6. Mira
MIRA
I shove the phone under my pillow and yank the towel off, wrapping myself in the robe hanging on the bathroom door instead. My fingers fumble with the tie as guilt twists in my stomach.
"Come in," I call out, trying to sound casual instead of caught.
The door swings open and Matt fills the frame, holding a tray stacked with plates. The smell hits me first—garlic bread, pasta with that creamy sauce I love, and something chocolate.
"Brought you dinner." He kicks the door shut behind him with his boot, eyes scanning the room before landing on me. "You didn't come down at six for dinner."
I perch on the edge of the bed, arms crossed. My curls drip cold water down my neck.
"Wasn't hungry."
"Bull." He sets the tray on the dresser, pushing aside my scattered makeup. "Your mom told me what you like. Made it all from scratch."
My throat tightens. The pasta steams, golden and perfect. Garlic bread toasted just right. A slice of chocolate cake with actual frosting, not that store-bought garbage.
He cooked for me. After I spent all day complaining, dodging work, making his life hell—he went and asked my mom what I liked and made it himself.
The phone burns under my pillow. Controlling hick. Thinks he owns the place just because he can lift hay bales.
"I figured you're sore." Matt leans against the dresser, arms folded over his chest. Those dark eyes search my face. "Today was rough. Thought you could use something decent after all that."
I stare at the carpet, jaw tight.
"Mira."
"I heard you."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
Because if I do, he'll see everything. The shame burning through my ribs. The way my friends' laughing emojis keep flashing behind my eyelids.
"Just tired," I mutter.
He moves closer, boots heavy on the floor. When he crouches in front of me, I have nowhere to hide. His hand cups my chin, tilting my face up until I meet those intense brown eyes.
"You can be mad at me. That's fine." His thumb brushes my jaw. "But don't skip meals. You worked hard today, even if you hated every second. You need to eat."
The knot in my chest pulls tighter. I want to snap at him, tell him to leave me alone, but the words stick.
Matt pulls the desk chair over and sets the tray across my lap. The pasta's still hot, steam curling up with that rich garlic smell that makes my mouth water despite everything.
"You did good today," he says, settling into the chair. His elbows rest on his knees as he watches me. "Better than most people on their first run."
I pick up the fork but don't eat yet. My stomach growls loud enough that he probably hears it.
I stab a piece of pasta and twirl it around my fork.
"Well sure, I did good. Probably got everyone's work done while I was at it."
Matt's mouth quirks, not quite a smile. "No. There's just that much to do every day. Farm doesn't stop because you're tired or sore."
The pasta tastes better than it should. Rich and creamy, with that perfect bite of garlic. I chew slowly, avoiding his gaze.
"Then maybe farm life isn't for me." I shrug, trying to sound casual. "I clearly screwed everything up."
"It's your first time."
"So?"
"So you're supposed to screw up." He leans back in the chair, arms crossing over his chest. "Everyone does. I fell face-first into pig shit my first week here. Broke two rakes and let three chickens loose in the main house."
I glance up, fork halfway to my mouth. "You did not."
"Ask my dad. He still brings it up at Christmas." His expression softens. "Point is, you showed up. You tried. That's more than most people do."
The guilt twists harder. My phone sits under the pillow, full of venom I can't take back.
"And that's because I was hard on you." He rubs the back of his neck, and for the first time since I got here, he looks tired. Not physically—just worn down in a different way. "I need to explain something."
I twirl pasta around the fork, waiting.
"My grandfather built this place from dirt.
" Matt's voice drops lower, rougher. "Came here with nothing but a truck and a dream.
Worked himself half to death getting that first acre cleared, that first barn up.
Every year something tried to knock him down—drought, floods, prices tanking.
Big companies coming in, trying to buy him out for pennies so they could bulldoze it all and put up suburbs. "
The pasta tastes incredible, but I force myself to chew slowly and listen.
"He fought every single one of them off." Matt's jaw tightens. "Taught my dad everything. My dad taught me. This farm isn't just land and animals—it's three generations of blood and sweat. It's proof that you can build something real if you're willing to do the work."
Guilt sits heavy in my chest, worse than before.
"So when you showed up looking for shortcuts... Trying to seduce me out of it…" He meets my eyes. "It felt like you were spitting on all of that. Like you thought it was beneath you."
"I didn't mean?—"
"I know." He cuts me off but not unkindly. "You're a city kid. You don't get it yet. But that's why I stayed on you so hard. Because if you're going to be here, you're going to respect what this place means."
I set the fork down, throat tight.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." Matt leans forward. "Just do better. And Mira—you proved today that you can. You think you failed, but you didn't. You cleaned those stalls. You scrubbed that trailer until it shined. Your back hurt, your hands cramped up, and you kept going anyway."
The praise hits different than I expect. Not like the empty compliments my friends toss around or the backhanded approval my mom gives. This feels earned.
"You're more capable than you think you are," he continues. "You just spent so long looking for the easy road that you forgot you could handle the hard one."
I blink fast, eyes stinging.
"The easy road seemed smarter."
"It's not when you're working at a farm." His hand covers mine where it rests on the tray. "Smart is doing the work that matters, even when it's brutal. You did that today. I'm proud of you."
Those four words crack something open in my chest. When's the last time anyone said that to me?
I pick up the fork again and take another bite, letting the flavors settle on my tongue while his words settle somewhere deeper.
The pasta sits warm in my stomach, but it's his words that heat me from the inside out. Proud. He's proud of me. Not because I looked pretty or said the right thing or played some game—because I worked. Because I pushed through when everything hurt and kept going.
I set the fork down, hands steadier than before.
"Thank you." My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. "For the food. For... everything you said."
Matt stands, chair scraping against the floor. He picks up the tray, balancing it on one hand like it weighs nothing.
"Get some rest. Tomorrow's another early start, but I'll go easier on you."
He turns toward the door, and something in my chest lurches.
The phone under my pillow burns hotter, all those cruel words I typed while he was downstairs cooking for me.
Making pasta from scratch because my mom told him I liked it.
Checking on me when I skipped dinner instead of just letting me sulk.
"Matt, wait."
He stops, glancing back over his shoulder.
I slide off the bed and cross the room before I can think better of it. My hand catches his forearm, fingers pressing into warm skin and solid muscle under all that ink.
"Mira—"
I look up, and those dark brown eyes lock on mine. Close enough that I can see the faint lines at the corners, the way his pupils widen just slightly. His chest rises and falls under that worn flannel.
The confidence he just gave me pulses through my veins. I did good today. I can do hard things. I'm capable.
I'm capable of this too.
My free hand slides up his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under my palm. His breath catches, just barely, but I hear it.
"Mira, you should?—"
I rise on my toes and kiss him.
For a second he freezes, tray still balanced in one hand while I press against him. Then something shifts. The tray hits the dresser with a clatter, and his hands find my waist, pulling me closer. His mouth moves against mine, firm and sure, tasting like coffee and something darker.
My fingers curl into his shirt as heat floods through me. This isn't manipulation or a game. This is real.