I glanced at my basket, pretending to rearrange the herbs. “Well, I’ve got a lot to do,” I said, trying to avoid looking at him directly.
Garrett didn’t move. “I’m actually setting up a place nearby. Thought I’d introduce myself before I got started—neighbors should know each other, right?”
Neighbors. I hadn’t had a neighbor in five years. Not in the way most people thought of it. But Garrett was making it clear that he wasn’t just another transient passing through; he wassettling.
That unsettling feeling in my chest crept back. I didn’t know why it bothered me so much. Maybe because I’d spent so muchtime building my solitude, it felt like an invasion. But it didn’t matter. It was his decision to stay, not mine. I didn’t owe him anything.
“I guess,” I muttered. “Well, you’re welcome to come by the market tomorrow.”
A flicker of amusement passed across his face. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
He climbed back into his truck, but not before giving me one last wave. The engine roared to life, and I watched as he drove further down the road, disappearing around the bend that led to what used to be the old Henderson property. My chest tightened. That land had been empty for years—overgrown and forgotten. If Garrett was setting up there, it meant I'd be seeing a lot more of him.
I stood there for a long moment after the dust settled, my basket of herbs forgotten in my hands. The morning air that had felt so perfect just minutes ago now seemed too still, too quiet. Like something had shifted in the balance of my carefully constructed world.
I shook my head, trying to dismiss the feeling. People moved to rural areas all the time. It didn't mean anything. It certainly didn't mean anything for me.
But as I walked back toward the cabin, I couldn't shake the sense that something about this morning—about Garrett—had changed things. The way he'd looked at me, like he was reading something I hadn't meant to share. The casual confidence in his voice when he'd mentioned stopping by the market, as if he'd already decided we'd be seeing each other again.
I climbed the porch steps and paused at the door, turning back to look down the road where his truck had disappeared. The Henderson property. I'd walked past it countless times over the years, watching the old farmhouse slowly surrender to theencroaching forest. Garrett would have his work cut out for him if he planned to make anything of that place.
The thought should have been neutral, maybe even sympathetic. Instead, it left me with an uncomfortable tightness in my throat.
I pushed through the front door and set the basket on the kitchen counter, but my usual morning routine felt disrupted. The kitchen felt colder than it should have—though maybe that was just me. I went about my morning chores like always, boiling water for tea, sorting the herbs I'd gathered, making notes for tomorrow’s market in the little spiral notebook I kept by the back window. But the usual rhythm, the comfort in repetition, felt just a little… off.
I didn’t like it.
I didn’t likehim. Not really. Or maybe I didn’t like what he represented. That easy smile and slow swagger. That way of looking like he belonged—even though he didn’t.
Not here. Not inmyquiet.
I tried to push the thoughts away as I poured the hot water over a mix of lemon balm and mint, letting the steam rise to my face like a calming gesture. I’d done so well—so well staying disconnected, keeping my world small, tidy,safe. I didn’t need anyone’s help. Especially not a flannel-wearing, suspiciously charming “neighbor” who apparently had no trouble showing up unannounced and making himself comfortable.
But even as I sat at the kitchen table and took the first sip of tea, my eyes drifted to the window. To the curve in the road where his truck had vanished. Something about the way he’d looked at me had felt too… attentive. Like he’d known I wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion and had done it anyway.
That kind of boldness didn’t usually bode well for me.
Still, Garrett didn’t strike me as dangerous. At least not in the traditional sense. No, his danger was subtler. Warmer. The kindof threat that worked its way under your skin before you even noticed you were reacting. The kind thatsawyou—your cracks, your boundaries—and leaned on them just enough to make them crack.
And I wasn’t interested in cracking or breaking.
I grabbed my satchel from the hook near the door and stuffed it with my market list, a pair of gloves, and the last jar of honey I’d been meaning to trade. If I sat still any longer, I’d start second-guessing every thought in my head. Better to keep moving. That was always the answer.
I stepped back out into the morning, letting the door click shut behind me, and made my way to the little greenhouse on the far side of the garden. The scent of damp earth and tomato vines greeted me the second I pulled the door open. In there, at least, the world still made sense.
I knelt beside the seed trays and let the soil crumble between my fingers. The greenhouse had always been my sanctuary. No unexpected conversations, no curious eyes. Just the rhythm of planting, tending, harvesting. Just life doing what it was meant to do. It didn’t ask questions. It didn’t look at me like it already had answers.I brushed the dirt from my palms and moved to check the irrigation line, the drip of water ticking like a steady clock. Predictable. Reassuring. I stayed in the greenhouse until the sun climbed higher, losing myself in the familiar tasks. Transplanting seedlings. Checking for pests. Adjusting the ventilation. When I finally emerged, the morning had warmed enough that I could work outside without a jacket.
The rest of the day passed in its usual pattern. I harvested what I needed for tomorrow's market, bundled the herbs with twine, arranged everything in wooden crates that I'd stack in the back of my old pickup. The routine soothed the restless feeling Garrett had stirred up, at least partially.
But as evening approached and I sat on the porch with a cup of chamomile tea, my gaze kept drifting down the road. No sign of another truck. No sounds of construction or clearing from the Henderson place. Maybe he'd just been looking. Maybe he'd changed his mind.
The thought should have relieved me, yet I found myself, oddly disappointed.
By the time I went to bed that night, I'd convinced myself that the encounter was nothing more than a blip in my otherwise smooth routine. Just a stranger passing through my space, briefly disrupting the quiet before moving on. It happened sometimes, even out here. Nothing to dwell on.
But as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the image of his easy smile kept returning. The way he'd looked at me, like we shared something I hadn't agreed to. I rolled over, punching my pillow into a more comfortable shape. This was exactly why I preferred my solitude. People were exhausting, even in small doses. Especially the ones who seemed determined to be friendly.
I fell asleep eventually, but my dreams were restless—filled with unfamiliar footsteps on my porch and shadows moving at the edge of my garden.
