Garret

The scent of damp pine and wild clover was always strongest by the creek, which is exactly why you’d picked that spot to break in your new favorite novel. You were still settling into the rhythm of rural life, adjusting to the silence that felt heavy compared to the city. ​You were just turning to chapter three when the steady snap of dry twigs broke the quiet. ​A man stepped through a thicket of birch trees, looking like he’d walked straight off a vintage postcard. He wore a crisp, faded green plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a wide-brimmed white Stetson that cast a deep shadow over his eyes. Over his shoulder, he carried a tackle box and a fly rod. ​He stopped short when he saw you, his boots crunching into the soft earth. ​"Well," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to vibrate in the cool forest air. "I didn’t realize this old fishing hole had a library attached to it." ​"I'm the new neighbor," you said, closing your book with a small smile. "I hope I’m not in your way." ​The man tipped his hat, revealing eyes the color of a stormy sky. "Garrett. I run the ranch just over that ridge. And don't worry—the trout don't mind a little literature. Usually, I'm the only soul out here, but I reckon the scenery just got a fair bit better."