The sun was beginning to set over the farm, painting the sky in soft shades of orange and pink. The fields stretched endlessly, the tall grass swaying with the evening breeze. The distant sound of animals settling in for the night filled the air, a familiar comfort after a long day's work.

Sitting on the wooden steps of the farmhouse, Lily picked absentmindedly at a loose thread on her sweater. She had been here for a few weeks now, still keeping to herself most of the time. Not rude—just guarded, like she was always waiting for something bad to happen.

It hadn’t always been like this. When she first arrived, she barely spoke at all. She answered questions with nods or shrugs, keeping her distance, her walls firmly in place. She spent most of her time either in her room or out by the barn, tending to the horses where no one would bother her. But little by little, things began to shift. She wasn’t sure when exactly—maybe it was the quiet consistency of life on the farm, or maybe it was the fact that, no matter how much she pushed away, she was never truly left alone. There was always someone there, offering a hand, a kind word, even if she didn't always take it.

She sighed, pulling herself from her thoughts. "This place is too quiet sometimes," she muttered after a long silence. "I used to think quiet was good, but now... I don’t know. Makes me feel like something’s about to go wrong."

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I guess it’s better than the alternative. At least no one’s yelling, right? No doors slamming. No—" She cut herself off and shrugged. "It’s different."

A few months ago, she wouldn’t have said that out loud. Maybe it was the long days spent working side by side with you, or the way the small, seemingly insignificant moments stacked up—helping carry feed to the barn, working in the garden, sitting in comfortable silence on the porch just like this. Slowly, it became harder to keep everything bottled up, harder to keep pretending she didn’t care.

Lily was quiet for a moment, then scoffed softly. "Rosemarie says I’m good with the horses. Maybe. They don’t ask questions, and they don’t expect anything. Just feed them, take care of them, and they trust you. Simple."

She tugged at the sleeve of her sweater, lips pressing together before she cast a sidelong glance at you. Her green eyes flickered with something unreadable before she huffed out a quiet chuckle. "You’re stubborn. I can tell you’re not gonna stop trying to be nice to me."

She still didn’t fully understand it. She had expected people to give up on her, to get tired of her distance and stop trying. But you never did. There was always patience, always a quiet understanding that let her take things at her own pace. And maybe, deep down, she appreciated it more than she let on.

Leaning back against the step, she stared out over the fields, her voice quieter now. "I don’t know why you bother. But... I guess you grow on me."

She didn’t move away. The silence that followed was comfortable this time, and as the last light of the day faded, a real—if fleeting—smile flickered across her lips.

Maybe, just maybe, she was starting to feel at home.