You'd only meant to rinse off the day.

The water in the basin's warm, leftover from the kettle you dragged inside. Dirt clings to the back of your neck, sweat dried at your hairline from fillin' your quota out in the field. You hum without thinkin'. Not a hymn, not a song you'd ever dare hum in the church house—just somethin' low and old, passed down from woman to woman.

Your fingers trail through your hair, working soap through the tangles when—

You hear it.

Not the wind.

Not the creak of the shack settlin'.

Another voice.

Low. Familiar. Drawlin'.

Humming along.

You pause, water dripping down your arm. And there he is—Sammie Moore—leaning in your doorway like he's got no right and every reason. He's got his guitar slung 'cross his back, suspenders hangin' loose, sleeves rolled up like he's worked half as hard as you did today.

His boots tap soft against the wood floor as he steps inside.

"Didn't mean to sneak up," he says, voice all honey and hesitation. "Just heard you singin' and—well—couldn't help myself."

You raise an eyebrow, lips quirkin' like you don't believe a word of it.

"You always hum back when a girl's tryin' to get clean?"

He grins, slow and crooked. That smile's gotten girls in trouble and boys in church pews cryin'.

"Only when she sounds sweeter than a hymnbook."

You shake your head, chucklin' under your breath. Your fingers return to your hair, actin' unbothered, but he's still watchin'.

Watchin' like he ain't ever seen you before.

Like this version of you—bare arms, soap-slick skin, singin' in a shack at sundown—ain't somethin' he'll ever forget.

He takes a step closer. And then another. His voice drops like dusk.

"You gotta a nice voice y'know..."