter of wings broke the stillness.

“Skye,” she murmured as the parrot landed messily on the fence post near her. “You’re supposed to be a tropical bird, you know. You don’t even like snow.”

Skye fluffed up indignantly, then hopped closer. Haley offered her gloved hand, and the bird clambered on. She didn’t tell anyone, but she liked Skye. The parrot had grown fond of her sometime in fall, and now followed her like a feathered secret.

Together, they wandered to Marnie’s.

Inside, the warmth hit like a memory — wool and cinnamon and something vaguely like hay. Jas was at the kitchen table, drawing. Marnie bustled in the background. And Shane—

Shane looked up when Haley stepped in. His hair was a mess, and he had that usual half-bored, half-exhausted stare. But he was up. Sober. Present.

Emily was already there.

She stood by the counter, scarf in hand — the same one she’d been knitting since last week. Haley hadn’t known who it was for then. She knew now.

“I made this for you,” Emily said, voice casual, but her hands careful. “Hope the colors are okay.”

The scarf was beautiful — warm earth tones, flecks of shimmer. Haley had seen it folded over Emily’s lap a dozen times, never knowing what it meant.

Shane took it slowly. Held it like it might break. “Thanks,” he said, too fast, like he wanted to tuck the gratitude somewhere and forget it was showing. But then… he didn’t look away. He didn’t make a joke. He just held the scarf, and something in his shoulders softened — just a little.

Haley watched from the doorway, unseen.

It wasn’t a grand moment. Not the kind with fireworks or music. But she saw the way Emily didn’t rush to fill the silence. How Shane didn’t flinch under it. They just… stood there. Two people saying everything with nothing.

Outside, the wind stirred again.

Later, Haley wandered down to the shore, Skye perched on her shoulder. She took photos — the driftwood dusted with snow, the gray waves breaking like secrets, the crooked fence by the pier. And once… once she caught a glimpse of Aly across the field, hair tucked into her coat, leading Wildfire out of the barn.

She didn’t lift her camera for that one. Not right away. She just looked.

Then slowly, like asking permission from the cold, she raised the lens and pressed the shutter.

Click.

Not forgiveness. Not quite love. Just… proof. That something was still unfolding.

And when she walked back home, it was with a strange sort of quiet in her chest. Like maybe winter didn’t mean things were dead. Just… sleeping. Waiting.

Chapter Text

The snow fell soft that morning, a hush over everything. It wasn’t a storm, not a blizzard—just the kind that made the world feel like a held breath. Haley stood at the bus stop again, the same one where she’d waited a lifetime ago in a different version of herself.

She didn’t say anything. Just reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the pendant.

Daffodil-shaped. Delicate. Golden. Nothing fancy—something she’d found at a stall last spring and kept for no real reason. But now she set it gently down on the bench, a ghost of a smile curling her mouth.

No note. No name. Just left it there like a whisper.

(...)

The walk to Marnie’s was quiet except for the snow crunching beneath Aly’s boots and Wildfire’s soft huff behind the barn. Inside, the ranch smelled like hay and cinnamon, like someone had been baking and didn’t tell anyone. Jas sat at the kitchen table, working through a coloring book with serious eyes. Marnie hummed as she took down a jar of oats from the cupboard.

Aly stepped in, a crate tucked under one arm, scarf dusted with snow.

“Morning,” she offered, setting the crate down on the counter. “Brought some jam.”

“Ooooh,” Marnie said, already reaching for one. “Blackberry?”

“And one plum,” Aly nodded. “For Jas. She said it was her favorite last time.”

Shane walked in then, hair still wet from a rushed shower, hoodie only half zipped. He raised a brow. “Jam delivery?”

“Just a little thank-you,” Aly said, avoiding eye contact. She pulled out one more jar, this one wrapped in a bit of cloth. “This one’s for Emily. If you’re heading that way.”

Shane blinked. “You could take it to her yourself.”

“I’m… busy,” Aly said, too fast. She cleared her throat. “Got troughs to check. And—Peach likes the fire warm, so…”

Shane smirked like he knew exactly how thin that excuse was. “Sure. I’ll make the delivery. Jas, you comin’?”

Jas lit up, grabbing her coat. “Yes! I like Emily’s parrot. He’s loud.”

“Perfect,” Shane muttered, grabbing the jar. “He and Emily have that in common.”

(...)

Haley saw them from across the snowy square — Shane walking up the steps to her house, Jas beside him, her small mittened hands swinging like lanterns. Shane knocked. Emily answered with that wide, surprised smile that made her look like spring in the middle of frost.

Haley watched from behind her camera lens. Not taking pictures, just… watching. The jam changed hands. Emily flushed. Shane said something and scratched his neck like the words had come out wrong. Jas held up her drawing.

Haley lowered the camera slowly.

Aly hadn’t made a big deal of it. No announcement, no signature. Just a jar of something sweet passed along through quieter hands. And Haley—who used to think kindness was something loud, something wrapped in bows and posted online—couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Aly, gentle even when no one was watching.

[---]

The morning began like most of Aly’s winter mornings — slow, quiet, stitched together with small rituals and the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty.

She woke before the sun, the farmhouse still wrapped in blue-shadowed hush. The floor was cold beneath her socks as she padded into the kitchen. The kettle, already filled the night before, waited patiently like it trusted her.

Outside, snow clung to the windows like frostbitten lace. Inside, she lit the fireplace with practiced hands — flint, spark, kindling. A hush of flame. Soon enough, warmth began to bloom into the bones of the little house.

Coffee next. Two scoops, dark roast. The smell drifted through the room, curling into corners that hadn’t even asked for it. She wrapped her hands around the mug like it was something sacred. Took the first sip with her eyes half-closed, letting the heat wake her from the inside out.

Peach leapt onto the windowsill, paws tucked under like warm dough, and Aly scratched her head gently. “Mornin’, girl.”

There was rhythm in it all — a cadence of care. She dressed in wool and denim and sturdy boots, tugged on gloves with patches sewn over the fingers. Her jacket smelled like hay and old pine.

Outside, Wildfire snorted when he saw her coming, impatient and proud. Buttercup let out a low, complaining moo that made Aly chuckle as she trudged through the snow with a bucket of feed.

She brushed Wildfire down with steady hands, murmuring nonsense like he was listening. Checked the coop, fluffed the straw in the goat pen. Swapped out frozen water for warm. When her fingers went numb, she didn’t complain — just blew warmth into her gloves and kept going.

It was mid-morning when Haley arrived — the pale winter sun caught in her hair like frost spun into gold. She wore that same oversized brown coat — the one that swallowed her like a cocoon — and soft ear protectors that framed her face like parentheses. Her hands were buried deep in her pockets, her boots crunching the snow like she didn’t want to be heard. Just seen.

Aly looked up from where she’d been hauling hay. Wildfire lazily swished his tail nearby. Buttercup mooed again, mildly offended someone had interrupted snack time.

Haley stopped a few feet away, breath ghosting in the air. “Don’t get excited,” she said, chin lifted. “I’m just here for the trough.”

Aly blinked. “The what now?”

“That old frozen one.” Haley waved a mittened hand vaguely toward the pasture. “The frost makes a cool pattern. Could be... aesthetic.”

Aly arched a brow but didn’t argue. She wiped her hands on her jacket and nodded toward the house. “Tea first. It’s cold.”

Haley followed without a word. The farmhouse smelled like firewood and oats and something vaguely spiced — like cinnamon trying to sneak its way into every corner.

Aly poured two mugs of tea. Set out a jar of honey and a tin of butter cookies like it wasn’t a big deal — like her hands didn’t tremble a little when she passed Haley her cup.

They drank in silence for a while. Haley took a few photos through the frosty window — the barn half-blurred, the field stretched out in silver light. She didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.

Aly leaned against the counter, watching the steam rise from her cup. “You always this quiet when you’re getting your ‘aesthetic’ shots?”

Haley didn’t look up. “No. I just didn’t want to scare off your... vibe.”

That earned a soft huff of laughter. “Thanks.”

A pause. Then: “Can I meet them? Your animals, I mean.”

Aly frowned. “You already have. Wildfire practically tried to eat your hair once.”

Haley’s gaze lifted — steady now, a little more serious. “No. I mean… really meet them.”

It hung there, that word. Really.

Aly set her mug down slowly. “Alright.”

They walked out to the barn, boots crunching side by side. Inside, the air was warmer — thick with straw and the slow, sleepy breath of animals content in the cold.

Haley went to Buttercup first. The cow blinked, then leaned her heavy head into Haley’s gloved hand like she remembered something good.

“You really named her that.” Haley said softly.

“She was soft and yellow when she was younger.” Aly watched her. “It just… fit.”

Haley didn’t answer. She was too busy smiling gently into the space between them.

Next, Wildfire. Big, bold, a little dramatic. He snorted but didn’t shy away when Haley stepped closer.

“Hey,” she murmured, “you’re not so scary.”

Aly stood back and let her have the moment.

And then Peach.

The cream-colored cat, curled like royalty atop a hay bale. Haley crouched slowly, careful, and reached out.

Peach didn’t move.

When her fingers brushed that soft fur, Haley’s breath caught — just for a second — like the softness had startled her. Like she didn’t know things could feel like that.

“She likes you,” Aly said, a little surprised.

Haley didn’t look away. “I like her too.”

Something shifted then — quiet and huge. A glacier melting at the edges. A thaw that didn’t need to be named.

They didn’t talk much after that.

But when Haley left, hours later, she looked back once over her shoulder — not dramatic, not posing. Just looking.

Aly stood in the barn doorway, a bit of hay tangled in her hair, lips curved in something too small to be a smile and too warm to be anything else.

Haley raised a hand in a soft wave. Aly returned it.

And somewhere, something bloomed — slow and secret — like the first crocus under snow.

[---]

It was the kind of winter day that didn’t bother to pretend — grey, hushed, and bone-deep cold. The kind of day where even the air felt still, like the town itself had pulled a blanket over its head and decided not to speak.

Haley hadn’t planned on going out. She’d been curled up in her room, camera forgotten, scrolling idly through old photos and not really seeing any of them. But then Emily poked her head in, cheeks pink from the cold, and said, “Shane invited me for tea at the Saloon. You wanna come?”

Haley blinked. “To the Saloon ? For tea ?”

Emily shrugged, holding up a little tin of lemon slices and a jar of honey wrapped in a scarf. “I think he’s trying. You could come. Or not. Just felt like… you might want to.”

There was something in Emily’s voice, soft and sideways, that Haley couldn’t say no to. Something about the way she looked at her — like she knew things Haley hadn’t even admitted to herself.

So she went.

The Saloon was nearly empty. Just Gus behind the counter, polishing glasses like it was meditative. Shane was already there, sitting at the far corner booth, two mugs of hot water waiting. He looked… better. Still Shane, still with that don’t-talk-to-me slouch and wary eyes, but there was a softness to him now. Like he’d stopped fighting the world for a second and was just letting it breathe.

Emily slid into the seat across from him, unwrapped the honey, passed the lemon slices like it was a ceremony. Haley sat next to her, quiet, watching.

They talked about nothing.

The snow. How Jas had braided Emily’s hair that morning. How Gus had started adding cinnamon to his hot chocolate again.

Nothing.

But the silences between them weren’t awkward. They just were — full of steam rising from mugs, the scrape of spoons, Emily’s laughter when Shane said something too dry to be funny but somehow was.

Haley watched them and felt… not jealous. Not exactly. It was more like she wanted to hold something that looked like that. Quiet understanding. Gentle presence. Two people being soft in the same space and not needing to explain why.

Emily leaned her head on her hand, eyes half-lidded as she listened. Shane didn’t look at her, but he didn’t not look, either. He just let her be there, let her laugh at his dry comments and stir too much honey into her tea.

And Haley felt it — like a whisper down her spine — that aching, slow yearning. Not for Shane. Not for Emily.

But for that.

The ease. The trust. The way silence could feel like comfort instead of cold.

She looked down at her mug. Steam curled up like smoke signals, like secrets. She let her fingers wrap around the warmth, held it there.

Outside, the snow kept falling, slow and thick. Inside, time moved the way it does when no one’s rushing it.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Haley didn’t want to leave.

(...)

It happened by the cemetery.

Not because Haley was looking for something symbolic — but because the path home forked there, and Alex had followed her.

The sun had gone down early, the way it always did in winter. What was left of the light was silver and sharp, leaking through bare tree branches and falling on stone names she never read. Snow blanketed the graves like a hush, like everything buried here had secrets too.

Alex shoved his hands in his coat pockets, crunching up the path behind her. “You’ve been weird lately.”

Haley didn’t stop walking. “Maybe I’ve just started thinking.”

“That’s new.”

That made her stop. She turned, just enough to look at him. “You don’t have to follow me.”

“I just—” he dragged a hand through his hair. “We don’t talk anymore.”

“We were never talking,” Haley said, voice flat. “We were hiding.”

Alex’s laugh was short and small. “Come on. Don’t make it a thing.”

“But it was a thing, wasn’t it?” she said, eyes glittering. “A stupid, secret thing.”

He hesitated. Kicked at a clump of snow. “We were never serious, Haley.”

She blinked once. Waited.

“You were just my dirty little secret.”

The wind moved through the trees then, low and cold and dry. Somewhere nearby, a crow cawed once and then went quiet again.

Haley took a breath. The kind that scraped.

“Thanks for saying that out loud,” she said. “It’ll be easier to forget you now.”

Alex scoffed. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“No, you did.” She didn’t sound angry. She didn’t sound much of anything. “And that’s fine. I think I needed to hear it.”

She turned and walked away, boots sinking into snow.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry. She just nodded once, like something in her had already stepped away before she even spoke. And when she walked off, the cold air biting at her cheeks, she felt it — the strange, unsteady breath of relief. Not freedom, not yet. But the first crack in the glass. A truth beginning to thaw.

Behind her, the graves kept their silence.

Chapter Text

The snow had settled soft and thick across the valley, muting every sound like someone had draped a heavy quilt over the world. Haley wandered the outskirts of town with her camera swinging uselessly from her neck, her breath fogging the air in front of her. Nothing looked right through the lens today. Too soft, too washed out, too much feeling.

She wasn’t sure where she was going until she was already there — past Marnie’s, where she paused beneath the skeletal frame of a tree and caught sight of Aly behind the farmhouse. The farmer was hauling wood in her arms, cheeks red from the cold, hair braided and tucked under a knit cap. She looked real. Rooted. Like the kind of person winter couldn’t touch.

Haley didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching for a moment too long before turning back toward home.

(...)

Aly stirred the pot for the fourth time, frowning like she could will the flavor into balance. The stew was hearty — potatoes, beans, carrots, a bit of venison from last week’s hunt with Willy — but the cumin had staged a full rebellion. She tasted it again, winced, and muttered, “Okay, okay. You win.”

Shane arrived first, stamping snow off his boots, the chill clinging to him like a second coat. He brought non-alcoholic beer and a loaf of crusty bread wrapped in brown paper. “Kitchen smells... intense,” he grunted, but didn’t complain as Aly handed him a steaming bowl.

Emily showed up not long after, with lemon slices and a tiny jar of honey from the Junimos. “For your tea,” she said, setting them down like a gift. “Also, wow. Smells like… spice. A lot of spice.”

Aly flushed. “It’s aggressively cumin-forward.”

Emily laughed, the sound bright and round. “Bold choice. I respect it.”

Shane raised a brow. “I don’t.” But he kept eating.

(...)

The door creaked halfway through the meal. Everyone turned.

Haley stood in the threshold like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be there. She’d walked all the way to the farm under the pretense of needing air, then followed the smell of dinner like it had been meant for her. Her coat was unzipped, cheeks pink from the cold, fingers curled tightly in her sleeves.

Aly blinked, then stood. “We’ve got bowls.”

Haley hesitated. One breath. Two.

She stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind her.

(...)

The four of them sat together at the small wooden table, knees almost touching, steam rising in gentle plumes. Conversation drifted — Shane grumbled about the Saloon’s broken jukebox, Emily talked about accidentally dyeing all her socks teal, Aly shared how she’d slipped on the porch earlier and nearly face-planted into a snowdrift.

Haley didn’t say much.

But she watched.

The way Aly’s eyes crinkled when Emily teased her. The way Shane chuckled, rare and rough-edged, over his spoon. The way the stew, despite its chaos, was warm and real.

She laughed once. Quietly. It surprised her.

And no one stared.

For the first time in a long time, Haley didn’t feel like she was looking through a window. She felt like part of the room.

(...)

They cleared the table together. Haley offered to help without thinking — just stood up and started stacking bowls. Aly glanced over, surprised, but didn’t say anything. Just handed her a towel to dry.

When it was done, and the tea had been poured, Haley stood near the door with her coat half-buttoned, her hair falling forward like a curtain. She looked back once.

Aly was laughing at something Emily had said, her hands still damp from the dishes.

Haley touched the wooden frame as she stepped outside — a small gesture, unnoticed.

But in her chest, something shifted.

Not quite joy.

But close enough to taste.

[---]

The town had settled into sleep by the time Haley pulled her coat tighter and slipped out of the house, camera slung loose over one shoulder like a secret.

Winter had turned everything silver. Rooftops shimmered with frost, each shingle dusted in quiet magic. Lamp light spilled honey-colored on the snow, flickering against the hush of her breath. The air bit her cheeks, crisp and clean. She didn’t really know why she was out here — not exactly. Maybe it was the stillness. Maybe it was something inside her chest that wouldn’t stop shifting.

She moved quietly along the trees near Marnie’s Ranch, boots muffled by powder. A shot began forming in her mind — the fenceposts drawing the eye toward the barn, the light from the stable window stretching into shadows. It was all lines and softness, contrast and glow. A lullaby in grayscale.

Then — voices.

She paused, body instinctively stilling, breath hitching like a leaf caught in a breeze.

Emily’s laugh floated through the cold — low, genuine, the kind that wrapped around you like warmth from a mug. And Shane… Shane was with her. Slouched shoulders, as always, but looser somehow. Softer. They didn’t touch. They just stood close, the way people do when they’re beginning to forget they shouldn’t.

Emily said something about stew and cumin. Haley didn’t catch all of it — just enough to hear the fondness tucked inside the words.

She raised her camera without thinking.

It wasn’t spying. Not really. It was more like… preserving. Like catching something before it vanished.

And then — it happened.

No big swell of music. No cinematic lighting. Just a stillness. A pause. A breath held.

Then Shane leaned forward, like he didn’t know if he had the right — and Emily met him like she’d been waiting for him to figure it out. Their lips touched, gentle and unsure, but real in a way that made Haley’s fingers go still around the camera. It lasted only a moment. Just long enough to become something.

She didn’t press the shutter until after — just in time to capture the quiet that followed. Their foreheads leaned together, eyes closed, the porch light casting a soft halo around them like it knew this was something rare.

She didn’t edit it. Didn’t add contrast or adjust the light. She didn’t even print it.

It sat in her camera like a pressed flower — fragile, frozen, impossibly alive.

And later, when the sun was climbing over the mountains and the morning light had returned everything to ordinary, Haley stood by the fence near the barn. Arms crossed. Jaw loose with thought.

Jas skipped past like a burst of color — scarf trailing behind her like the tail of a comet. The daffodil necklace bounced softly against her coat, catching the sun like it remembered being left behind.

Not new anymore. But worn. Loved.

Haley didn’t call out. Just watched.

Her eyes followed that necklace like it was part of a language she was only just beginning to understand. Something wordless. Something hers.

And for once, the ache in her chest didn’t feel sharp.

Just… open.

[---]

It started with the scarf.

Well — that’s what Haley told herself. The scarf. The one Emily had knit in earth tones and given to Shane like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that made a man forget his own weather. And now? Now he wore it everywhere. Tied loosely, clumsily. Always a little crooked. Always like it meant something.

Which it did.

Haley knew that because he hadn’t stopped smiling since.

They didn’t even try to be subtle anymore. Not really. Emily would show up at Marnie’s with “leftovers,” and Shane would mysteriously appear in the doorway ten seconds later like fate just happened to walk him there. He’d hover near her like a moth to a campfire — awkward, twitchy, utterly doomed. And Emily? She’d grin that big, stars-in-her-eyes grin and elbow him until he laughed.

The sound still caught Haley off guard. Shane laughing. It was a strange, raw kind of music. Like it hadn’t been used in years but remembered how to sing.

They were at the Saloon again that night. Emily had dragged Shane to a table near the fireplace, and they were seated so close they were practically stitched together. He kept nudging her with his knee under the table. She stole fries off his plate and fed him one like it was a dare. He blushed. She winked. He didn’t stop blushing for the next ten minutes.

And they could not stop touching. Fingers brushing. Shoulders bumping. Shane did this thing where he rested his hand behind her chair — not on her, just near — like gravity was cheating for him.

It should’ve been annoying.

It wasn’t.

It was… something else.

From her corner booth, Haley snapped a candid when they weren’t looking. Emily’s head tilted back in laughter, Shane’s eyes caught on her like she was the only light in the room. Haley didn’t even bother adjusting the focus. It was perfect as it was.

She pulled her scarf tighter, smiled into her tea, and didn’t even feel like a third wheel.

Just — a witness.

And quietly, secretly, she hoped there might be enough warmth left for her too.

Chapter Text

The farmhouse was quiet.
Not sleepy—just… holding its breath.

Haley sat curled on the couch, a mug of tea gone cold in her hands. She wasn’t sure why she’d stayed after dropping off the roll of film. Maybe it was the warmth. Maybe it was the way Aly looked at her—like she was someone worth lingering for.
Or maybe it was that stupid scarf Aly had on. Oversized. Woolen. The color of sunlit oatmilk. Wrapped twice around her neck like it was afraid to let go.

They hadn’t spoken much. Aly was half-focused on rearranging a basket of dried lavender and jam jars, trying not to glance over every other minute. Haley watched snow fall outside the window—slow, heavy flakes, drifting down like feathers from a sleeping sky. The kind of snow that made the whole world feel like it was waiting for something.

It happened fast, like it always did with them—but not clumsy. It was a speed born of knowing. Recognition. Being too full of something to keep it inside.

Aly crossed the room with quiet purpose and stopped just in front of her.

Haley looked up. And that was it.
No quip. No tease. Just breath caught in the hollow of her throat and a look that said: please don’t be careful with me—not this time.

The kiss was deeper than before. Warmer. Not what if, but I want.
Hands in hair. Fingers tugging gently at wool.
No one stepped back. No one laughed nervously after.
No defenses. No noise. Just heat.

Something inside Haley cracked—not painfully, but like frost breaking under sun. She felt it: the sharp snap of snow melting in her chest. The electricity she always braced for—but this time, it didn’t jolt. It stayed. It glowed. Like firelight tucked inside her ribs.

When they finally pulled apart, her lips tingled. Her thoughts raced. Her heart didn’t know whether to sprint or sigh.

Aly looked like she was about to say something. Haley beat her to it.

“I can’t…” she began, her voice low. “I’m not… dating anyone. Not right now.”

Aly nodded. No flinch. No disappointment. Just that quiet, grounding presence that made Haley feel like the world might not fall apart if she let it hold her up.

“I want to do this right,” she said. “Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s secret.”

“Okay,” Aly said, soft as snow.

But her eyes were still burning.

So Haley kissed her again.

This time it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t considered.
It was messy, like laughter against teeth. Like a stumble into something too big to hold.
They kissed like they were starving. Like their mouths had been waiting all year to remember each other.

They kissed standing up.
Then Haley tugged Aly down onto the couch, breath hitching against her cheek.
They kissed until Haley’s coat slipped off her shoulder and Aly’s hands tangled in her hair, and neither of them could remember who started it, or who was supposed to stop.

Outside, snow painted the windows white.

Inside, Peach meowed. Once. Then again, louder.
A tiny paw batted at Aly’s ankle, like: respectfully? there are rules in this house and I am one of them.

They broke apart, lips swollen and eyes glazed.
Forehead to forehead. Aly was laughing, breathless.

Haley didn’t laugh. She just touched her own mouth, like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

“How long—?” Aly murmured.

They looked to the window. Snow had piled thick on the fenceposts. The sky had gone full indigo.
Time had slipped its leash.

“I should go,” Haley whispered.

But she didn’t move. Not right away. Her hand was still caught in Aly’s scarf.
And Aly—like always—didn’t rush her.

They stood like that. Breathing each other in.
Not ready. Not done. Just… paused.

And when Haley finally stepped out into the snow, her lips still tingled.
And her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Not because she was scared.
Because she wasn’t.

[---]

Snow clung to everything like powdered sugar—blanketing trees, rooftops, even the crooked fence around the square. Lanterns in soft gold and winter blue swayed from ropes overhead, casting a warm, flickering light over bundled-up villagers. The air smelled like cinnamon, roasted chestnuts, and something sweetly floral—probably whatever Caroline snuck into the cider.

Marlon had strung up garlands made of pine and cranberries. Vincent was already sticky with fudge. Jas wore a wool cape two sizes too big, and still insisted she wasn’t cold.

A fire crackled in the center of the square, surrounded by logs and hay bales for sitting. People mingled, cheeks pink with cold and laughter, mittens wrapped around steaming mugs.

And in the middle of it all, the long table had been laid out like a poem—glazed ham, roasted carrots with thyme, a giant pot of root stew so aromatic it made even George crack a smile. Every seat had a little name tag, handwritten by Mayor Lewis himself, complete with clumsy snowflake doodles.

It was almost time for the gift exchange.

(...)

Aly stood near the table, gift in hand. Her name had been drawn by Clint, and she received a solid iron keychain shaped like a little chicken—unexpected, but oddly charming. “I, uh, forged it myself,” he mumbled, beet red and avoiding her eyes. She thanked him sincerely.

Aly handed her own gift to Pierre—jam jars in shades of plum and apricot, each tied with twine and a little label reading “Made With Soil & Soul.” Pierre looked genuinely touched. “This... reminds me of my grandma’s cellar,” he said, eyes softening.

Nearby, Marnie gave Emily a knitted hat with ear flaps and mismatched buttons. Emily squealed and immediately put it on sideways. “I look like a psychedelic mushroom,” she declared, which Marnie took as a compliment.

Emily had drawn Gus—and gave him a pouch of rare tea leaves, along with a crystal she said “buzzed good energy.” Gus grinned like a man halfway in love.

Shane, awkward but trying, handed Haley a wrapped box. “It’s not fancy,” he said. Inside: a collection of Polaroids—Haley’s own, taken and developed without her knowing. Candid, real. “Emily helped,” he added quickly. 

Haley stared at them for a long moment, then smiled. “You actually see me,” she whispered.

Haley gave her gift to Evelyn: a pressed flower album, daffodils and crocuses arranged neatly on soft paper, with little captions in Haley’s handwriting. Evelyn teared up immediately. “You’re thoughtful, dear. Don’t let anyone say otherwise.”

(...)

They sat together—Aly, Haley, Emily, Shane—all crowded near the end of the table where the lights were dimmer and the laughter a little louder.

Emily tucked her legs under her and made space for Shane beside her, their shoulders touching the whole time. Aly slid in next to Haley, their knees brushing—just enough to feel it. Just enough not to move.

At first, it was small things: Aly and Haley trading sips of cider. Emily feeding Shane a bite of honeyed carrot. Haley elbowing Aly when she made a terrible pun about the stew being “rooted in tradition.”

But slowly, it melted into something warmer. Softer. Real.

Laughter came easily. Shane made a sarcastic comment about the ham being “aggressively seasoned” and Emily nearly spat cider from laughing. Haley caught Aly watching her mid-laugh—eyes bright, mouth soft. She looked away, cheeks flushed.

They touched knees again. And this time, neither of them looked down.

Outside, snow kept falling. The fire crackled. Maru and Sebastian were bickering playfully nearby. Penny was trying to keep Vincent from dumping marshmallows into the cider bowl.

But at their little corner of the table, something had clicked into place. Quietly. Surely.

And for once, Haley didn’t feel like she was pretending.
She didn’t feel like a doll. Or a secret.
She felt like she belonged.

Chapter Text

The first warm wind of the season came quietly. No fanfare. Just a softness in the morning air that hadn't been there the day before. Aly stood in front of the old greenhouse, hands in her coat pockets, eyes tracing the cracked glass and weather-worn wood. It looked tired. But not hopeless.

She exhaled slow, watching her breath curl in the chill. “Alright, girl,” she murmured to the building. “Let’s make you bloom.”

The next few days became a blur of work. Hauling out rotten planters, scrubbing the glass until her arms ached, measuring beams, sketching diagrams on the back of receipts. When the carpenter offered to do the full repair job for way more gold than Aly had, she thanked her politely and went back to the greenhouse with a hammer and a quiet kind of grit. She could do it herself. Slowly. Piece by piece.

She worked in the mornings, before the frost had fully melted. In the evenings, when the moon hung low and butter-yellow. She built calluses on her palms and learned the sharp music of splinters. And she loved it. She loved it. Even when it hurt.

But late one night, counting her coins by the flickering stove, reality hit her like cold bathwater: she didn’t have enough. Not even close. The wood costs alone were bleeding her dry. And she hadn’t made a real crop sale in weeks.

She looked at the last gold piece in her hand, then turned her eyes to the barn.

Buttercup mooed gently in her sleep, curled up like some oversized cat with a cowbell.

Aly’s throat closed.

She didn’t sleep that night.

(...)

Marnie blinked in surprise when Aly showed up at the ranch before sunrise, Buttercup in tow.

“I—” Aly cleared her throat. “I was wondering if… if you’d take her back. Just for a while. I can’t afford to keep her fed and fix the greenhouse.”

Marnie stared. Buttercup wandered into the pasture like she’d never left.

Aly rubbed her arms, trying to hide the ache. “It’s just until summer. I swear. I’ll buy her back the second I can.”

Marnie didn’t answer right away. She looked between Aly and the cow. Her mouth twitched, like she was trying not to sigh.

“She cries when you're not around, you know,” she said finally. “Stood by the gate for three days straight after you bought her.”

Aly looked up, startled.

“She likes it with you,” Marnie said, voice softer now. “Thinks you're her herd or something.”

A long pause.

Then: “Just… take the feed I owe you from the last delivery. That’ll hold you for a couple weeks.”

Aly blinked. “What?”

Marnie waved a hand, already turning away. “Go on, before I change my mind. And don’t let her get into the tulips again.”

Aly didn’t know what to say. So she just nodded, eyes a little shinier than she’d like to admit. “Thanks.”

(...)

Back at the greenhouse, Aly stood in the doorway for a moment. The sun had come up while she was gone. Peach curled in the windowsill, tail flicking lazily. Buttercup settled herself by the front fence, chewing cud like she hadn’t almost changed homes that morning.

Aly ran her fingers over a beam of old wood. She felt tired, and lucky, and a little bruised around the heart.

But her hands? Her hands were ready.

She picked up the hammer.

And got to work.

[---]

It started with laughter.

Not hers.

Haley rolled over in bed and groaned into her pillow. Through the thin walls of the house, she could hear it—Emily’s voice, light and lilting, followed by Shane’s low murmur and a clumsy thud. Then the creak of a floorboard. A muffled giggle. The unmistakable sound of someone being kissed far too thoroughly.

“Oh my god,” Haley muttered, throwing her blanket off like it personally betrayed her.

She was happy for them. She was. Emily had stars in her eyes lately and Shane had stopped reeking of beer and old regrets. It was good. It was sweet.

It was also driving her absolutely insane.

By the time she pulled on her boots and grabbed her camera, Haley wasn’t even sure what she was doing—just that she needed out. Out of that house, out of that air, away from that soft, suffocating affection.

She told herself she was just chasing the light. There was something romantic about early spring haze, how it draped itself lazily over the valley. Maybe she’d photograph something artsy—a frozen water trough, a dew-beaded fencepost. Something rustic. Something lonely.

But her boots didn’t take her to the forest. Or the river.

They took her to Aly’s farm.

(...)

The gate creaked when she nudged it open. She expected to feel awkward, uninvited—but the moment she stepped inside, the smell of dirt and hay and something a little sweet (was that plum jam?) wrapped around her like an old cardigan.

And there she was.

Aly, sleeves rolled up, hair in a loose knot, dirt smudged across her cheek like warpaint, working on the greenhouse with the kind of quiet focus Haley had only ever seen in people sketching blueprints of their future.

She stood on her toes to drive a nail into a frame beam, a strand of hair falling into her mouth. She blew it out with a huff, then laughed softly to herself, as if amused by her own messiness.

Something fluttered inside Haley’s ribs.

“Oh,” she said, voice louder than she meant. “You’re—busy.”

Aly turned, and just smiled —all easy and warm and sun-baked. “Hey. You here for a photo op or a distraction?”

“Maybe both,” Haley shrugged, gripping her camera like a lifeline. “I heard you were finally working on this thing.”

Aly wiped her hands on her pants. “She’s a fixer-upper, but she’s got potential.”

Haley leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “You always talk about buildings like people?”

Aly grinned. “Only the ones I care about.”

Boom. There it was. That dangerous little curl of charm that Haley never saw coming but always felt deep in her stomach.

The silence stretched between them—taut, electric.

Haley stepped inside. The sunlight filtered through the glass in shards, painting Aly’s skin in a kaleidoscope of soft golds and greens. The smell of cedar, soil, and something Aly-shaped made her dizzy.

“What are you planning to grow in here?” Haley asked, voice quiet now. Intimate. Like they were already inside a secret.

Aly hesitated, looked down at her scraped-up hands. “I’m not sure yet. Haven’t decided.”

“Sunflowers,” Haley said, without thinking.

Aly blinked at her.

“They’ll remind me of you,” Haley added, and it came out soft. Too soft. A confession barely wearing a mask.

Aly looked at her like she was a puzzle she didn’t mind solving slowly.

Then she stepped closer.

And Haley didn’t step back.

The potting bench dug into her back as Aly leaned in. Their mouths met in a kiss that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t hungry—just true. Slow and simmering, like something blooming between the cracks of everything unsaid.

Haley curled her fingers into Aly’s flannel, grounding herself.

Aly kissed her like no one else ever had. Not like she wanted to own her. Not like she wanted to hide. Just like she saw her.

When they finally pulled apart, both a little breathless, Haley bit her lip and whispered, “If you plant sunflowers, I’ll come back to see them.”

“You don’t need a reason to come back,” Aly murmured.

Haley pretended not to hear that.

[---]

The moon was a pale coin flicked across the surface of the sky, casting silver along the edges of Aly’s farm. Crickets hummed somewhere in the fields. Wildfire was asleep in his stall. Even Peach, usually alert to any hint of drama, was curled up on the windowsill like a decorative pillow with opinions.

Aly was locking up the coop, wiping her hands on her jeans, when she heard it—boots crunching along the gravel path, slow and careful.

“Back again?” she called out into the dark.

Haley’s voice was soft, sly. “Don’t act like you’re not obsessed with me.”

Aly turned and, yep, there she was—hood up, jacket too thin for the chill, blonde hair catching the moonlight like something enchanted. Haley had this way of walking like she owned the ground and hated it at the same time. She moved like a dare.

“I thought you hated the smell of compost,” Aly teased.

“I do. But apparently, I hate my house more.” Haley stepped in close, real close, until they were standing in the hush between words.

Aly swallowed.

“So what’s your excuse this time?” she asked.

Haley shrugged one shoulder, a crooked smile tugging at her mouth. “Couldn’t sleep. Got bored. Felt like kissing someone.”

“Ah,” Aly said, voice low. “Lucky me.”

Haley didn’t answer. She just slipped her hand into Aly’s hoodie pocket, where Aly’s hand was already stuffed, cold fingers threading through warm ones like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was dangerous, this kind of closeness. The kind that felt practiced, like muscle memory, but was still new enough to feel like falling.

Aly led them to the side of the barn, behind the greenhouse-in-progress. It was quiet there, shadowed from view. The wind rustled the grass. A single candle flickered on the porch far behind them, left by Aly more out of habit than intention.

Haley leaned in first, pressing her forehead against Aly’s.

“You smell like sawdust and strawberries,” she murmured.

“You smell like trouble,” Aly whispered back.

Their lips met in a kiss that wasn’t hungry—it was playful, mischievous, like they were laughing into each other. Haley smiled against Aly’s mouth and pulled her closer, fingers slipping under the hem of her hoodie to find skin.

Aly’s hands settled on Haley’s waist, grounding her.

But it wasn’t long before the playfulness gave way to something deeper. Aly kissed her like she meant it—like she needed it. Her hands wandered up Haley’s back, gentle but desperate, her body saying what her words hadn’t dared.

And just for a moment, the world stopped spinning.

No noise. No moon. Just this—

Haley, sighing into her mouth. Haley, gripping her hoodie like it might dissolve. Haley, here, but still not hers.

When they pulled apart, Aly didn’t let go.

Haley looked up at her like she might say something soft. Something real.

But instead, she stepped back. Already retreating.

“I should go,” she said, eyes flicking toward the path. “Before someone sees.”

That’s when it hit Aly—like a bucket of icy water dumped right over her spine.

The way Haley always checked the time after they kissed.
The way she never stayed too long.
The way they only touched in the dark, never the daylight.

Aly blinked, her mouth dry.

She was the secret.

She was the hidden note in the pocket. The lipstick wiped away before morning. The after dark part of the day.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like something electric.
It felt like something stolen.

“Haley,” she said quietly. “You know you don’t have to hide from me.”

Haley’s smile faltered, just for a second. Then she nodded. “I know.”

But she didn’t stay.

She walked away with her hands buried in her pockets, boots crunching on gravel, vanishing into the night like a wish you weren’t sure you had the right to make.

And Aly stood there, hand still warm from where it had held hers, wondering if being chosen in secret was better than not being chosen at all.

Chapter Text

The night was soft, almost forgiving—silver fog curling around lamp posts like smoke from a memory. Somewhere, a nightjar trilled. The town had gone still, save for the quiet rustle of leaves and the breathless laughter tangled between two girls pressed against the back wall of the saloon.

Haley wasn’t thinking. That was the point.
Not about Emily’s stupid giggle two hours ago. Not about the fact she could still hear Shane’s voice in her head saying “babe” through her sister’s door. Not about what it meant that her feet had wandered all the way to the farm after dark, again.

She was thinking about Aly’s hands. One on her hip, the other cradling the back of her neck like it belonged there.
Aly was warm and solid and here —and Haley needed something to hold on to before she slipped out of her own skin.

They kissed like they were trying to erase the day.
Muffled gasps. Fingers in hair. Jacket half-falling off Haley’s shoulders. Aly tasted like peach jam and mint tea, like someone who made things with her hands and never bragged about it.

“God,” Haley whispered, breath fogging between them. “I can’t even remember what started this.”

Aly grinned against her cheek. “You said the moonlight was flattering.”

“You said my lip gloss was ‘unfair.’”

“It is unfair.”

Haley was just about to pull her back in when—
Rustle. Snap.

Aly froze. Haley went stock-still. Both of them turned toward the bush behind the town square statue, expecting maybe a raccoon.

What emerged instead was Marnie.

Disheveled. Red-faced. A heel in one hand.
Followed closely by Mayor Lewis, buttoning his shirt like this wasn’t the most mortifying thing to ever happen on Pelican Town soil.

Four pairs of eyes locked.
One eternal second passed.
And then: Chaos.

Haley gasped so hard she choked on her own lipstick.
Aly took a step back like she’d been electrocuted.
Marnie yelped. Lewis said “oh no,” with the defeated tone of a man who knew this would end up in tomorrow’s gossip round at Gus’s bar.

“Don’t tell anyone!” Marnie blurted.
“I wasn’t going to!” Haley snapped back.
“You didn’t see anything,” Lewis muttered, like they weren’t literally all staring at each other.

The silence afterward was criminal.

Then, slowly, like a cartoon animal trying to tiptoe out of a trap, Marnie grabbed Lewis by the elbow and led him toward the path behind Pierre’s general store. Their footsteps crunched on gravel. They didn’t look back.

Haley stood frozen. Her hand still gripped Aly’s sleeve.
“I—” she started, voice strangled. “We have to go. Now. ”

Aly didn’t ask questions. Just took her hand and ran.

[---]

The smell of eggs and hay hits her the moment she steps into the ranch. It’s disgusting—warm and earthy and real in the way Haley’s never wanted things to be. She wrinkles her nose.

Emily’s laugh echoes from the kitchen, followed by Shane’s grumbling drawl. Of course. They’re inseparable now, like some awkward pair of socks clinging to each other after the dryer.

Haley smooths her hair, steels her expression, and steps through the doorway like she’s walking into a photoshoot.

“Emily,” she says, voice light, like she isn’t dying inside. “I need a dress.”

Emily looks up from the counter, flour-dusted and pink-cheeked. “For the Flower Dance?”

“No, for my wedding to a forest goblin,” Haley deadpans. “Yes, the Flower Dance.”

Shane snorts into his coffee.

Emily’s smile softens into something sweet, a little surprised. “Already thinking about the Flower Dance?”

Haley rolls her eyes with fondness. “Emily, please. I always care about the Flower Dance. I’m not just any flower girl—I’m the main character. ”

Shane groans theatrically from the couch. “Can flowers file restraining orders?”

Haley ignores him, too focused to even fake offense. She turns back to Emily, a little more serious now. “I’ve worn the same white one for years. It’s tradition.”

Shane mutters, “A tradition of glaring at everyone until they tell you you’re the prettiest.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait this time. Just tilts her head and meets Emily’s eyes, something raw flickering underneath her usual polish.

“But this year... I want something different. Still pretty. Still princessy. Just... not pure white.”

Emily raises a curious brow. “Any reason?”

Haley shrugs, too fast. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I’m all soft petals and sunshine.”

There’s a pause. Then softer, a truth slipping out:

“I want to look like a secret. Like wildflowers at midnight.”

Emily blinks, stunned silent for half a second, before grinning like she’s just been handed a design challenge from the gods. “Okay, moody flower cryptid. Let’s make magic.”

Haley smiles. It’s almost real. Shane’s still saying something snide, but she’s not listening. She’s thinking about last night.

About warm hands on her waist.
About the laugh that slipped out of her when Aly bumped their noses.
About the way Aly looked at her like she was the only person on the planet with a heartbeat.

She buries it. Represses it like a pro. Shoves it into the mental drawer labeled do not open until existential crisis.

Emily’s already sketching invisible lines in the air, excited about fabrics and tulle. “Ooh! I’ve got some blush organza and—"

“You two were out late last night, huh?”

Marnie’s voice drops into the room like a trapdoor opening beneath Haley’s feet.

She freezes. Turns slowly.

Marnie stands in the doorway, as casual as can be, a basket of eggs on her hip like she’s just here to check the fridge and not detonate her entire soul.

Haley blinks. “What?”

Marnie hums. “Saw movement around town. Pretty late. Thought I saw you, Haley.”
A slight pause. Then: “And Aly.”

The air leaves the room.

Shane looks up, eyes sharp beneath his lashes. One brow lifts, not in surprise—more like amusement.

Of course he knows.
He’s known since winter. He made that stupid comment about stargazing and Aly’s “nightly visits.”

But now Haley’s spine goes cold for a different reason.

Did he tell Emily?

Did Marnie see them— really see them? Tangled behind the general store, her hand curled around Aly’s collar, whispering don’t stop like her whole body was catching fire?

No. No no no. It’s fine. It’s fine.

But Emily’s looking now. Curiously. Slightly too long.

“What were you doing out that late?” she asks, voice gentle.

Too gentle.

Haley’s response is too sharp. “Looking for stars. Since you two were making constellations in the living room.”

The silence that follows is loud.

Shane bites back a laugh. Emily raises her brows, caught somewhere between offended and amused.

Haley tugs her coat tighter around herself. “Just… let me know when the dress is ready.”

And then she’s gone.

Out the door. Into the cold. Her boots crunch against gravel. Her pulse is a warning bell in her throat.

What if Marnie tells someone?

What if Emily puts it together?

What if everyone finds out—and Aly’s still walking around with that lazy, soft smile like she’s not a secret, like she’s allowed to look at Haley like that in the daylight?

Haley’s hands are fists.

She doesn’t want to be anyone’s dirty little secret.
But she’s not ready to be a scandal either.
She doesn’t know what she wants.

All she knows is:

She wants Aly.

And she’s terrified of what that means if anyone else knows it too.

[---]

Aly had been quiet about it, in the way that mattered.
No dramatic cards. No grand declarations.
Just small things slipped through the cracks of Haley’s armor.

A walk past midnight—where Aly didn’t try to hold her hand, but kept brushing her pinky against hers.
A slice of cake smuggled into the greenhouse, eaten off a chipped plate between giggles.
And a wrapped box left on the windowsill: inside, a pair of earrings shaped like tiny suns.

No note.
But Haley would know.

Now, it’s her birthday. And she shows up in a brown coat, too big in the sleeves, her hair curled like she didn’t mean to look that good.

Aly’s already in the greenhouse, boots muddy, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fingers sunk into the soil. She’s pretending to check the watering lines. Really, she’s stalling.

The air is humid and sweet, and the sun filters through the glass like honey. A quiet, secret world. Like always.

“You came,” Aly says, even though she knew she would.

Haley shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s warm in here.”
Her voice is light, but her eyes scan Aly like she’s memorizing her. Like she missed her.

Aly wants to pull her into a kiss. She wants to ask her to stay.
Instead, she just says, “Happy birthday.”

Haley walks over. Close enough that Aly feels her perfume—something soft and citrusy today.

“Thanks,” Haley murmurs. Then: “This place smells like you now.”

Aly raises an eyebrow. “Like what? Dirt and fertilizer?”

Haley smirks. “Like green things. Like work.”
A pause.
“Like something that’s growing.”

And it should be funny. But it’s not.

They kiss near the potting bench. Slow, with a kind of hush to it.
Aly doesn’t know where to put her hands—she wants to hold Haley gently, but there’s this magnetic pull that makes her press a little closer, like she’s starving.

Haley pulls back just a breath. Her voice is quiet. “This isn’t real, right? Not really?”

Aly stares at her. Her heart knocks once, hard. “It feels real.”

Haley looks away. “I mean... I don’t think I can—” She swallows. “People talk. And I’m not ready to be a headline.”

Aly nods slowly. Like she understands. Like it doesn’t carve something hollow in her.

Haley leans against the bench, tracing the rim of an empty pot with one finger. “The sunflowers are growing,” she says.

Aly blinks. “Yeah. You told me to plant them.”

“I didn’t think you actually would.”
Her voice is quiet. Distant. “But you did. And now they’re just… there. In the dirt. Getting taller every day.”

A beat.

“Sometimes I wish you hadn’t.”

Aly’s throat tightens. “Why?”

Haley doesn’t look at her. “Because now I can’t stop checking if they’re blooming.”
Another beat.
“And I’m scared of what happens when everyone sees them.”

The air goes still, heavy with things unspoken.

Aly looks at her hands. Her nails still have soil under them.

“I’ll take care of them,” she says softly. “Even if no one else ever sees.”

And Haley… doesn’t answer. Not with words.
She just leans her head on Aly’s shoulder. Eyes closed. Like she’s trying to memorize the feeling.

Chapter Text

The morning dew clung to Aly’s boots like cold fingers as she crossed the yard, hands buried deep in her pockets. The sun rose slow and sleepy, casting soft light through the budding cherry trees. Everything looked like it should’ve been peaceful. But peace had a way of ringing hollow when something was missing.

She shoveled compost into the greenhouse beds, one heave at a time. Carrots here. Strawberries there. Sunflowers—already sprouting near the back, their pale green stems lifting toward the roof, stubborn and sweet.

The soil was good. The kind you could bury your secrets in.

And lately, Aly had more than a few.

She wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve and glanced toward the hills. No blonde flash walking down from town. No camera glint catching in the trees. No Haley.

It had been three days.

No “accidental” visits. No sarcasm at her fencepost. No soft hush of breath as they kissed behind the carpenter’s shop, hidden from the world but too visible in each other’s eyes.

Aly hadn’t done anything wrong. At least, she didn’t think she had. But still, the silence felt like punishment. And so, she worked.

Harder. Longer. Quieter.

The rows were straight now. Fence repaired. She even oiled the barn door hinges that didn’t need it. The ache in her shoulders was easier to manage than the tightness in her chest.

Maybe Haley just needed space. Maybe she was scared.

Or maybe it hadn’t meant as much to her as it did to Aly.

Aly paused, hands in the dirt, staring at a young sprout pushing up with all its might. It looked so fragile—but she knew better. Plants were stubborn. Beautiful in their persistence.

She wished hearts worked the same way.

At lunch, she ate in the greenhouse. Alone, legs crossed on the warm brick floor. She’d made cake the night before—another one of those midnight things Haley would’ve teased her about. She took one bite and smiled bitterly. It was still too sweet.

She set the rest on a saucer by the windowsill, out of habit.

Just in case.

(...)

The saloon buzzed with its usual sleepy rhythm—Gus humming over the bar, clinks of glass and the low murmur of card games in the back. Outside, the stars were just starting to blink awake. Aly shook the cold from her jacket and slid onto the bench beside Emily, who was halfway through a plate of garlic bread and already mid-laugh.

Shane sat across from them, sipping on something fizzy, his expression the usual half-scowl of someone enjoying himself despite his best efforts.

“You look like you’ve been in a fistfight with a compost heap,” Shane said, raising an eyebrow.

Aly smirked. “Greenhouse stuff. Carrots are in. Strawberries are rooting. Sunflowers are waking up.”

Emily beamed, brushing crumbs from her sweater. “Already? That’s amazing! You’ll have color in there before anyone else in the valley.”

Aly leaned back, tired but proud. “It’s weirdly peaceful, you know? Like, every plant knows what it wants to be. They don’t hesitate. They just… grow.”

There was a pause. The kind that felt heavier than the words before it.

Emily smiled gently, softer now. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking a lot in there.”

Aly didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Shane took another sip and shifted in his seat. “One of my hens laid a double-yolk egg today.”

Emily gasped, mock-dramatic. “A sign of great fortune!”

“Or cholesterol,” Shane muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

Aly watched them quietly—how Emily’s hand drifted toward his, resting for a second too long on the table between them. How Shane’s gruffness softened, just slightly, when she laughed. Nothing showy. Nothing loud. Just… present. Like they understood something about each other that didn’t need to be spoken.

Like what they had wasn’t a secret, but a shelter.

Aly looked down at her drink, swirling the ice with her straw.

She didn’t envy them. Not exactly.

But she did feel something twist inside her. A quiet ache. A wondering.

She didn’t need grand declarations or fireworks.

But god, would it be so terrible to be seen?

Emily caught her gaze and smiled knowingly. “You’re always welcome to visit the cottage, you know. We’ve got tea. And birds.”

“And existential chickens,” Shane added.

Aly chuckled. “I might take you up on that.”

For now, though, she was grateful for this—warm light, safe company, and a quiet night where no one asked where Haley was.

And Aly didn’t have to pretend she wasn’t wondering.

[---]

The afternoon light slanted in through the kitchen window, catching motes of flour and dust mid-air like snow that forgot to fall. Haley leaned against the counter, pretending to scroll through her camera settings, but really just… thinking.

She’d passed by the cottage not long ago. Emily’s voice had drifted through the open window—low, happy, familiar. Then Shane’s laugh, rough like gravel but real, followed close behind. A door creaked. Furniture shifted. Boxes were stacked by the fence.

They were moving in together.
No fanfare. No drama. Just… done.

It had stung.

Not because she didn’t want Emily to be happy—she did. More than anything.
But how had they done it so easily?

Maybe that’s what happens when you’re not pretending.
When the person you’re with doesn’t treat you like a secret to hide in a dark corner of the beach.
When you don’t flinch at the idea of someone knowing.

She exhaled and tucked her hair behind her ear. Her reflection in the glass door looked older today. Not in a bad way. Just… tired.

(...)

The greenhouse door creaked open, warm air kissing her cheeks. She stepped inside slowly, cautiously, like she didn’t want to disturb the peace.

Aly was there, kneeling by a planter, brushing her thumb over the edge of a sprouting sunflower. She looked up.

Their eyes met.

It wasn’t the first time they’d seen each other since Haley’s birthday, but it felt like the first time that counted.

Haley closed the door behind her.

“Hey,” she said.

Aly straightened. Her smile was small. Careful. “Hey.”

For a moment, the silence was full of everything unsaid. Then Haley sighed and sank down onto the bench, hugging her arms.

“I saw Emily’s moving in with Shane,” she said.

Aly nodded. “Yeah. She told me.”

Haley laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “It’s weird. I thought I’d feel… proud of her. Like, ‘wow, my sister’s got it together.’ But mostly I just feel jealous.”

A pause.

“I’m not jealous of her, ” she clarified. “I’m jealous of… the freedom. That she can just be with someone. No whispers. No hiding.”

Aly sat beside her, close but not touching. “You could have that too.”

“I don’t think I can,” Haley whispered. “I want to. But I—I don’t know how to be seen with you.”

A beat passed.

Aly’s voice was soft. Firm. “I won’t be your secret forever.”

The words hit like thunder in a blue sky. Haley blinked at her, gut twisting.

She thought of the way Alex used to kiss her with one eye on the beach trail, his hands all over her like a claim, but his eyes full of shame.

She remembered the way he once called her his dirty little secret and how, back then, she’d laughed—like it didn’t crack her open.

She looked at Aly, real and steady and honest.

“I’m not doing that to you,” Haley said, her voice breaking. “You don’t deserve that.”

Silence stretched between them. Aly didn’t move. She just waited.

Haley wiped her eyes. “I don’t want to lose you,” she said. “But I don’t know how to have you out loud.”

Aly reached out slowly, resting her hand atop Haley’s. “Then start small. But start.”

And just like that—something shifted.

A decision began to form, fragile and trembling, but there.

Haley wasn’t ready for fireworks or town announcements. But maybe she was ready for something else. A step. A name whispered not in secret.

Her fingers closed around Aly’s hand. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

The meadow’s dressed to the nines again.

Garlands strung between the trees like soft-laughing secrets. Petals tossed on the ground like it’s a wedding. Everything’s blooming—too green, too golden, too bright. It’s sickeningly festive.

Haley breathes in, tastes the perfume of crushed grass and blossoms and expectations.

The usual pairs are already forming like clockwork. Penny and Sam sit near the river, their knees almost touching, faces close as if they’re reading secrets off each other’s lips. Abigail and Sebastian are draped in matching black accents like gothic prom royalty. Leah tugs on Elliott’s sleeve and smiles like she still can’t believe he’s real.

And Emily. Emily is laughing—of course she is—spinning in place in a honey-colored dress as Shane watches her with that particular brand of stunned adoration he always saves just for her. He looks like he’s still trying to believe someone like her chose someone like him. And maybe she’s trying to believe it, too.

It stings, but not in the usual way.

It stings because of the freedom. The openness. Because they aren’t hiding.

Haley adjusts her flower crown. It’s the same one she’s worn for three years now. Fluffy, white blossoms. A princess thing. She’s always made sure to be the picture of grace at the Flower Dance—the flower girl, the golden girl, the girl with her pick of the town.

This year, though, she’s wearing something new.

Emily made her the dress—deep violet fading into indigo, hem brushed with tiny embroidered blooms in dusk-tones. It twirls like a secret when she spins, clings like a confession when she’s still. Still princess-like, sure. But quieter. Wilder. Like wildflowers at midnight.

And last year… she remembers.

Aly had walked up to her—dusty, soft-eyed, sunburned—and said, simply:

"I was wondering if... maybe you’d dance with me?"

And Haley, mouth full of fear and ego and years of pretending, had snorted and said:

"Ew. No."

She hates that memory. It’s one of those sticky, shame-heavy ones that replays when she’s trying to sleep.

She didn’t even look at Aly when she said it.

And Aly—Aly had just nodded, once, quiet and steady, like she expected it. Then asked Leah instead.

God.

Her throat tightens.

Because now… now, the only person she wants to dance with is Aly.

But Aly’s not here yet.

She’s scanning the crowd—her eyes catching on every cowboy hat and pair of boots that aren’t the right ones—when she sees her.

Aly. In soft linen. Hair pulled back with a daffodil pin. That easy kind of confidence she never flaunts, just wears like a second skin.

She’s talking to Marnie, politely, holding a paper cup of lemonade. Peach the cat isn’t with her today, but somehow, Aly still looks like she’s carrying home with her.

And Haley’s heart just—flips. Does a dumb, romantic pirouette.

This is it. No backing out. No panic-excuses. No pretending she’s waiting for Alex to come swaggering up and stake his tired claim.

No pretending she’s not scared, either.

She smooths her dress. Takes one breath. Then another.

Then walks—no, glides —straight toward Aly.

Aly looks up. Eyes widen just a little. She opens her mouth, maybe to say hey, maybe to ask if Haley wants lemonade. But Haley doesn’t let her speak.

“Dance with me?” she asks. Voice quiet, but sure.

The air seems to pause. A bee hesitates in flight. A few heads turn.

Alex, from across the clearing, stares like someone punched him.

And Aly? Aly smiles.

It’s a slow, shy thing—like dawn inching over the valley. “Are you sure?” she says, low.

Haley nods. “I’m sure.”

So they do.

They step into the swirl of music and motion and color. Aly’s hand finds Haley’s waist with the kind of careful reverence Haley’s never been given before. Haley’s hand settles on Aly’s shoulder. They spin once, slowly.

People are whispering. She knows they are.

But right now, with Aly this close, eyes only on her—none of it matters.

They move like they’ve been doing this for years. Not perfectly, but like they’re learning in real-time how to fit together in rhythm. Haley’s laugh bubbles up once when they step on each other’s toes. Aly grins, apologizes without words.

Halfway through the song, Haley leans in, lips brushing Aly’s cheek.

Then—braver, bolder, brimming—

She kisses her.

Right there. In the middle of the festival. In the middle of everything.

And it’s not just a kiss.

It’s a statement. A reclamation. A wild, dizzy yes.

The song ends. The crowd claps politely, some stunned. But Haley doesn’t notice. Her world is narrowed to Aly’s flushed cheeks, her quiet smile, her hand still holding hers.

Later, someone will say “Did you see Haley?” and someone else will say “With the farmer?”

And she’ll smile.

Because for once, Haley doesn’t care what they say.

She’s not anyone’s secret anymore.

She’s her own.

And she chose this.

[---]

The saloon is warm with laughter and woodsmoke, soft music curling through the air like ribbon. There's cake on the counter, a little crooked and over-iced—clearly Shane’s handiwork, with Emily’s favorite mint-green glaze and glittery sprinkles that scream love was here.

Aly arrives first, hair still a little tousled from the farm, dirt under her nails she forgot to scrub off. But her hands? Her hands are full—with a bouquet of sunflowers, just barely blooming, golden and shy. She waits near the door.

And then Haley enters.

Not like a thunderstorm, not like a spotlight. Just… quietly. Steady. She walks to Aly with that new look in her eyes—the one she’s only just learned how to wear in public.

“I missed you,” she says, brushing a strand of hair behind Aly’s ear.

“I brought these,” Aly replies, holding the sunflowers out. “For you. Not for Emily. She gets a jade bracelet. Handmade. Kind of lumpy.”

Haley grins. “She’ll cry.”

Aly shrugs, eyes soft. “She cries at moss. I’m doomed.”

Haley snorts. Takes the bouquet like it weighs nothing, even though her fingers shake just a little.

They're still private, still careful. No kissing in front of Gus, no hand-holding under Jodi’s eagle gaze. But when Haley stands beside Aly now, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide.

Emily notices. Of course she does.

She grins like a secret keeper as she opens her gift from Shane (handmade earrings, rough and lovely), and then gestures them closer. “Sit, lovebirds. Before Shane eats the whole cake.”

They do.

And for the first time, it feels real. Not stolen, not dangerous. Just real.

They’re not shouting it from rooftops—but they’re no longer buried in shadows.

Aly leans her elbows on the table, halfway through her ginger ale, watching as Emily twirls the jade bracelet like it's some enchanted relic. Shane sits beside her, sipping soda with the serene calm of a man who's only slightly terrified of birds.

“So,” Aly says, voice casual but eyes glittering. “Is Skye getting along with... what’s his name? The chicken that thinks he owns the house?”

“Sir Cluckles,” Shane says deadpan.

Emily beams. “They're... figuring it out.”

“Figuring it out,” Aly echoes, raising a brow. “Like, passive-aggressive notes on the fridge kind of figuring it out? Or territorial screaming at three a.m.?”

Shane lets out a long-suffering sigh. “The bird tried to steal his corn this morning. He’s still not over it.”

“They’ll get there,” Emily says, ever the optimist. “Love takes time.”

Haley snorts into her drink, then glances sideways at Aly, eyes warm. “Some roommates are worth the drama.”

Aly meets her gaze. “Yeah. They are.”

And when Haley rests her head on Aly’s shoulder by the end of the night, it’s not a rebellion.

It’s just right.

Chapter Text

The first morning of summer smells like strawberries and sun-warmed wood.

Aly wakes early—before the rooster crows, before the greenhouse hums to life with trapped heat and ripening air. Peach stretches beside her, tail flicking like punctuation, and Aly rubs a thumb behind the cat’s ears before swinging her legs off the bed.

Out the window, the valley gleams with dew. The edges of the farm are feathered in wild grass, and somewhere in the distance, the old train tracks moan under the sun’s slow rise. She slips into her boots, grabs her watering can, and heads out into the gold-stained dawn.

There’s something sacred about this hour. No demands. No villagers. Just the quiet rhythm of the earth and Aly’s breath, steady as she checks the new crop rows—corn, blueberries, starfruit if she’s lucky. The sunflowers are already sprouting. Haley’s favorites.

She lingers at those. Fingers brushing the tender green shoots. There’s a softness in her chest she doesn’t quite know what to do with. A happy ache. Like she’s holding something too beautiful to name.

By the time she’s halfway through watering, the farmhouse windows stir. She glances up and catches sight of Haley: rumpled hair, tank top askew, standing in the window with a cup of coffee and a frown like thunderclouds in summer. Aly waves. Haley doesn’t wave back.

That’s… weird.

(...)

Later, Haley’s in the farmhouse kitchen, and the air smells like toast and lemon.

Aly steps inside, boots muddy, holding a basket of fresh radishes and wild strawberries. Haley must’ve let herself in—she’s curled up on the window bench, wearing Aly’s flannel over her pajamas. She looks like a half-dressed daydream and a disaster.

On her lap: crumpled notebook pages.

On the table: a glass of lemonade with a slice of salt-dusted cucumber.

Aly raises a brow, amused. “Broke into my house again?”

Haley doesn’t even flinch. “You gave me the key.”

Aly sets the basket down. “Bad morning?”

Haley groans. “Worse. I’m trying to write to my parents.”

Aly blinks. “Oh. That’s—wow. Big deal.”

“I know,” Haley mutters, staring down at her knees. “I haven’t written since, like, forever. I keep starting and stopping. ‘Hi, I’m gay, I’m dating a farmer, and sometimes we prank the mayor’ doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

Aly laughs. Softly. “You could say ‘Hi, I’m happy. It took a while, but I’m getting there.’”

Haley looks up. Her eyes are glassy. “Do you ever feel like… you’re supposed to be someone else? Like if you write the truth down, it becomes real. Too real.”

Aly sits beside her. Careful. Gentle. “Sometimes. But I also think—truth or not—it’s already real. You’re already you.”

A beat.

Haley leans in. Not a kiss yet. Just their shoulders touching. “You make it easier.”

And Aly does kiss her then. Tastes like lemonade and salt. Like summer and nerves and the ghost of old grief. Like a promise, unspoken, but blooming slow.

Haley pulls back a little, forehead to Aly’s. “Will you read it if I finish it?”

“I’ll read it even if you don’t,” Aly whispers.

They stay like that for a while, notebook between them, sunlight crawling across the floor.

[---]

The ocean barely moves.

It sighs against the shore like it’s too tired for waves, a lazy hush-and-pull that matches the heat blanketing the sand. Above, the sky spills open—wide, pale, endless. The kind of summer day that feels like it could last forever, or not at all.

Aly walks the curve of the beach barefoot, her boots slung over one shoulder, a quilt folded under her arm. The sand is hot, soft, clingy. Her ankles are already dusted with it by the time she spots Haley near the rocks.

She’s a vision. Lounging under a ridiculous sunhat, sunglasses tipped low, long legs stretched out like a magazine spread. A slice of watermelon sits untouched beside her.

“You’re late,” Haley says without looking up. Her tone’s light, but there’s an edge to it—half playful, half pointed.

Aly drops the quilt with a small, theatrical groan and collapses beside her. “The tomatoes staged a coup. I barely made it out.”

Haley snorts. “Coward. You should’ve brought backup.”

“I did. A pocketknife and a bad attitude.”

They sit like that for a while, side by side, sun-warmed and silent.

They eat melon. Aly sketches Haley’s hands in the corner of a wrinkled seed catalog. Haley flings a rind at a seagull with the precision of a former pageant queen turned menace.

The breeze lifts strands of Haley’s hair. Aly tucks one behind her ear without thinking.

It’s easy. Until it isn’t.

Aly glances sideways. “You disappeared for two days.”

Haley freezes.

The moment stretches, thins.

“I needed space,” she says finally. Not defensive. Just honest.

Aly nods slowly. She picks at a thread on the corner of the quilt. “I can give you that. You just can’t vanish. Not without a word. I spent half the night wondering if I messed something up.”

“You didn’t.”

Haley’s voice is quiet. Almost a whisper. She’s still looking at the sea, but her expression is folding in on itself.

“I just… I don’t know how to do this,” she adds. “Not like you. Not out here in the open. I’m scared I’ll wreck it.”

“You probably will,” Aly says, gentle as wind through wheat. “So will I.”

She pauses.

“But I’m still here.”

Haley turns to her. The sun catches in her eyes. There’s something raw in her expression—like she’s cracking open and hasn’t decided if that’s a good thing.

She leans in.

The kiss is slow, searching. Soft at first. Then deeper, messier, like the way summer sticks to your skin. It tastes like melon and salt. Like fear. Like wanting something so badly you’re sure it’ll slip through your fingers.

When they break apart, Haley rests her forehead against Aly’s. “I don’t want to be the one who ruins this.”

“You’re not,” Aly murmurs. “You’re the one I chose.”

They stay like that until the sky goes orange at the edges, and the sea finally remembers how to move.

Chapter Text

Haley sits on the edge of her bed, legs crossed under her like a pretzel, staring at the little sunbeam crawling across the floor. The house is still. Too still.

Emily had stopped by to check on her and then flitted off again—probably humming in the woods or painting the inside of her eyelids or whatever weird thing she does to stay zen.

Haley tilts her head, listening to the hush. She used to complain about Emily’s crystals clinking in the windows, her incense trailing into every room. Now the silence presses against her ribs.

Does she miss it? The clatter, the color, the constant sister-shaped chaos?

Or does she like this—the quiet that’s all her own, the way her thoughts echo back uninterrupted?

Maybe it’s easier to hear yourself fall apart when no one else is around.

Haley is not zen.
She’s been thinking about Aly all morning.

They’d gone to the beach yesterday. Aly packed sandwiches. Haley brought her camera. It was... sweet. Sweet enough that Haley nearly cried when Aly kissed her under the pier like they were something out of a movie.

So why does she feel like she’s floating outside of her own body now?

She rolls onto her back, tossing an arm over her eyes. It’s just too much too fast, she tells herself. That’s all.

But the truth is messier. Aly is the first person who’s ever looked at her without expectations. Who doesn’t need Haley to sparkle all the time. Who doesn’t want to own her, or tame her, or parade her around like a trophy. Aly just... sees her. All of her.

And it terrifies Haley more than she’ll admit.

(...)

Later, she walks through town with her camera slung over one shoulder and sunglasses hiding her eyes. She spots Sam and Penny sharing ice cream on a bench. Leah laughing at something Elliot said. Even Emily and Shane, arms loosely linked outside the saloon, trading sips from one glass.

Everyone looks so certain.

She thinks about how Aly kissed her cheek before heading back to the farm this morning. How her eyes crinkled when she smiled. How Haley nearly said I love you and instead said, “Don’t forget to water your sunflowers.”

She wants it to be enough.
But there’s this ache inside her—a fear she hasn’t outrun.

What if she messes this up?

(...)

That evening, she writes Aly a note.

“You make things feel real. And sometimes that makes me want to run.

But I don’t want to lose you. Not ever. Even when I act weird. Even when I get scared.

Please be patient with me.”

She folds it and doesn’t send it.

Instead, she picks up her phone and types:
“Hey. Wanna come by tomorrow? I wanna show you something.”

She hits send.
She doesn’t know what she’ll show. Maybe the note. Maybe a photo. Maybe just her own shaky hands and hopeful heart.

But it’s something.
It’s a start.

[---]

The knock on the door comes at golden hour. That soft, syrupy time of day when the light falls like honey across the windowsills and everything feels like it might forgive you.

Haley’s heart skips once. Then twice.

She opens the door and there she is—Aly. Hair wind-mussed, flannel sleeves rolled, dirt smudged on her wrist like freckles. She’s holding a jar of strawberry jam and a sunflower in one hand.

“Hey,” Aly says.

“Hey,” Haley answers, and it sounds like more than a greeting. It sounds like a promise.

They sit cross-legged on Haley’s bedroom floor, jam jar abandoned, knees knocking gently. Aly’s hand rests between them, pinky brushing Haley’s, and Haley thinks: I want to be brave.

So she reaches behind her, grabs a small box, and hands it to Aly. “Here.”

Aly opens it slowly, like she’s afraid it might hum. Inside, a camera roll—wrapped in tissue paper, tied with a ribbon the same blue as Haley’s eyes.

“I took these,” Haley says. “Of you. Over the past month.”

Aly blinks. “You’ve been photographing me?”

Haley shrugs, cheeks pink. “You do things when you think no one’s looking. I wanted to keep them.”

Aly doesn’t say anything at first. She lifts the roll, touches it to her lips like it’s holy. Then: “Can I see them?”

Haley nods.

They set up the photos on her bed. One by one, the moments unfold like petals:

• Aly crouching beside a tomato vine, squinting into the sun.
  
  
• Aly and Peach, nose to nose.
  
  
• Aly asleep beneath the greenhouse arch, arms pillowed behind her head.
  
  
• Aly laughing, head thrown back, strawberries in her lap.
  
  

Haley watches her as she looks. Watches her eyes flicker, soften, shine.

“I don’t know what to say,” Aly murmurs.

“Don’t,” Haley says, too fast. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.”

But then Aly looks up and says, “You see me like no one else does.”

And then the space between them disappears.

A kiss—sharp at first, almost desperate. Then slow, like waves curling into shore. Aly tastes like mint and sunlight and something older, deeper. They kiss until Haley forgets her name and only remembers this feeling: like being full, like being found.

Somewhere between kisses, Haley whispers it. She doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t know it’s coming until it slips out, all breath and bones and scared-girl tremble:

“I love you.”

Aly stills.

Haley pulls back. Her hands twitch. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Aly says. And then she smiles, warm and certain. “Good. Because I love you too.”

This time, the kiss is softer. No rush. No fire. Just two girls sitting in the quiet of a bedroom full of unspoken truths finally spoken aloud.

Aly kisses her again and again, slower, like she’s memorizing the shape of Haley’s mouth. Like each breath they share is sacred. Fingers slide into hair, down spines, over the soft rise of hips. Clothes peel away not in haste but in reverence, as if each layer holds a story that deserves to be told with touch.

Haley’s shirt slips from her shoulders. Aly's hands tremble only once before they find steadiness in her skin, tracing the line of her collarbone, her ribs. She presses her lips to the dip just above Haley’s heart, and Haley gasps—quiet, sharp, like a secret being let go.

The room hums with something ancient and tender. A song without melody, just the rhythm of breath and heartbeat. Haley pulls Aly closer, skin to skin, warmth blooming like wildflowers after rain.

Fingers explore, hesitant then sure, and Aly is gentle when she enters her—like opening a door long closed, like touching something sacred. Haley arches into it, into her, every nerve singing.

They move together like tides pulled by the same moon. No words now, just sighs and soft gasps and the quiet creak of the bed beneath them. A conversation spoken entirely in touch, in trust.

Later, wrapped around each other like ivy and oak, Haley whispers, “You feel like home.”

And Aly, pressing a kiss to her temple, replies, “That’s because we built this together.”

[---]

The Luau was already alive by the time Aly arrived.

The whole beach shimmered under the weight of sun and summer—waves lapping gently at the shore, drums pulsing in the distance, laughter blooming like firecrackers from every direction. Color was everywhere. Strings of paper lanterns crisscrossed the palm trees, floral garlands swung from driftwood archways, and the scent—gods, the scent—was a sticky blend of roast pineapple, grilled fish, and someone’s far-too-generous application of coconut oil.

Aly adjusted the strap of her basket and stepped onto the sand, boots sinking slightly. She’d dressed for the heat in a soft linen shirt and denim shorts, her hair tied back with a blue bandana that Haley said made her look like trouble. Aly had grinned and said, “Aren’t I?”

The villagers were scattered in their usual summer pairings. Abigail and Sebastian loitered near the tide pools, ankle-deep in saltwater, pretending they weren’t holding hands. Penny and Sam danced awkwardly near the music, Sam tripping over his own enthusiasm. Leah had brought Elliot a shell necklace she claimed would “enhance his poetic aura,” and he wore it proudly like a preening seagull. Shane and Emily were under the palms, sharing some kind of fruit juice from the same straw.

Aly felt something warm and full in her chest seeing them like that—soft and simple, like peace in motion. She waved at them. Shane raised his cup.

The air buzzed with that peculiar festival electricity—part celebration, part chaos, all glittered with gossip.

And above it all, like a sunspot in Aly’s periphery, was Haley.

She hadn’t seen her yet. But she could feel her—like gravity. Somewhere on the beach, wearing something summery and smug, probably surrounded by admirers and sipping something cold.

Aly made a beeline for the communal soup cauldron.

It bubbled like a friendly swamp, and Gus was standing guard nearby, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with mock suspicion.

“No funny business this year,” he warned as she approached. “I remember what happened last Luau.”

Aly placed her basket down, hands raised. “I’m reformed,” she said solemnly. “An upstanding citizen. Zero chaos.”

“Uh huh,” Gus muttered, and wandered off—though not without a backwards glance.

She leaned over the cauldron, stirring it lazily with the oversized ladle. The broth was fine. Not exciting. Definitely missing a certain purple kick. But Aly was behaving. For now.

Then came the voice. Light. Teasing. Honeyed like sun-warmed lemonade and just as dangerous.

“Thinking about seasoning it with something… purple again?”

Aly didn’t turn. She just stirred slower, like a criminal caught mid-crime. “I would never.”

Haley stepped up beside her, close enough that Aly could feel the brush of her shoulder. “Mm. You say that, but I still remember Lewis’s face last year.”Her tone dipped into a scandalized impression. “‘Lewis, are those—’”

Aly bit her cheek, holding back a grin. “He banned me from bringing my own spices after that.”

“And yet…” Haley leaned in closer, voice low and sparkling, “I kind of want to see what you’d do this year. For old time’s sake.”

A beat passed.

Aly raised one eyebrow. “You’re corrupting me.”

“Please,” Haley smirked, her fingers brushing Aly’s at the ladle, feather-light. “You corrupted me first.”

They shared a look—one of those charged, wordless things that stretched and sparked like static in the heat.

And across the beach, poor Mayor Lewis glanced up from his spot near the grill, caught the two of them sharing a laugh by the soup, and began sweating like a ham.

(...)

The festival had thinned. Music still drifted faintly from the beach, now slower and sleepier. Most of the villagers had either stumbled off toward town or were still swaying under the lanterns, wine-sweet and sun-tired.

Haley walked beside Aly along the forest trail, their footsteps muffled by soft moss and summer dust. Aly held her sandals in one hand. Haley’s flower crown drooped slightly to one side, one of the petals stuck in her hair.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The only sounds were crickets and the creak of branches overhead. The kind of silence that felt full, not empty.

Eventually, Haley broke it. “I think Lewis is going to ban us from soup forever.”

Aly laughed quietly. “We didn’t even do anything this time.”

“That’s what makes it worse. We didn’t have to.”

Haley’s fingers brushed Aly’s. Then stayed. Interlaced.

“I liked today,” she said, soft like the breeze. “More than I thought I would.”

Aly turned to look at her. Haley wasn’t looking back. Just gazing ahead, face painted silver by the moonlight, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and something else.

“I was proud of you,” Aly said.

Haley swallowed. “For dancing with you?”

“For being yourself.”

Haley blinked fast. Looked at their hands. “I still get scared sometimes.”

“I know.” Aly squeezed gently. “I still get muddy boots. We’re working on it.”

That got a small laugh out of Haley. She tilted her head, a little sheepish. “This counts as a date, right?”

“Only if I get to kiss you at the end.”

Haley stopped walking.

Turned.

Moonlight between them.

“You could kiss me now.”

Aly didn’t need to be asked twice.

The kiss was warm, a little sticky from sea air, and tasted faintly of lemonade and something wild. Haley’s hands slid up to Aly’s shoulders, steadying herself like the ground might give out. Aly kissed her again, slower. Like a promise.

And under the quiet hush of trees and stars, they stayed like that—just for a little while—summer still humming around them.

Chapter Text

The sun rose lazy and golden over the valley, curling itself around the barn and vines like a warm promise. Aly was already outside, coaxing tangled weeds from the soil, the hem of her shirt damp with effort and dew. It smelled like ripening tomatoes, saddle leather, and fresh earth.

She looked up when Haley approached—not in surprise, but like she’d been expecting her.

Haley trudged across the grass, pulling her sunglasses down as Wildfire snorted dramatically at her arrival.

“Oh good,” Haley said dryly, hands on her hips. “The drama llama’s awake.”

Aly grinned, pushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “He’s missed your fashion commentary.”

“I came to help,” Haley declared. “Real help. I want in.”

Aly blinked, caught off guard for only a second before nodding. “You remember Buttercup?”

“I remember her staring into my soul.”

“She does that.”

(...)

Buttercup was lounging in her usual patch of shade, swishing her tail with the kind of casual menace only cows could pull off. Haley had met her before—tentatively, stiffly—but this time was different.

This time, she crouched down beside her. Brushed the straw from her coat like she meant it. Murmured something soft that made Buttercup huff and nuzzle against her side.

“She’s letting you pet her belly?” Aly asked from the barn door, impressed.

Haley glanced up with a smug smile. “I bring good vibes and excellent moisturizer.”

“She hates everyone but me.”

“She likes my perfume. It’s vegan.”

Aly laughed, watching the two of them settle into a rhythm—Haley brushing with real care, Buttercup blinking slow approval. Haley wasn’t just visiting anymore. She was present. Intentional. Earning her place.

(...)

Wildfire came next, eyes bright with mischief. Haley offered a carrot with a practiced hand, but the moment he lunged playfully, she squeaked and stumbled straight into Aly’s arms.

“Still testing me,” Haley grumbled, cheeks pink.

Aly held her a second longer than necessary. “He’s protective.”

“Of you?”

“Maybe.”

A pause.

“...I get it.”

(...)

They ate lunch on the porch: strawberry sandwiches and Aly’s homemade sweet tea. Haley kicked off her boots and curled into the swing, hair messy, freckles out, hands stained with earth and peach juice. Aly sat beside her, pretending not to stare.

“You’re... radiant,” Aly said.

Haley arched a brow. “You’re just dazzled by my sweaty glow.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Definitely.”

(...)

By the time Haley left, she smelled like clover and cow fur, with hay in her braid and a real, unshakable softness in her smile.

That night, she texted Aly:

“Buttercup let me braid her tail.
Your horse still hates me.
I think I want to come back tomorrow. If that’s okay.”

Aly replied:

“She only lets the chosen few near her tail.
You’re always okay here.”

And Haley—lying on her bed with her feet still dusty and her heart kind of glowing—texted back:

“Good.
Because I think I’m starting to love this.”

Chapter Text

The rain came in lazy sheets that morning, tapping gently on the farmhouse windows like it didn’t mean to bother anyone. Aly stirred in her bed long after sunrise, wrapped in quilts that smelled faintly of rosemary and soap, hair a sleepy mess on the pillow. No rooster crowed—just the rhythmic hush of summer rain on dirt, on wood, on glass.

She didn’t expect anyone.

Which made the soft knock on the front door a kind of miracle.

Aly pulled a flannel over her tank top, padded barefoot to the door, and opened it to find Haley standing there with a paper bag clutched in both hands and her hoodie half-drenched from the walk. Her mascara wasn’t smudged, which was almost impressive.

“Morning,” Haley said, voice low and warm, almost sheepish.

“You’re out in this?” Aly blinked. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“I missed you.” Haley held up the bag like a peace offering. “I brought options.”

Aly took the bag, the scent of sugar and berries immediately making her stomach growl. Inside: a poppyseed muffin, a blueberry tart, one cookie with chocolate chips that were still a little melty, a sticky maple bar wrapped in wax paper, and—because Haley was Haley—perfect pancakes folded like notes and tied in a napkin bow.

“I couldn’t decide what to bring,” Haley said, stepping into the farmhouse like she belonged there now, water droplets clinging to her sleeves. “So I brought everything.”

Aly grinned. “That’s illegal, actually. You can’t show up in the rain with baked goods and a smile. I’m calling the sheriff.”

“I am the sheriff,” Haley replied, already toeing off her boots. “Of this kitchen. And I say we eat the maple bar first.”

They sat on the floor beside the window, sharing bites and stories between drips of syrup and laughter. Outside, Wildfire nickered softly from the stable, and Buttercup mooed once, like she was chiming in.

“Can I stay?” Haley asked later, once the food was gone and Aly’s head had found her shoulder.

Aly didn’t answer right away. She laced their fingers together and kissed Haley’s knuckles. “You’re always welcome.”

They watched the rain in silence after that. A peace settled between them, the kind that only comes when no one’s pretending anymore. Haley wasn’t rushing off, wasn’t hiding. She was just here—with pancakes, and a kiss that tasted like blueberries, and the quiet admission tucked between the lines:

I love you, and I’m trying.

[---]

Summer’s final breath came soft, perfumed with sea salt and driftwood smoke.

Pelican Town’s beach shimmered in the twilight, lanterns swinging gently on posts as if even the wind had slowed down to watch the water. Strings of warm lights traced the pier like a hush, casting golden halos over the sand. Villagers gathered in clusters—laughing low, passing drinks, watching the waves in anticipation. Somewhere, Gus was handing out clam chowder with too much pride. Somewhere, Linus hummed an old lullaby to himself.

But Aly’s eyes were only on Haley.

She stood by the shoreline, her dress catching the breeze just right—white with pale blue trim this year, as if the ocean had kissed her hem before letting her go. Her hair was half-up, flowers tucked behind her ear. Not a crown this time—just gentle, intentional wildness. Aly approached, heart thudding like the tide against the docks.

“Hey,” Haley said, turning with a slow smile.

“Hey.” Aly handed her a folded blanket. “Figured we’d sit near the edge.”

Haley looked down at the blanket, then up at Aly like she was something rare and miraculous. “Perfect.”

They settled on the wooden edge of the dock, legs dangling, shoulders brushing. The ocean stretched ahead, quiet and deep, waiting.

A year ago, Haley had been here with Alex. Holding hands for the town’s sake, heart full of static. A kiss shared in secret days before—with Aly—still lingering on her lips. She’d gone home that night confused, burning, afraid.

But now?

Now her hand found Aly’s in the dark, fingers twining like they were made to.

“Do you remember last year?” Haley whispered.

Aly glanced at her, something soft in her eyes. “You mean the part where you kissed me and then walked into the festival with someone else?”

Haley winced, laughing under her breath. “Yeah. That part.”

Aly squeezed her hand gently. “I remember.”

“And now...”

“Now,” Aly said, “you’re mine. And I’m yours. No hiding.”

Haley leaned her head on Aly’s shoulder. “I like this year better.”

A hush rippled through the crowd. The first moonlight jellyfish shimmered at the edge of the tide, glowing faintly blue. Then another. And another. Dozens, then hundreds, drifting toward shore in a ballet of bioluminescence, turning the sea into a living constellation.

Haley watched in wonder. “They look like little lanterns.”

Aly rested her chin against Haley’s temple. “They came for you.”

Haley turned her face up, meeting Aly’s gaze. The glow painted her lashes silver, her eyes stars. “I love you,” she whispered.

This time it wasn’t an accident.

“I love you,” Aly said, like a promise. Like the sea could rise and swallow them whole and she’d still say it. “More than I thought I could.”

The jellyfish danced. The waves hummed. And somewhere in the distance, Mayor Lewis pretended not to see two girls kissing on the pier like it was the end of the world and the beginning of something better.

Chapter Text

The first week of Fall smells like cinnamon bark and slow-burning firewood. Aly wakes to mist curling against the farmhouse windows, and outside, the leaves look like confetti someone tossed into the wind—gold, burnt orange, stubborn flickers of green not ready to let go.

Pumpkin seeds clink gently into the soft, damp soil. Aly plants them with practiced hands, boots sunk deep in the mud, hair curling from the drizzle. Wildfire watches from under the stable awning, snorting every so often like he has opinions about spacing.

By late afternoon, the skies crack open. Rain turns the path to the farmhouse slick and slippery, and Aly sheds her coat just as the first knock rattles the front door.

It’s Haley—hood down, hair damp, cheeks kissed red from the cold. She’s carrying a steaming bowl covered in a checkered cloth.

“I made dinner,” she says, not quite meeting Aly’s eyes. “Sort of.”

Aly arches a brow. “Sort of?”

Haley slips inside, brushing droplets off her coat. “Okay, Emily helped. But I stirred it.”

The bowl is full of bean hotpot —rich and steaming, with soft root vegetables bobbing inside. It smells like garlic and thyme and quiet care. Aly sets the table. Haley finds mugs. It’s domestic in a way that sneaks up on them both.

They eat by candlelight, the power flickering once and returning with a buzz. Outside, thunder rolls lazily across the hills.

After dinner, they curl up on the couch. Haley tucks her legs under Aly’s, both of them too full to move. Haley rests her head on Aly’s shoulder, tracing small circles over the fabric of her shirt.

“I could get used to this,” Haley whispers.

Aly hums. “To bean hotpot?”

“To us. This. The quiet.”

There’s a moment. Rain tapping the roof. The sound of Wildfire stomping somewhere in the barn. And then Aly says it—not with fireworks, not with fear. Just a steady voice and soft conviction.

“Do you want to move in?”

Haley stills.

Her fingers go still on Aly’s arm. Then— slowly —they start again.

She looks up at her, searching her face like it’s a map. “You mean it?”

“I do.” Aly brushes her knuckles down the side of Haley’s cheek. “I want your shampoo in the shower. Your makeup on the sink. Your camera by the window. I want… everything.”

Haley leans in, forehead against hers. Their lips meet—slow, full of something trembling and real.

Outside, the storm softens. Inside, something new begins to bloom.

[---]

The morning after the storm dawns golden. The sun peeks out shyly from behind misty clouds, and the whole valley smells like wet leaves and beginnings.

Haley wakes in Aly’s bed— their bed, now, technically—with her hair mussed and her arm flopped over a very warm, very real farmer. Aly’s already half-awake, blinking slowly, one hand curled around Haley’s waist like she’s afraid she’ll disappear in the morning light.

She doesn’t.

Instead, Haley stretches like a cat and mutters, “So... when’s the part where I panic and back out dramatically?”

Aly just smirks and kisses her forehead. “You missed your window. Sorry.”

(...)

Emily shows up exactly thirty-two minutes after Haley texts her.

She bursts through the front door of their childhood home like a sparkly whirlwind, all jangly earrings and “MOVING IN?!” at full volume.

Haley’s halfway through stuffing sweaters into a duffel bag. “Emily! You don’t live here anymore!”

Emily practically launches herself across the room and into a hug. “But you said the words! You’re moving in with Aly! You’re nesting! I knew it!”

“Em, stop—my mascara is in that box—you’re gonna break something—”

“I already brought a housewarming gift!” Emily beams, then proudly pulls a small potted aloe vera plant out of her bag. It has googly eyes glued to the pot. “He’s named Harold. He heals and vibes.”

Haley groans, fond and exasperated. “You are literally out of control.”

“Tell Aly I expect her to protect you from evil and also to support your creative freedom,” Emily says, hands on hips like she’s delivering sacred vows. “And if you ever want a cleansing crystal grid for your new room—”

“I’ll call Shane,” Haley threatens.

Emily gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”

(...)

At the farmhouse, Buttercup immediately tries to taste Haley’s purse.

“Hey! No, that’s not for eating!” Haley shouts, yanking it away.

Buttercup just moos contentedly and licks her elbow like it’s a warm popsicle.

Aly watches from the barn door, absolutely wheezing. “She likes you.”

Haley wipes cow slobber off her arm with a grimace. “She better. We’re roommates now.”

Inside, the farmhouse hums with new energy. Boxes stacked by the door. A fuzzy rug Haley picked out. A half-full jar of poppyseed muffins on the table. Aly gives her the room right off the bedroom—a little nook with a wide window and a crooked shelf. Haley sets her camera on the sill and hangs a row of photos above the desk. She’s planning to keep her film, makeup, and memories there—a place that’s wholly hers.

Later, they walk out behind the house together, where the earth is soft and rich.

Haley kneels in the dirt with her hair tied back, planting daisies and sweet peas and a row of lavender just because she likes how it photographs in the morning light.

Aly watches her. Then joins her.

And when they’re done, hands muddy and hearts full, Haley leans back and whispers, “This feels like the start of something good.”

Aly, still kneeling in the garden bed, grins. “It is.”

They kiss, dirt and all.

And somewhere nearby, Buttercup lets out a very enthusiastic moo—possibly jealous, possibly just excited.

Chapter Text

The sky outside the farmhouse is the color of cooled ash, the kind that lingers in the air after burning something important. Leaves gather along the porch like rust-colored confessions, and inside, the smell of cinnamon tea and fresh ink fills the room.

Haley sits at the kitchen table, elbow-deep in anxiety and half-written sentences. Her handwriting curls across the page, delicate and uncertain.

“Dear Mom and Dad,
I hope you’re enjoying wherever in the world you are now. I’m writing you from Stardew Valley—the farm’s quiet today, and the trees are starting to turn. It’s beautiful here. Aly’s out planting cranberries. Later she’ll help Robin out with—”

She taps the pen against her lower lip. Then scribbles over the whole thing, rips it out, and starts again.

Emily arrives just before lunch, stepping in with cheeks pink from the chill, arms full of scarves and a small parcel wrapped in beeswax cloth.

“I brought muffins,” she says, plopping the bundle on the table. “Also, Shane made tea. It’s got ginger and some weird mushroom he swears is very calming. I only had a mild existential crisis.”

Haley laughs, tight and grateful. She slides the folded letter forward like a fragile offering. “Will you read it? Before I send it?”

Emily unwraps the muffins, then slowly unfolds the letter.

The silence as she reads is heavy. Holy. Like she’s unearthing something buried deep and sacred. Her fingers tremble on the paper’s edge by the time she finishes.

“You said it all,” Emily murmurs, wiping at her eyes. “You said it in your voice. That’s the bravest thing I’ve seen you do.”

Haley blinks fast. “You’re crying.”

“Of course I’m crying,” Emily says, voice thick. “You talked about your fear, and your joy, and Aly. You said you’re happy. That you chose this life. That’s huge, Hales.”

They sit in that soft silence for a while. Emily tears the muffin in half and offers it. Haley takes it.

Later, by the fireplace, wrapped in Aly’s second-warmest sweater, Haley traces the steam rising from her tea and asks, “So… how’s cohabitation?”

Emily snorts. “Well. Sir Cluckles has officially decided he hates Skye.”

Haley grins. “Oh no.”

“It’s fine,” Emily says, laughing. “We adopted a blue chicken. Shane named her Mabel. She has Opinions. Very vocal ones. She loves pecking his shoelaces.”

“Sounds like a perfect addition.”

Emily leans back on the couch. “It’s weirdly peaceful, you know? Like… there’s always something to fix or clean or feed. But it feels like home. Like we’re building something.”

Haley hugs her knees. “Yeah. I think I’m building something too.”

They send the letter that afternoon, slipping it into the mail postbox just before the clouds split open and rain dusts the valley like a blessing.

Haley watches the envelope disappear into the box and exhales like she’s just let go of a decade of pretending.

“I did it,” she says.

Emily squeezes her hand. “You really did.”

(...)

The farmhouse door creaks open on a whisper of cool air and horse musk. Aly’s boots are caked in drying mud, her sleeves dusted with sawdust, and there’s a faded red smear across her cheek that might be from cranberries or paint. She smells like rain and pine and Wildfire’s mane.

Haley’s curled up on the window seat, wearing one of Aly’s sweatshirts again—blue, oversized, with a hole at the cuff. Her knees are drawn up, a book unopened in her lap. The fire crackles softly behind her, casting the room in amber gold.

Aly steps inside, closes the door behind her with a nudge of her hip. “Hey,” she says, soft and smiling.

“You’re filthy,” Haley replies, eyes scanning her like she’s been gone for a week.

Aly grins. “You should see Robin. We raised a whole barn door today.”

She toes off her boots, shrugs off her coat, and crosses to where Haley sits. Before Aly can sit, Haley rises and wraps her arms around her.

The hug is full-bodied. Breath-catching. A held-longer-than-usual kind of embrace.

Aly blinks down at her. “What happened?”

Haley pulls back just enough to look at her. Her cheeks are pink. Her eyes shimmer—not from tears, exactly. But from the heat of something uncontainable.

“I sent it,” she says. “The letter. To my parents.”

Aly’s brows rise, surprised and tender. “You did?”

“They know,” Haley says. A deep, trembly breath. “They know about me. About us. About how I’m not coming back to the house in the city. How I’m staying here. With you.”

For a second, Aly says nothing.

She just reaches out and brushes her thumb over Haley’s cheek, slow and reverent.

And then: “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

Aly’s voice is steady, but soft like the soil in spring. “You’re really brave, you know that?”

Haley shrugs, bashful. “You’re the one out there building barns and taming horses.”

“Still,” Aly says, pressing their foreheads together, “you cracked something open. That’s harder.”

The fire pops. The room is warm and dim. Outside, Wildfire snorts softly in his stall, and the crickets begin their nighttime chorus.

Haley closes her eyes. “I don’t know what they’ll say.”

“I don’t either,” Aly says. “But I know what I’ll say.”

Haley tilts her head. “What?”

Aly kisses her, once, sweet and grounding.

Then murmurs, “Welcome home.”

[---]

The rain comes in sideways, tapping at the windows like it’s got something to say.

Aly is at the stove, stirring a pot of vegetable stew, steam curling around her face. The kitchen smells like thyme and roasted garlic, like comfort trying its best.

Haley’s leaning on the counter behind her, arms crossed. She’s still in the outfit she wore to town—a soft peach sweater, high-waisted jeans, and boots that are definitely more fashion than function.

“You didn’t tell me we were helping Robin again tomorrow,” Haley says, picking at her thumbnail.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Aly says, not turning from the pot.

“Well, it does,” Haley replies, a little sharper than she means. “You just assume I’m okay with these spontaneous lumberjack Saturdays.”

A pause.

Aly finally glances over. “I thought you liked spending time out there. With me.”

“I do!” Haley throws her hands up. “But sometimes I feel like I’m tagging along to your life. Like I’m just some city girl who got lost on her way to a photo shoot and stayed out of spite.”

Aly sets the wooden spoon down a little too hard. “Haley, you live here. You planted pumpkins last week. You literally talked to a cow for twenty minutes this morning.”

Haley presses her lips together. “Yeah, but—Buttercup likes me. Doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing.”

A silence stretches between them, taut like a clothesline in wind.

“This isn’t about Robin,” Aly says, voice quieter now.

Haley shakes her head. “No. It’s about me feeling like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s dream.”

Aly looks like she’s about to say something. Then stops.

She turns back to the pot. The stew bubbles. The tension does too.

“I’m not asking you to be a farmer,” she says finally. “I’m asking you to be here. With me. However that looks.”

Haley doesn’t answer.

She just sinks into one of the kitchen chairs, hugging her knees. The wind howls outside. Something shifts in the chimney. The whole house creaks like it’s holding its breath.

Later, when dinner is eaten in near silence and the lights are off, they lie in bed not quite touching.

Aly’s on her side, staring at the dark ceiling. Haley’s curled toward the window, blanket pulled tight.

They don’t speak.

Not because they’re angry.

But because they’re afraid that if they do, something will spill—too sharp, too loud, too much.

Outside, the rain keeps falling. And the night holds them both, just barely.

Chapter Text

Haley wakes to the sound of nothing—no boots shuffling, no kettle whistling, no Aly humming off-key while brushing her hair with one hand and feeding Buttercup with the other.

Just rain pattering against the roof. The sky outside is the color of steeped tea.

She pads out of the bedroom, barefoot, hair tousled, still wearing Aly’s oversized flannel. Her socks are mismatched—she doesn’t care.

Aly’s not in the kitchen. Or outside the window. No sign of Wildfire’s reins missing from the hook. Haley frowns.

She finds her in bed, tangled in the quilt, cheeks flushed in that way that’s not from blushing.

“Aly?” Haley’s voice is gentle. Careful.

A groggy groan is her answer. Aly blinks up at her with bleary eyes, voice hoarse. “Hey.”

“Oh no.”

Haley kneels at her side, pressing the back of her hand to Aly’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Just tired,” Aly murmurs. “Worked too hard yesterday. Helped Robin move six hundred logs or something…”

“Of course you did,” Haley mutters, brushing Aly’s hair off her damp forehead. “Because you’re made of stubborn and mud and spite.”

Aly cracks the smallest smile. “You like it.”

“Not when it gets you sick.”

(...)

Later, the farmhouse smells like fried eggs and pancakes, something Haley has never made without help. She burns the first batch, swears at the stove, and finally figures it out.

She brings a tray to the bed—pancakes with too much syrup, toast cut into uneven hearts, tea that’s way too herbal.

Aly, wrapped up like a burrito, stares in awe. “You made this for me?”

“I did,” Haley says, plopping beside her. “It was a culinary war. I emerged victorious. Barely.”

“You're ridiculous,” Aly whispers.

Haley smiles, but it’s soft. Guarded. “You scared me, you know.”

“I’m okay. Just—exhausted.”

“That’s what scared me,” she says. “That I didn’t really see how hard this life is for you. I’ve been here taking pretty pictures while you split wood and fight weeds and feed animals in the dark.”

Aly blinks. “Haley…”

“I’m sorry I made everything about me. I just… I get scared sometimes. That I’m not enough. That this place is too big for me.”

Aly reaches for her hand, weak but certain. “You’re not too small. You’re the best thing I’ve ever brought into this place.”

Haley tears up. “You’re not allowed to say beautiful things while feverish. That’s emotional manipulation.”

They laugh. It’s cracked but real.

(...)

That night, Aly drifts in and out of sleep, Haley curled at her side, reading aloud some ridiculous magazine article about how to bathe a cow like royalty.

And somewhere between the rain and the quiet and the scent of syrup still lingering in the air, they find their way back to each other—not with apologies, but with presence.

Love is sometimes pancakes. Sometimes silence. Sometimes watching over the one you love while the storm passes.

And outside, the wind is just a whisper now.

[---]

The farmhouse is quiet once again. Not heavy quiet—just the kind that settles in when someone you love isn’t around to make the floorboards creak.

Aly left early, still groggy but grinning, tackle box in one hand and coffee in the other. Off to win golden tags and maybe a mounted trout. “Wish me luck,” she’d said, brushing a kiss to Haley’s hair. Haley murmured something sleepy in return, too tangled in the blankets to be poetic.

Now, the sun climbs late-morning slow across the windows, casting warm gold across the farmhouse walls. Haley stretches on the couch, wearing Aly’s gray hoodie and flannel pajama shorts, legs draped like she owns the place. She does. Sort of. It's home now, too.

Peach curls beside her, purring like a motorboat. A soft mrrp escapes the cat as Haley shifts, lifting her head.

“Alright,” Haley sighs, swinging her legs down. “Let’s be useful.”

Outside, the farm smells like wet earth and ripening pumpkins. A thin mist curls along the edges of the fields, but it’s warm enough to go barefoot on the porch for a second—until the cold, damp wood reminds her this is, indeed, Fall. She pulls on her boots. Aly’s boots, actually. Slightly too big, worn-in, smelling faintly of cedar and field dust.

The watering can is where she left it. That alone makes Haley feel victorious.

She waters the rows methodically: bok choy, pumpkins, yams. The soil drinks it up eagerly, and so does she—this rhythm, this simplicity. A part of her used to flinch at dirt under her nails. Now she presses her palm flat against the damp earth after each row like she’s checking for a pulse.

Afterward, she walks to the barn.

Buttercup greets her with an enthusiastic moo, nudging Haley’s hip like a dog that wants attention now. Haley laughs, stroking her wide forehead.

“I didn’t bring a treat, but I brought vibes,” she says, rubbing gently under Buttercup’s chin. The cow flicks her tail in appreciation, then tries to lick Haley’s elbow. “Okay, ew,” she giggles, dodging, but still smiling as she fills the trough. “But I love you too, you slobbery beast.”

She stays a while. Humming a tune Emily used to sing while cleaning. Letting Buttercup nuzzle her. Listening to the soft rustle of dry leaves and distant crows. It’s strange—how this place used to feel like a backdrop, and now it’s beating somewhere inside her chest.

Later, back in the farmhouse, she makes soup. Not because she’s hungry, but because the kitchen feels lonely without steam on the windows.

Peach hops on the counter, tail curling like a question mark. Haley taps her nose. “Not for you, fuzzball.”

By the time Aly returns, cheeks red from the cold, smelling of river water and woodsmoke, Haley’s already at the table with two bowls ready.

Aly pauses at the door, touched. “You did the chores?”

“Mmhm,” Haley says, sipping carefully. “Fed your girlfriend. She mooed at me.”

“You mean Buttercup or Peach?”

“Yes.”

They both laugh.

Aly leans down to kiss her—chilled lips, calloused hands, soft sighs—and Haley tugs her gently closer by the flannel hem.

The farm survived a day without Aly. But it’s better now that she’s back.

Chapter Text

The last batch of yams is boxed, the fields lie bare and sleepy, and the wind tastes like smoke and cinnamon. The final golds and reds of Fall spiral down from the trees like blessings, and Aly breathes them in deep as she watches the sunset stretch across her fields.

“Harvest’s done,” she says to herself, wiping the sweat from her brow with a grin. “Time to celebrate.”

She may or may not have bribed Shane with blackberry wine and Emily with the promise of an audience for her “Gourd Artistry” just to make this happen.

That night, the living room is a symphony of chaos: newspaper on the floor, knives clattering, candles flickering in every corner, and four pumpkins lined up like contestants at a fair.

“Okay,” Aly declares, hands on her hips. “Rules are simple. One pumpkin. Twenty minutes. Most creative design wins.”

“Do we get prizes?” Emily asks, dramatically rolling up her sleeves.

“Eternal glory,” Haley says, already holding her knife like a sculptor. “And a slice of Aly’s pumpkin pie.”

“Deal.” Shane grunts, cracking his knuckles. He’s already started scooping out the inside like it personally offended him.

Buttercup moos softly from the barn outside. Peach watches from the windowsill with judgmental eyes.

They carve.

Emily hums to herself while giving her pumpkin tiny curls of hair. Haley tries to sculpt a portrait of Peach (sort of?) and mutters “This looked easier on Pinterest” every three minutes. Aly goes for a classic spooky face but keeps making the teeth too crooked. Shane, meanwhile, creates a hauntingly good Jack-O'-Lantern that resembles… Lewis. Nobody comments on it. Everyone feels it.

By the end, the room smells like roasted seeds and candle wax. There’s laughter, flour smudged on someone’s cheek (probably Aly’s), and Emily’s pumpkin inexplicably has rhinestones glued to it.

Haley leans her head against Aly’s shoulder as they admire the lineup. “Y’know… this was really nice.”

Aly kisses the top of her head. “Told you. We can make our own traditions.”

Outside, the wind picks up. The season begins its slow exhale. Winter’s whisper is on its way—but tonight, the house is warm with candlelight and soft laughter, and everything feels exactly where it’s meant to be.

[---]

Pelican Town smells like burnt sugar and candle smoke.

The square’s been transformed again—lanterns swinging from tree branches, skeleton cutouts taped to the stalls, grinning pumpkins on every ledge. Kids shriek and giggle as they race toward the haunted maze. Adults mingle with cider in hand, pretending not to flinch when the scarecrow lurches.

Haley pretends too—cool as ever, dressed in a dark velvet coat with a sunflower pin. Her hair’s down, soft curls catching the orange glow.

She finds Aly near Pierre’s stall, already munching on a candy apple like it’s a job.

“You’re early,” Haley says, nudging her.

“You’re stunning,” Aly replies, and that’s unfair. Because Haley has a comeback for everything—except that.

They wander together, hand brushing hand. Marnie’s judging the costume contest, Lewis is pretending he’s not scared of Vincent in a vampire cape, and the maze yawns ahead of them—twisting, shadowy, full of poorly placed cobwebs and middle-school-level jump scares.

“Wanna go?” Aly asks, smirking.

Haley raises a brow. “Afraid you’ll get lost?”

Aly leans close. “I’m hoping to.”

The maze is mostly hay walls and fake fog, but when they duck under a tattered black curtain halfway through, it’s quiet. Secluded. Just the echo of voices and the rustle of dry corn stalks.

Haley’s heartbeat ticks like a haunted metronome.

“Boo,” Aly whispers in her ear.

Haley jumps. Whirls. Pushes Aly back against the hay bales and kisses her—sharp and sweet, electric like a dare.

It’s not about hiding. Not anymore.

It’s about the thrill. The thrill of being wanted, of being seen. Of pulling Aly closer and hearing her laugh against her mouth.

“You’re trouble,” Haley breathes.

“And you love it,” Aly replies.

Their foreheads touch. Somewhere nearby, a kid yells, “I found the golden pumpkin!” and someone else groans, “That’s my third time losing!”

They stay tucked away a little longer—Aly’s hand warm at Haley’s hip, the night soft around them like a secret they’re no longer afraid of telling.

Haley doesn’t laugh. Not this time. Her fingers trail down the curve of Aly’s spine like she’s memorizing a song only she gets to hear.

Instead, her fingers find Aly’s belt loop, tugging her in, breath warm and steady. There’s a flicker in her eyes—mischief tempered by something deeper. Want. 

No, not wanting. Needing.

And then—bold as lightning—she slips her hand into Aly’s waistband, past fabric, slow, deliberate.

Aly gasps—a soft, startled thing—and her eyes widen, pupils blooming like ink in water. “You sure?” she murmurs, voice low, already breathless. They’re still in the maze, tucked in a corner, just one ripped tarp away from the rest of the world.

Haley nods once. Fierce. Unapologetic. She kisses just under her jaw, soft and searing. “I want to hear you.”

Her fingers press where Aly burns, and Aly bites down on her lip, hard—trying, failing, to stay quiet.

But then Haley leans in, lips brushing her ear like a secret: “Don’t.”

And Aly moans for her—soft, shaking, hungry. The sound catches like a spell in the hay-thick air, warm against Haley’s skin.

Haley grins like she’s just won every contest in the square. “That’s better.”

Her fingers find Aly’s clit like they’ve always known the way. Aly jerks, knees almost giving out, her forehead thumping against Haley’s. She bites down on a whimper—hard—but her body is traitorous, arching into the touch like she’s starved.

“God, Hales,” she hisses. “Someone—someone could see—”

“I know,” Haley murmurs, like a wicked prayer. “Isn’t it thrilling?”

Her fingers circle slow, deliberate, until Aly is shuddering—until her legs tremble and her lips part on a moan she tries, tries to swallow.

But Haley won’t let her.

She kisses Aly’s cheek, her ear, and whispers, “Let me hear it. You know I want it.”

And Aly does. She moans into Haley’s neck, breath hot, uneven. Her hands fist in Haley’s jacket. She’s trying to stay upright, trying to stay quiet, trying to last —but Haley is ruining her with that smile, with those fingers, with how seen she makes her feel.

And then, all at once, Aly catches Haley’s wrist, panting. Her eyes—half-lidded, shining—lock on Haley’s.

“My turn,” Aly whispers, and Haley doesn’t have time to answer—not with Aly’s hand slipping under her costume, her touch maddeningly patient.

She flips the dynamic like a heartbeat, tugging Haley closer, pressing her back into the hay wall. Her hand trails over Haley’s thigh, slipping beneath the hem of her costume, ghosting up her leg with trembling precision.

Haley’s eyes flutter. “Aly—”

“Shh,” Aly says, voice wrecked and reverent. “I want to see you come undone.”

Haley gasps, her head tilting back against the hay as Aly presses in—slow, sure, reverent. Her hands shake, just slightly, but her eyes never leave Haley’s.

“You’re beautiful when you fall apart,” Aly says, like a secret. Like worship.

Haley’s breath stutters. She opens her mouth to speak, to tease, to plead —but then Aly moves her fingers, deeper this time, and all she can do is moan, low and needy, her hips jerking against the touch.

Somewhere nearby, a sharp burst of laughter cuts through the night—loud, unmistakable.

“OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE HIS FACE?” Abigail screeches. “HE NEARLY PEED HIMSELF!”

Haley freezes. Aly does too.

They stare at each other, wide-eyed, adrenaline thrumming hot beneath their skin.

For a heartbeat, they’re statues. Just the sound of their breathing, ragged and tangled. Haley’s lip between her teeth. Aly’s hand still inside her.

Then Haley whispers, “Run.”

They stumble deeper into the maze, giggling like fugitives. The fog thickens, cobwebs brushing their shoulders like ghost fingers, but they don’t stop—not until they find a tighter corner, deeper shadows, safer dark.

Haley presses Aly against the wall this time, but Aly doesn’t wait.

Her hand finds Haley again, and this time, there’s no teasing. She moves in, fingers curling, and Haley gasps so hard she nearly drops.

Aly kisses her—soft at first, then rougher, hungrier, like she’s trying to keep her grounded, like she’s trying to remind them both they’re real.

Haley clutches at her, burying her face in Aly’s shoulder as she whimpers, riding the rhythm of Aly’s fingers, the press, the depth —

“God, Aly,” she breathes, voice cracking like glass.

“I’ve got you,” Aly whispers. “Let go.”

And Haley does—clutching at Aly, trembling, breaking apart in silence as voices echo far away and the world spins on without them.

They stay pressed together afterward, sweat-damp and shivering slightly, hearts pounding loud enough to drown out the screams from the skeleton animatronic somewhere near the exit.

Haley lifts her head, eyes glazed and stunned. “We’re literally in a children’s corn maze.”

Aly grins, flushed and glowing. “Yeah. And?”

Haley kisses her again. This time slow. Sweet. Grounded.

“You’re trouble.”

“And you love it.”

And in the hush of the haunted maze, with the corn stalks rustling like a warning and festival laughter echoing just out of reach, Aly makes good on her promise—fingers slow and sure, eyes locked on Haley like she’s the only light in the dark.

It’s dangerous. Stupid. Reckless.

And maybe that’s why it feels so much like love.

Outside, the festival ticks on—laughter, music, the occasional screech from someone stumbling over a rubber spider—but here, hidden in fog and firelight, they’ve carved out a moment just for them. Just wild enough. Just real enough.

And Aly, breath hitching, head tilting back into Haley’s hand, realizes: she’s never felt more found.

Chapter Text

The world wakes white.

Frost clings to the barn roof. Wildfire’s breath steams in the morning as Aly lays out fresh hay. Buttercup gives a grumpy moo at the sudden chill. Even Peach the cat seems scandalized, refusing to leave the quilt-draped windowsill for anything less than a full saucer of milk.

Inside the farmhouse, it smells like clove and rising dough. Haley’s up early, kneading something sticky and sweet. She’s got flour on her cheek and a knit hat perched messily on her head like she forgot to take it off. She’s humming Jingle Bell Rock like she doesn’t even realize it.

Aly leans in the doorway, half-frozen, half-in love.

They spend the week quietly building their own little traditions:

— Baking experiments that sometimes burn (but taste fine under syrup);
— A snow angel contest in the pasture (Haley cheats by throwing snowballs);
— Gifting each other handmade things (Aly carves Haley a comb from driftwood; Haley knits Aly the ugliest hat known to humankind—neon green with pompoms and chaos).

And then, by the weekend, a plan:

“Let’s have a bonfire,” Emily says, clapping her mittens together.
“In the snow?” Haley arches a brow.
“Exactly!” Shane grins. “Best time for it. Stars come out clearer. And I made cider.”

So on the first Saturday night of Winter, they gather behind the cottage.

The fire roars up, orange and wild. Everyone's bundled in scarves and laughter. Emily brought marshmallows. Shane brought Sir Cluckles, cradled under one arm like a reluctant baby. Haley brings her camera, snapping candid shots when no one’s looking.

Aly sneaks in close behind her, wrapping her arms around her waist.

“I like our little life,” Haley whispers.

“I like it too,” Aly replies, nuzzling her nose into Haley’s shoulder. “I think I want to keep building it with you.”

The flames crackle. The snow falls softly, barely sticking.

And the cold never quite reaches them.

[---]

It’s snowing the kind of snow that doesn’t stick—just dances, shimmery and unbothered, before disappearing into the air. Haley’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of Emily’s cottage, Peach curled up next to her, purring like a motorboat. She’s been quiet for too long.

Emily finally looks up from her knitting. “Okay. Spill.”

Haley blinks. “Huh?”

“You’ve been staring into the void for fifteen minutes. Either you're having a vision, or you’re hiding something.”

Haley exhales hard through her nose. “I’m not hiding anything.” A beat. “I’m just... thinking.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “Thinking about...?”

A pause. A long one. The parrot squawks something that sounds suspiciously like “dramaaaa.”

And then Haley says it. Not in a big way. Not with a flourish.
Just a soft truth falling out of her like it’s been sitting there for weeks.

“I think I want to propose.”

Emily’s needles stop mid-loop.

“You… what?!”

Haley shrugs. Looks down at her hands, cheeks flushed. “Not now now. But someday. Soon. Maybe? I don’t know. She just—Aly makes everything feel real and possible. Like even the weird stuff in my brain gets quieter when she’s around.”

Emily is already crying.

“Oh my god,” Haley groans, laughing through her nerves. “Don’t do that, Em.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily sniffles, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “It’s just—you were so scared at first. Of being loved. And now you're… you’re—”

“I’m in love with her,” Haley says, barely a whisper. “Like. Stupid, real, sky-falling love.”

Emily gets up. Wraps her in a blanket hug. The parrot starts singing “Here Comes the Bride” off-key.

“Okay, okay!” Haley laughs, half-buried in sisterly affection. “Let me figure out the when first. I’ve got the who down.”

The blanket hug has barely ended when the front door creaks open. Snowflakes swirl in behind Shane as he kicks off his boots, cheeks pink from the cold, jacket dusted white. Sir Cluckles squawks in greeting from his little coop corner (yes, he lives inside in the winter—don’t question it).

“Hey,” Shane says, voice gravelly from the chill. “Why does it smell like someone cried and also maybe burnt toast?”

Haley wipes her eyes. “Emily was knitting aggressively. She got emotional.”

Emily beams, still blotchy. “Haley’s thinking about proposing!”

Haley spins toward her. “EMILY.”

“What? He’s family.”

Shane pauses mid-unzipping his coat. His eyebrows shoot up. “Proposing?”

“To Aly,” Emily clarifies, as if it wasn’t already written across Haley’s entire soul.

Haley groans and covers her face with both hands. “Can I get one second to do things my way?”

Shane smirks. “Damn. You two really are lesbians.”

“I—” Haley splutters, then points an accusatory finger. “Aly’s bisexual, thank you very much.”

Shane just snorts. “Still. That’s gotta be some kind of record.”

Emily laughs. “You literally moved in with me and a chicken after a week.”

“That’s Sir Cluckles to you,” Shane says, mock serious.

Haley sinks into the couch, cheeks hot but heart full. “I hate all of you.”

“No you don’t,” Emily sings, tossing her a cushion.

Haley catches it and hugs it tight, eyes soft. “No. I really, really don’t.”

Shane wanders into the kitchen, opening the fridge. “So, what’s the plan? Barn proposal? Hide the ring in a bale of hay?”

“I haven’t decided yet!” Haley calls after him. “I literally just thought about it!”

He raises a soda can like a toast. “Well, don’t wait too long. Some of us are invested in this plotline.”

Haley hides her smile in the cushion. The room smells like old wood, fresh snow, and something sweet rising in the oven. Outside, the snow starts sticking.

Chapter Text

The second week of Winter starts with Haley wedged between a stranger and a man snoring into his elbow on a late morning bus to Zuzu City. She’s been making up reasons for these trips—“photography errands,” she told Aly. Which, okay, wasn’t a lie, exactly. She did take a photo of a bird eating a discarded pretzel once.

But mostly, she’s been going to search.

Jewelry stores, antique corners, that little market stall run by the old lady with the cherry lipstick and loud opinions. Nothing has been right.

Too shiny. Too stiff. Too… not Aly.

She wanted something beautiful, of course. But Aly wasn’t the diamond type. Aly was sea-worn glass and wildflower stems in a mason jar. She was practical. She made pancakes with radish leaves and could fix a broken fence with a frown and a nail.

Haley leaned against the cold bus window, fingers curled in her coat pocket where a list of scrawled notes lived.
“Not silver.”
“Not heart-shaped.”
“Maybe something handmade?”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, then underlined that last one. Twice.

(...)

Back in Stardew, the greenhouse glowed warm with winter sunlight. Aly moved between the planter beds like a quiet rhythm—checking tomatoes, trimming basil, wiping condensation off the glass.

There was a peace to this time of year. No big harvests. Just slow warmth, steady breath, the scent of damp soil. She hummed softly as she worked, a tune she didn’t know the name of, something Haley might’ve played on that old record player.

Once the soil was checked and the watering done, Aly brushed her hands on her jeans, stepped outside, and made her way to Marnie’s Ranch.

Buttercup would need more straw soon, and Aly wanted to get extra blankets for the barn. Maybe even one of those fancy animal heaters Shane kept talking about.

When she walked in, Marnie was behind the counter, chewing a pen.

“Morning!” Aly greeted, rubbing her gloved hands.

“Good morning, dear,” Marnie said a little too cheerfully.

In the corner, Emily and Shane were whispering furiously over a catalog, like teenagers planning a heist.

They both froze when Aly walked in.

“Hey,” Aly said, raising an eyebrow. “...Something I should know?”

“Nope!” Emily chirped, slamming the catalog shut. “We were, uh, picking out... bird feed.”

“For Sir Cluckles,” Shane added, nodding too quickly.

Aly narrowed her eyes. “You feed him sunflower seeds. Every day. I gave you a whole bag last week.”

“We’re... branching out,” Emily said. “He deserves variety.”

“Right,” Aly muttered, dragging her gaze back to Marnie. “Can I get some extra hay and maybe a heating lamp for Buttercup’s stall?”

Behind her, Shane stage-whispered, “Abort mission. She’s too observant.”

Emily shoved him with her elbow and smiled so wide it looked painful. “Absolutely! Let me just... ring that up!”

Aly paid and left, shrugging off the weird vibes as small-town boredom. But as she crossed the snowy field back to the farmhouse, she felt a flicker of warmth in her chest she couldn’t quite name.

Back inside, she found a folded note from Haley by the door.

“Went to Zuzu. Be back before dark. Save me a blanket spot and maybe your entire heart, please.”

Aly smiled and shook her head.

“She’s weird,” she murmured to herself. “But she’s mine.”

And she had no idea what Haley was planning.

[---]

The ring lived in Haley’s coat pocket for four days.

Not because she forgot it. No. She touched it constantly. Slid her fingers over the velvet box like a worry stone. Took it out at night when Aly was asleep and held it beneath the low yellow lamp by the window, as if checking it would whisper back: Yes, you chose right.

She hadn’t found it in a store, not exactly.

It had been tucked in a drawer at the antique market. Hand-forged gold—dull, soft-toned, imperfect around the edges. The band held a single moss agate stone, clear and green-veined like a rain-slick leaf. There were tiny etchings along the side. Ferns. A crescent moon. Someone’s old initials, long worn.

Haley had touched it and just knew.
It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t polished. But it looked like the valley. Like something Aly might’ve dug up while gardening and decided to treasure.

So she bought it. Then panicked.
Now it lived in her coat pocket. A secret weight, heavy and humming.

(...)

The morning she finally knew was cold and clear. Snow dusted the rooftops. Haley had been watching Aly from the window for twenty minutes, pretending to read a book. Aly had gone to the greenhouse after breakfast, bundled up and humming something tuneless.

Haley didn’t even put on socks. She just stood up, heart hammering, shoved the ring box into her pocket, and followed the little trail of boot prints to the glass structure glowing in winter sun.

The door creaked. Aly turned, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, dirt smudged across one cheek.

“Hey,” Aly said, smiling. “Come to check on the basil again? You’re obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Haley lied.

Aly tilted her head. “Then what brings you to my sacred plant temple?”

Haley swallowed.

She walked past the tomatoes, past the half-barrel where the thyme grew like wild hair, and stood near the little bench by the west wall. Aly looked at her with soft confusion—then something in Haley’s face must’ve shifted.

Because Aly set down the trowel.

“Haley?” she asked, carefully.

Haley reached into her pocket. Her fingers trembled, and the velvet box felt like a thunderclap waiting to happen.

“I’ve been carrying this for a while,” she whispered.

Aly blinked. “What is—”

She opened the box.

Time didn’t stop. The basil didn’t fall quiet. The sunlight didn’t get any brighter. But Aly forgot to breathe.

“I picked this,” Haley said, voice trembling, “because it’s weird and a little messy and sort of mossy-looking. And it reminded me of you. And me. And this place. It’s soft. It’s imperfect. But it’s... it’s real. Like us.”

Aly looked like someone had knocked all the words out of her.

Haley knelt. She hadn’t even planned to. Her knees just gave out.

“Aly,” she whispered. “Will you—will you marry me?”

The silence was thick as honey. Aly pressed her fingers over her mouth.

And then she laughed—a soft, shocked, tear-struck laugh.

“You absolute maniac,” Aly breathed. “Yes. Of course yes.”

She pulled Haley up, kissed her like the greenhouse was built to hold it.

Outside, the snow kept falling, quiet as a vow.

But inside—inside, the air bloomed warm and heady. Haley tangled her fingers in Aly’s hair, deepening the kiss with a sigh that tasted like relief and forever. She pressed closer, lips trailing from Aly’s mouth to her jaw, her neck, all the places she’d memorized and still craved like it was the first time.

Aly laughed again, breath hitching as she leaned back slightly. “Hales,” she warned, cheeks flushed like peach blossoms. “We are not having sex in the greenhouse.”

Haley grinned, lazy and wicked, eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that usually ended with Aly’s shirt somewhere in the chicken coop. “Why not?” she whispered, nosing along Aly’s collarbone. “These flowers already saw our whole love story. Plus,” she nipped gently at Aly’s ear, “it’s warm in here.”

Aly groaned, half-exasperated, half-tempted, entirely in love. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably in love with you,” Haley murmured, voice feather-soft but landing like thunder.

Aly stared at her, heart so full it might’ve rooted right there in the soil. “God, you’re corny.”

“And you said yes,” Haley shot back, smug and glowing.

They were still standing among rows of tomatoes, surrounded by the scent of damp earth and growing things. Somewhere, a bee buzzed lazily past—either too drunk on pollen or too polite to interrupt.

Haley traced the curve of Aly’s spine through her coat, her touch featherlight now. “So… you wanna go back to the house?”

Aly arched a brow. “Why? You planning to propose again in the kitchen this time?”

“No,” Haley smirked, threading their fingers together. “I’m planning to celebrate.”

Aly stared at her fiancée— fiancée, holy hell—trying very hard to hold onto her resolve. But Haley had that look. The one that said I know exactly how to make you melt and I’m not above using it.

The greenhouse was humid, ripe with the scent of jasmine and citrus, the misted air wrapping around them like breath. Haley stepped in close again, hands slipping beneath Aly’s coat, slow and reverent.

“Okay,” Aly murmured, voice already cracking. “One condition.”

Haley’s fingers paused on the buttons of her flannel. “Yeah?”

“Don’t knock over the ancient fruit. That thing’s older than our relationship.”

Haley laughed, low and fond, and tugged her in for another kiss. “No promises.”

They tumbled down gently—careful, giggling, tangled in each other like ivy. Aly’s scarf got caught on a vine; Haley whispered something about fate and Aly told her she was ridiculous, breathless and aching and so stupidly in love she could hardly see straight.

There, beneath the slant of winter light filtered through fogged glass, with the soft hiss of the sprinklers like a hush around them, they let the moment crack open. Skin against skin, the warmth of the soil beneath the blanket Haley had sneakily stashed weeks ago ("for emergencies," she'd claimed), and the thrum of hearts beating in sync.

It wasn’t just heat. It was home. It was vows spoken in sighs, promises pressed into collarbones, and laughter muffled against bare shoulders.

Later, when the snow had thickened into a dream outside and the flowers stood silent witness to the aftermath of passion and petal-soft confessions, Haley shifted lazily onto her side.

“You know,” she said, tracing shapes on Aly’s stomach, “we should probably get married in here. It’s clearly got the best lighting.”

Aly rolled her eyes and kissed her again anyway.

(...)

The saloon is warm and full of life—murmurs and piano jingles, the clink of mugs, the golden lull of conversation. Gus is wiping down the bar with that same rag he’s used since the dawn of time. The fire crackles in the hearth. The jukebox plays some old jazzy tune that’s trying its best not to skip.

Then the door bursts open.

“Aly,” Haley hisses, tugging at her coat.

But Aly is grinning too big to be subtle. She steps inside, wind-blown and flushed from the walk, and announces at full volume:

“WE’RE ENGAGED!!”

Time pauses. Heads turn. Someone claps. Gus drops a spoon. Marnie lets out an honest-to-Yoba gasp. Alex, mid-bite of a sandwich, chokes slightly.

Emily, behind the bar tonight, throws both hands in the air and shrieks, “FINALLY!!!” She scurries around and nearly tackles them both in a blur of earrings and joy. “Do you know how hard it’s been not to say anything?? I’ve been living like a spy.”

Haley snorts into her scarf. “You were so bad at being subtle.”

“I knitted a whole heart-pattern blanket and called it a 'random winter gift.'”

Shane appears from the back room, still wearing his Joja jacket, brows raised. “So it happened?” He blinks at Aly. “She didn’t faint or anything?”

“She didn’t,” Aly says, smug. “She proposed in the greenhouse. Cried a little.”

“Not true,” Haley lies, cheeks pink.

Shane leans against the bar and raises an imaginary glass. “I’d say this is the perfect moment for a drink... but y’know.” He shrugs, casual. “Soda works.”

Emily beams. “A whole year sober. I’m proud of you.”

He shrugs again, but his ears go red. “Thanks. Honestly, this is better than booze anyway. You two are grossly cute. ”

Aly slides an arm around Haley’s waist. “We’re just getting started.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, deadpan. “Lesbian time is wild. One season equals, what, five years?”

“Seven if you move in by Fall,” Emily adds.

They all laugh.

And Haley, still blushing but glowing, presses her ring hand to her chest and murmurs, just for Aly:

“Best five years of my life.”

“Seven.” Aly says, kissing her cheek.

Chapter Text

The snow’s piled high along the fence posts by the time Aly makes it back from the greenhouse, arms aching with baskets of winter seeds. It’s the kind of cold that sticks to your breath and makes the world feel slower, softer. Still. But inside the farmhouse—it’s anything but quiet.

Emily’s sprawled on the floor of the main room, surrounded by sketchbooks and swatches like a tornado of lace and color exploded. “I cracked it!” she shouts as Aly pushes the door open. “A hybrid silhouette. Off-shoulder, structured bodice, flowing skirt—sunlight meets dirt meets Haley’s ankles, you know?”

“…Sure,” Aly says, kicking off her boots. “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest.”

Emily grins like a mad scientist. “I knew you’d get it.”

In the corner, Haley's perched on the couch with Peach curled in her lap, flipping through a photo album and biting her lip. She looks up, eyes wide, caught between dreamy and terrified. “Do we need candles? Like… a lot of them?”

Aly sets the baskets down and crosses over, kissing the top of her head. “We’ll figure it out.”

(...)

Later, out at Shane and Emily’s cottage, Aly drops by to check in. Shane’s out back, hunched over something on the porch. Wood shavings cling to his jacket.

“You whittling the wedding cake?” Aly asks, smirking.

“Nah,” Shane mutters, not looking up. “Just a little something for the ceremony. Don’t get mushy on me.”

But Aly notices it: a tiny cow, half-carved, delicate horns just starting to emerge. It’s shaped with care. Buttercup, unmistakably.

(...)

On Sunday, Jas arrives at the farmhouse holding a little paper notebook and a face full of serious business.

“I drew up three potential flower arrangements,” she says, holding up a diagram where all the roses are wearing little smiles. “Haley said I get to pick the aisle petals.”

“You do,” Haley says, kneeling to her level. “And if anyone says otherwise, I’ll fight them.”

Jas beams. Aly’s heart grows three sizes.

(...)

Everything’s becoming real. And Aly keeps waking up earlier, just to hold that reality a little longer.

Just to lie there, and listen to the scratch of Haley’s pen writing vows by the window.

Just to press her cheek to her chest and say nothing. Because some things don’t need to be spoken yet.

They're coming.

They're almost here.

The season is ending, and something new is beginning.

[---]

The greenhouse doesn’t look like a greenhouse anymore.

It looks like a memory pressed in sunlight and lace—like the kind of dream you wake up from crying, not because it was sad, but because it was beautiful, and too much.

Evergreen boughs are tucked into every corner, stitched between lanterns and loops of white ribbon. Wildflowers—some preserved, some conjured up in defiance of winter—spill from mason jars painted gold. Strings of tiny twinkling lights wind like stars through the rafters, and the scent of pine and jasmine tea floats soft through the air.

Outside, the snow falls gently, blanketing the fields in stillness. But inside, the air is warm with candlelight and hearts that refuse to be quiet.

Peach the cat, proud in a tiny bowtie and trailing a garland of paper snowflakes, paces the aisle like she owns it. Because of course she does.

Jas, in a flower crown and glitter-covered boots, scatters handfuls of sparkling snowflake confetti down the walkway. She does it with all the solemnity of a knight anointing queens. Her basket swings from her elbow. Her grin could split the clouds.

Shane, wearing a clean shirt and eyes red from holding back tears, stands near the archway, one hand wrapped around Emily’s. Emily, radiant and chaotic and trembling, clutches a stack of cue cards and a bouquet of fabric flowers she made last night at 2 a.m. She’s already crying.

Marnie moves like a general with a clipboard, herding villagers into seats with ruthless efficiency and tearful pride. Even Lewis looks vaguely flustered as he inches away from the ceremonial soup pot someone placed in the corner as a joke.

Elliott clears his throat near the front, flipping through a small leather notebook with practiced elegance. “I have composed three stanzas,” he says to no one in particular. “And a quote from Yeats.”

Abigail rolls her eyes. Sebastian mutters, “Of course you did.”

But even they—too-cool-for-feelings Sebastian and punk-princess Abigail—are sitting close together, gloved fingers brushing under the fold of her coat.

And then the music shifts.

The soft chords of a fiddle, played by Gus himself, float through the air like the beginning of a wish. The lights dim just slightly. The greenhouse hushes.

And Aly steps forward.

Her dress is earth-toned cream, simple and grounding, embroidered with wild sunflowers along the hem. Her boots peek from underneath the fabric, scuffed from years of real use. There are tiny pockets stitched into the sides—Emily insisted—and tucked inside one is a jam jar filled with lavender sugar. Her bouquet is nothing fancy. Just wildflowers and daffodils. Haley’s favorites.

She walks slow. Sure. Her breath catches when she sees Haley at the other end.

Because Haley looks like she was made for moonlight.

Her dress is a soft shimmer of ivory and silver, falling around her like water. The sleeves are delicate, sheer at the shoulders, sparkling just enough to look like frost under the lights. Her hair is pinned back with tiny crystal stars. She looks unreal—like the moment after snowfall, when everything is untouched and glowing.

They meet in the center. Aly forgets how to breathe.

Haley grins at her, nervous and blushing and radiant.

“You look like a wish I made,” Aly whispers.

Haley’s hand trembles in hers. “You look like home.”

And just like that, the ceremony begins.

(...)

The greenhouse is hushed.
Even the snow outside seems to fall slower, as if the sky is holding its breath too.

Mayor Lewis clears his throat. He opens his ceremonial binder, takes one look at the page, and clearly decides not to read any of it.

“I think... you two have something better to say.”

He steps back.

Aly and Haley turn to face each other.
Their hands find each other’s like it’s muscle memory.
A hush settles around the room like snowfall.

Haley speaks first.

She’s flushed, but steady.

“I used to think love had to be shiny,” she says, her voice quiet, but sure. “Like a diamond in a jewelry shop window. Perfect. Expensive. Something you show off to other people.”

She glances down at their joined hands. Her thumb brushes over Aly’s calloused knuckles.

“But you… you were something else. You were all dirt-under-the-fingernails warmth. You were jam jars and sunrises and hauling crops in the rain. And I didn’t get it, not at first. I thought… maybe I was too much glitter for all your grit.”

She laughs, just a little. Then her voice wavers.

“But you loved the glitter. And the mess. You saw me— really saw me—and didn’t flinch. And I think… I fall in love with you everyday, like when you let me cry in the kitchen because my muffin fell in the compost bin. And you said, ‘We can make another one.’ Like it was the simplest thing in the world.”

Her eyes shine.

“So, Aly. Today, I vow to always make another one. Another muffin. Another try. Another home with you, no matter where we are. I vow to kiss you every morning, even when you smell like barn. I vow to hold your hand when the world gets too quiet. And I vow to love you through every season.”

She smiles, eyes wet.

“Even the ones where the crops fail. Even the ones with too much snow.”

Aly exhales. Looks at her like she’s sunlight.

Then she begins, voice soft as soil after rain.

“I didn’t know what I was looking for when I came to Stardew,” she says. “But it wasn’t this.”

She smiles. Just barely.

“I thought I came here to farm. To start over. But I didn’t know I’d find someone who’d ruin my peace and my solitude and my perfectly scheduled watering routine.”

A couple people laugh. Haley grins.

“I didn’t know,” Aly continues, voice thick now, “that the girl who said ‘ew’ when she saw my boots would be the one I’d wait for at an altar, hoping she’d say yes.”

Haley sniffles. Emily sobs.

“You are the daffodil in my winter,” Aly says. “The splash of yellow when everything else is gray. You make the quiet feel warm. You make the hard days worth waking up for. You make the greenhouse sacred.”

She looks down, then back up again.

“I vow to carry your camera bag when it’s too heavy. I vow to plant sunflower seeds every spring, even if they mess with the fence. I vow to leave space in the bed for your cold feet. And I vow to love you with everything I have.”

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out something wrapped in blue ribbon.

“Even if that means stitching extra pockets for jam jars.”

A beat. A breath.
Then Peach meows loudly.

Everyone laughs. Haley wipes her tears.

They kiss.

It tastes like snowflakes and sunlight and everything that blooms in between.

(...)

The ceremony fades like a dream, like candle smoke curling up into the rafters.

But the celebration ?

That’s real.

The greenhouse shifts from sacred to cozy in a blink. Lanterns are relit. Blankets passed around. Marnie wheels out a tea cart with ridiculous precision, each tier stacked with cookies, hot chocolate, and tiny mushroom-shaped scones. There are glitter sprinkles on everything. Obviously.

Somehow, despite being deeply indoors, it smells like a campfire.

Emily and Shane step forward.

Emily is already dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Or...a sleeve. Or both.

She clears her throat. Tries to speak. Fails. Tries again.

“I just— snf —they’re so in love, and Aly is the first person Haley’s brought home who doesn’t make me want to hex them, and—and I got so excited designing their dresses I forgot to feed my blue chicken and Shane had to hand-sew half the embroidery because I was sobbing over fabric and—”

Shane gently takes the cue cards from her flailing hand.

“Okay,” he says, dry as ever. “What Emily meant to say is... love is weird.”

Laughter rolls through the greenhouse.

“Aly and Haley are weirder,” he continues. “But they make it work. Which is the whole point, right? You find your person, you ruin each other’s peace, and then you plant daffodils about it.”

Emily leans into him, sniffling.

“And hey,” Shane adds with a crooked smile, “if anyone needs a reminder that people can change… I quit drinking. A whole year now. I still don’t like weddings, but this one’s alright. So—cheers. To love. And to lesbians moving at the speed of light.”

“Seven years per season!” someone yells (probably Sebastian).

Emily shouts, “ Let the wives DANCE! ”

“SHE’S BISEXUAL, ACTUALLY! ” Haley shouts immediately after, one hand already pulling Aly toward the dance floor, the other waving dramatically in the air. “PUT SOME RESPECT ON IT!”

The whole greenhouse cracks up. Aly’s ears turn a little red.

Shane raises his cocoa mug. “To chaos.”

Emily clinks hers. “To wives.”

Sebastian and Abigail, from the corner: “To bi panic.”

Haley turns to Aly, eyes gleaming like the stars above.

“Hey, farmer girl,” she says, tugging gently on her hand. “Dance with me?”

Just like she did that spring, under petals and awkward glances.

Only this time, there’s no hesitation. No performance. No almosts.

Only Aly. And Haley. And music.

They dance slow, hands on waists and foreheads touching. Snow falls outside. Lanterns flicker like fireflies. Peach curls up on a spare cushion, perfectly content to nap through the whole thing.

Someone (Elliott?) plays a romantic tune on the saloon piano, and Jas scatters leftover confetti like it’s a second flower girl job.

The greenhouse glows.

And for one perfect night, love is shiny.
But also warm. Tangled. Earthy. Real.

Chapter Text

Snow falls like powdered sugar, blanketing Stardew Valley in velvet silence. The town square has transformed into a glowing dreamscape—twinkling lights strung from every fence post, wreaths nestled in every window, and candles flickering like fireflies in jars. Children chase each other in circles, the air alive with the scent of gingerbread and pine.

Aly stands near the edge of the festival, scarf tucked tight, cheeks red from the cold and maybe from the warmth of the woman tugging gently on her hand.

“Come on,” Haley urges. “Let’s at least pretend to socialize.”

“You mean, let’s stand near people and only talk to each other?”

Haley smirks. “Obviously.”

They pass Emily—who is glowing, possibly from excitement, or possibly from the glitter she dusted over her hair.

“There they are!” she calls, waving them over with mittened hands. Shane stands beside her, cradling a bottle of sparkling water, the fancy kind with a twist of lime, looking half-frozen and half-smitten.

“Is this your double date debut?” Aly teases, as they gather under the arch of lights. “Do we get a team name?”

Emily gasps. “Obviously! Starfire and the Love Goblins!”

Shane just sips his water like he’s trying to disappear.

Aly elbows Haley lightly and grins. “Can’t believe we beat you two to the altar. Married in under a year. And you’ve known each other for—what? Since the dawn of time?”

Emily shrieks, “Not fair! Our timeline is deeply unconventional!”

Haley leans on Aly’s shoulder, eyes soft with starlight. “It’s okay, Em. You and Shane are like… already married, in the way that matters.”

Shane glances at Emily, quiet for a long beat. “Yeah. We’ve got the chaos, the shared chores, and the chicken with a God complex. That’s basically marriage.”

“And the love,” Emily adds, sliding her hand into his. “All the love.”

The four of them stand in a comfortable, snow-dusted silence for a while. Lights flicker around them, casting halos on everyone’s hair.

A soft waltz begins to play from the speakers strung above the square. Couples sway across the cobblestones—Sebastian and Abigail, forehead to forehead; Penny and Sam, giggling through missteps; Lewis trying (and failing) to get Marnie to dance on beat.

Haley turns to Aly. “Wanna go show them how it’s done?”

Aly raises an eyebrow. “You just wanna twirl and show off your boots.”

“I always wanna twirl,” Haley says, already pulling her in.

They dance. Under the winter stars. Among friends who’ve become family. In a town that once felt foreign and now feels like a heartbeat.

And above them, the night sky sparkles—just a little more, tonight.

Chapter Text

The soft return of color.

The city was loud in that clumsy, overconfident way it always was after winter—pigeons flapping at crumbs, delivery trucks grumbling, shop signs blinking open like they weren’t quite ready to commit to brightness. Haley tugged her coat tighter and stepped off the bus, her list fluttering in her coat pocket. Just groceries today. Just eggs, flour, a few fruits for jam. Nothing else. Nothing big.

But the city always had its detours. And the real story of the day didn’t start at the market.

It started on the path home.

The wildflowers were just beginning to consider blooming, curling like shy dancers in the ditches, as Haley’s boots crunched along the gravel. She was a few steps from the bend where the trees began to thin, when a voice—small and slightly exasperated—cut through the rustling leaves.

“Ugh, it fell off again!” Jas. Definitely Jas. “Why are all my books broken?”

Haley froze.

Behind a wide tree trunk, she spotted them—Jas sitting cross-legged in the grass, a battered math book open like a wounded animal in her lap. Vincent was poking a stick into the dirt. Penny, nearby, held another book carefully in her hands, frowning at its frayed spine.

“We’ve patched this one three times already,” Penny said gently, “but the glue’s not holding anymore.”

Jas sighed, hugging the math book close. “Miss Penny, new books aren’t that expensive, right?”

Penny smiled, but her eyes did that thing Haley recognized too well—they flickered, hesitated, softened in that way people do when they’re trying not to make children feel the weight of the world.

“They are,” she said. “New books are expensive, so we’ll just have to make do with what we have a little longer.”

There was a silence. Haley felt it in her throat.

Vincent broke it with the casual audacity only a nine-year-old could possess. “So, does this mean I don’t have to do my homework?”

Penny looked heavenward.

Haley didn’t stay for the rest. She stepped back quietly, retraced her steps down the slope until she was out of earshot, and only then let out a breath that had lodged in her chest like a burr. It was such a small moment, and yet it filled her like a stone in water.

(...)

That night, Aly was already home when Haley returned, the fire low and cozy, Peach curled on the rug, Buttercup mooing softly in her sleep out back.

Aly looked up from the table, where she’d been scribbling plans for crop rotation. “How was the market?”

Haley set down the bags and smiled faintly, like her thoughts were still elsewhere. “Busy. But I found the good strawberries.”

Aly leaned over and kissed her temple. “You okay?”

Haley nodded… but didn’t move away. She rested her forehead against Aly’s shoulder for a moment, soaking in the warmth. “Hey. I’ve been thinking about cake a lot lately.”

Aly laughed. “Like… metaphorical cake or literal cake?”

Haley pulled back just enough to look her wife in the eye. “Literal cake. Wedding-style. Big, sweet, ridiculous. Layers and all. Maybe lemon.”

Aly’s brows lifted, amused and curious. “We just had a wedding.”

“I know,” Haley said. “But some things deserve second chances.”

She didn’t explain what she meant just yet. She just kissed Aly’s cheek and pulled the strawberries out of the bag.

[---]

For two whole days, Haley wandered the farmhouse with a storm in her head.

She’d water the daffodils outside and mutter “no, too boring.”
She’d pick up a camera, snap a photo of Aly pruning in the greenhouse, and murmur, “closer, but not quite.”
She’d stare at Peach curled in a sunbeam and sigh, “Ugh, cats can’t solve everything.”

Aly watched her with that half-amused, half-concerned look of someone who’s been in love long enough to know when not to ask questions.

Then, on the second afternoon—when the clouds parted just enough to bathe the valley in that golden pre-evening light—Haley gasped so dramatically that Peach fell off the windowsill.

“I’ve got it!”

Aly, who was elbow-deep in potting soil, blinked. “Got… what?”

Haley whirled around, grabbing her notebook and flipping wildly through the pages. “A cake-walk!”

Aly paused. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds delicious.”

Haley grinned. “It’s like musical chairs—but instead of chairs, there are cakes. You walk around in a circle to music, and when it stops, whoever lands on the winning number gets a cake!”

“That sounds like chaos.”

“It is chaos! But it’s also joyful and silly and easy to turn into a fundraiser.” She flipped her notebook to a blank page. “We’ll invite everyone. They can pay a few coins to enter, and all the proceeds go toward new books for the school library.”

Aly’s face softened. “Because of what Penny said.”

Haley shrugged a shoulder, then smiled. “It just… didn’t sit right with me. We can do something. It’s not much, but—cake’s a pretty good place to start, right?”

Aly walked over, dirt still on her hands, and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you. And your cake-based activism.”

Haley blushed furiously. “Shut up and bake for me, sunflower girl.”

Aly mock-bowed. “What kind of cake are you requesting?”

“Chocolate. Classic. Crowd-pleaser. You make it better than Gus.”

Aly lit up like she’d won a ribbon at the fair. “Alright then. One Chocolate Cake, coming up.”

Haley beamed. “Great! I’ll meet you in the town square tomorrow, weather permitting.” She twirled once toward the door, then peeked back. “I’m bringing Pink Cake, obviously.”

Aly laughed as Haley vanished down the path—sunlight behind her, a vision of sugar and stubbornness, chasing something bright.

[---]

The morning of the cake-walk was painted in soft spring hues—the kind of sky that promised no rain, just the blessing of sun on shoulders and grass between your toes.

Aly arrived early, Wildfire snorting beside her as they trotted into the town square. Haley was already there, arms full of ribbon and determination, talking a mile a minute to Emily and gesturing wildly toward the gazebo.

Aly barely got one foot off the saddle before she heard Haley shout, “BABE! C’mere! We have to hang the banner before the breeze eats it.”

Aly smiled. “Good morning to you too.”

She dismounted, tied Wildfire near a patch of clover, and walked over—only to be handed one end of a comically long banner that read:
CAKE-WALK FOR BOOKS! 🧁📚 Let Them Have Cake and Knowledge!

Aly raised an eyebrow. “Did you add the ‘Let Them Have Cake’ part just for me?”

Haley smirked. “I had to. You looked so disappointed when I didn’t say it yesterday.”

Emily snorted from where she was decorating a table with pastel streamers. “You two are unbearable. Shane’s on his way with the chicken cake, by the way.”

“I—what?” Aly blinked.

Emily giggled. “He was very serious about it. Said if people are walking in circles for cake, one of them should be poultry-shaped.”

Haley shook her head, laughing. “One year sober and he’s gone completely unhinged.”

“Don’t forget,” Emily added sweetly, “I also made edible glitter. For vibes.”

Aly finished tying the banner and stepped back. The town square looked adorable. Whimsical. And absolutely, unapologetically Haley.

There were rows of cake stands with names like Sugar Sprint and The Great Crumb Caper. Tiny paper footprints marked the walking path around a big painted circle. Even Mayor Lewis, bless his confusion, had been given a clipboard and a party hat.

But it was Haley—laughing, directing, icing her pink cake in between organizing kids with streamers—who made it magical.

Aly leaned against the wooden post and watched her.

How could one person be so glittery and so kind? So full of ideas that actually changed things?

And the wildest part: Haley didn’t even realize how big her heart had become. Not really. She still thought she was selfish, still worried she wasn’t “farm enough,” still underestimated herself like it was a habit she hadn’t outgrown yet.

Aly loved her for all of it.

She was snapped out of her reverie when Shane walked up, holding a cake shaped like a plump white chicken—complete with tiny wings and a frosting beak.

“You think they’ll know it’s a chicken?” he asked, clearly too proud to care.

“They’ll know,” Aly said. “And they’ll love it.”

They set it down with the others, beside Emily’s sparkly citrus tart and a dangerously leaning raspberry tower someone claimed came from Pierre’s but probably didn’t.

Haley jogged over, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “We did it. Look at this. Look at everyone. ”

Aly did.

Kids were bouncing around. Penny looked ready to cry just from seeing the tables of cake. Elliott was holding a quill and asking if he could narrate the event like a “baking bard.” Even George and Evelyn showed up, Evelyn already reaching for a slice.

Aly turned back to Haley. “You made something beautiful, you know.”

Haley blinked. “It’s just cake.”

“It’s never just cake,” Aly said, quiet. “Not when you make it.”

Haley softened. Then she leaned up, brushing a kiss to Aly’s cheek. “You’re gonna make me cry in front of all these buttercream people.”

“Let them have tears,” Aly teased. “And cake.”

(...)

By the time the music stopped, the town square was humming.

Ribbons fluttered. Sunlight danced off glitter-streaked frosting. Most of the villagers had joined the circle, milling around in time with the accordion music Emily had somehow convinced Gus to play. Jas skipped. Vincent pouted dramatically. Pam hollered every time someone passed the prize table. It was perfect.

Aly had just arrived, Chocolate Cake carefully balanced in her arms. “Fresh from the farmhouse,” she said, handing it over.

Haley grinned. “Perfect timing.”

She gave Aly’s fingers a quick squeeze—just long enough to say thank you without words—and then turned to the crowd.

“Okay! Everyone stop walking before we all fall over,” Haley called out, voice cheerful and bright. “Prize time!”

The villagers cheered. Pam swaggered to the front like she’d trained for this moment her entire life, reorganizing the table with dramatic flair. “Alright, alright. Cupcakes on the left, pies on the right, freaky chicken cake in the middle.”

“I prefer the term poultry pâtisserie,” Shane muttered nearby, arms crossed but proud as hell.

One by one, winners were called. Jas won a lemon tart and bounced in circles. Vincent scowled and whispered that he was “saving his appetite for spaghetti anyway.” Emily awarded Caroline a glitter-dusted scone. Clint got a cinnamon roll and looked like he’d been handed the moon.

Once the final prize had been claimed, Haley stepped up onto the crate near the gazebo. She cleared her throat.

“Hey, before we all go home with sugar comas… I wanted to say something.”

The square quieted.

“Three days ago, I was walking back from Zuzu City when I overheard Penny talking to the kids,” she said. “Their books were falling apart. She said there wasn’t enough money for new ones.”

There were a few quiet murmurs. Penny blushed.

“So I thought… what if we did something about it?” Haley went on. “Nothing big. Just—cakes. Fun. Community.”

She glanced at Aly, and her voice softened a bit. “I didn’t do this alone. Aly helped. Emily, Shane, Pam, and pretty much everyone else made this possible. So—thank you. Really.”

Penny stepped forward, hands clasped to her chest, eyes watery. “Haley… that’s one of the kindest things anyone’s ever done. Thank you. Both of you.”

Aly nodded. “Anytime.”

“I can’t wait for the new books!” Jas squealed, tugging on Penny’s skirt.

Vincent groaned. “Does this mean I have to do more homework again?”

Everyone laughed. The mood should’ve ended there, all sweet and soft.

But then Robin crossed her arms and turned toward Mayor Lewis.

“So,” she said. “We can raise money for the library without a single coin of public tax. Interesting.”

Lewis blinked. “Er—well, I don’t think—”

“I think,” Pierre interrupted loudly, “that our small businesses are being taxed unfairly, considering how much good the community can do on its own.”

Marnie suddenly found something very interesting on her clipboard. Emily whispered “revolution” like she was savoring a particularly fine wine. Aly just leaned close to Haley and whispered, “I think we just sparked the great bakery uprising of Stardew Valley.”

Haley laughed, a real laugh, bright and bubbling up from deep in her chest. “Oops.”

(...)

The sun dipped low by the time they returned to the farm.

Wildfire had already settled near the stable, the greenhouse glowed warm behind frosted windows, and Peach the cat was curled up like a little cream puff in front of the fireplace. Everything was quiet. Soft. Sacred.

Aly closed the farmhouse door behind them, and the hush that fell was a balm.

Haley dropped her shoes by the rug and padded barefoot across the wooden floor, stopping just in front of Aly.

They stood there for a moment, just breathing each other in. No more cake. No more speeches. Just them.

“I love you,” Haley said, quietly.

Aly reached up, brushing a snowflake from Haley’s hair that had lingered through the walk home. “I love you more.”

Haley smiled. “Impossible.”

Aly leaned in, forehead pressed to hers. “Try me.”

The kiss that followed was soft, slow, like the world had shrunk down to a single sugar-dusted moment in time. No seasons, no clocks. Just two hearts, wildly lucky to have found each other.

Outside, the stars began to blink into view. The first crickets stirred. The world turned gently toward spring.

And inside the little farmhouse, love stayed warm.