PAIRING: Ellie Williams x Reader
SUMMARY: A farmer’s market, too many jars of jam, and a girl who knows everything about trees but nothing about flirting.
WARNINGS: Oral (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), spitting?, dry humping, kitchen sex, horrible flirting, drinking, making out, no mentions of Y/N.
WORD COUNT: 12,800
A/N: you guys motivated me so much i just couldn't stop writing. i saw a tweet about farm ellie and it stuck with me. so here y'all go, i hope everyone enjoys this one too! comments are always welcome, i looove answering everyone.
The Jackson farmer’s market was a sensory assault. Usually, Ellie could handle the low-level hum of Main Street, but today the spring thaw had brought every soul in the county out of the woodwork.
Kids were shrieking, boots were scuffing against the dirt, and the air was thick with the smell of livestock and fresh kettle corn.
Ellie leaned heavily against her wooden booth, shifting her weight. She’d only started selling her carvings back in October, right after she’d moved onto the farm and started spending her mornings turning oak logs into sawdust. Back then, the air was crisp and the crowds were thin. This was different.
“Dina, seriously,” Ellie muttered, wiping a smudge of cedar dust off a small wooden wolf. “Did something happen? Did they start giving away free horses, or is the town just suddenly obsessed with carved animals?”
Dina, who was currently leaning against the post of the booth just to be a nuisance, laughed. “It’s spring, Williams. Everyone’s got cabin fever. Besides, people like your stuff.”
Ellie snorted. Most of her week was spent at the farm, either wrestling with a chainsaw or dragging Joel out there to help. He always played the “aching bones” card until she’d caught him line dancing at the Tipsy Bison three weeks ago. Since then, every time he complained about his back, she just stared at him until he shut up and picked up the axe.
She could feel the sweat beginning to pool under her flannel. The sun was beating down on the wooden slats of the booth, and the constant chatter was starting to make her tap her heavy work boots rhythmically against the sidewalk — a nervous habit she couldn’t quite kill.
Dina was mid-sentence, rambling about some dream she had of moving to New York, when Ellie saw you.
You were navigating the crowd with a wide wooden tray balanced in your arms, stacked high with jars of homemade jam. You looked like you were one rogue toddler away from a sticky disaster.
You turned, spotting her through the swarm of people, and made your way over. Dina huffed at being cut off, but when she saw it was you, she smirked.
“Well, I should probably get going,” Dina said, pushing off the booth. She shot Ellie a look that was way too pointed. “Try not to make a fool of yourself, Williams.”
“Eat shit, Dina,” Ellie grumbled, though she didn’t look away from you.
As soon as you reached the booth, Ellie stepped around the counter and reached for the tray.
She took the weight of the tray with an ease that came from months of hauling timber. Her forearms tensed, the rolled-up sleeves of her flannel showing the corded muscle of someone who worked for a living.
“Thank you,” you breathed, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead. “I swear, these kids are trying to take me out. I’ve almost gone down three times.”
Ellie didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes had drifted. You were wearing a thin tank top, and the heat had left a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and the curve of your chest. Her gaze traveled up to your shoulders as you reached back to tie your hair up, pulling the damp strands away from your neck.
Since when do people have nice shoulders? Ellie thought, her brain momentarily short-circuiting. Who the fuck even notices shoulders? Get it together.
“You, uh… you want help getting these back to your stand?” she asked.
You looked at her, confused. “What about your booth? You’re just gonna leave it?”
Ellie glanced back. Joel was slumped in a folding chair behind the display of wooden guitars, his hat pulled low over his eyes, snoring softly.
“Hey! Old man!” Ellie yelled, her voice cutting through the market noise. “Get to work! Chop chop, Joel. This business isn’t gonna run itself!”
Joel jumped about six inches out of his seat, his hat falling into his lap. He blinked at you.
You offered him a sample jar of the blackberry jam, and he took it with a nod of genuine appreciation. Joel would do a lot of things for a good preserve. Then he turned to Ellie and muttered something under his breath about her being a “maniac” before settling back in to watch the carvings.
As Ellie walked you back to your stand, she stayed a step behind, her eyes fixed somewhere around your shoulder. She found herself tracking the movement of your back as you walked.
When you reached your spot, she started helping you arrange the jars. The rows of glass caught the light, deep reds and purples shining like jewels.
“Ellie, you don’t have to stay,” you said, reaching for a jar at the same time she did. “Joel’s gonna fall back asleep.”
“Nah, it’s alright,” she said, her ears turning faintly pink. “He can handle five minutes without a supervisor.”
She set the jar down and rolled her sleeves up a bit higher, the heat of the midday sun finally getting to her.
When she looked up from under her lashes, she saw you staring at her arm. You looked weirdly shy, mumbling a quick “sorry” when she caught your eye. Subtly, Ellie adjusted her stance.
She brushed the dust off her palms when the last jar was in place. “There we go. All set.”
“Thanks,” you said, your voice a little quieter. “Since when did you have a tattoo?”
Ellie glanced down at her arm, then back at you, feeling that familiar awkwardness prickle at her skin. “Uh… a while, I guess. Haven’t really had the sleeves up much since October.”
“It’s cool,” you said, offering her a small, genuine smile. “It suits you.”
Ellie felt her face heat up.
She was about to say something stupid — something about the ink or the pain — just to keep you looking at her, when you flinched and pointed behind her.
“Err… Ellie? I think you should probably get back.”
Fifty yards away, Joel was once again slumped in his chair, his chin hitting his chest as he drifted off.
“Motherfucker,” she hissed, though a small laugh escaped her when she heard you laugh.
“See you next Sunday?” she asked, already backing away toward her disaster of a booth.
“Oh — um, actually,” you called out, “I wanted to know if you wanted to come to the bakery opening on Wednesday? Free orange cake for everyone.”
Ellie stopped in her tracks.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll be there.”
She turned and marched back to wake Joel up, calling him incompetent loudly enough for the neighboring stalls to hear, but her mind was already on Wednesday.
The storefront was smaller than the bustling stalls at the market, but it felt permanent. Your last name was painted in elegant, sweeping gold letters across the glass, framed by flower boxes overflowing with tulips that looked almost too vibrant to be real.
Ellie had meant to be there at noon. Then she’d meant to be there at two. But a fox had tried to dig under the coop, and then a fence post had snapped, and by the time she’d scrubbed the axle grease and chicken feed off her skin, it was nearly five.
She pushed the door open, the bell chiming a little too loudly in the quiet shop. The afternoon rush had died down to a trickle. A teenage girl — Emily, if Ellie remembered the name right — was leaning against the counter with her chin in her hand, looking like she was counting the seconds until her soul left her body.
“Sorry, we’re closing,” Emily mumbled, not even looking up.
“Oh. Right. My bad,” Ellie said, already taking a step back, her shoulders dropping. She felt like a total idiot for missing it. “I just… I was supposed to —”
Your voice drifted from the back, muffled by the swinging kitchen door. You emerged a second later, looking like you’d been caught in a localized snowstorm. There was flour on your nose, dusted across your dark apron, and even a white smudge in your hair. You looked exhausted, but your eyes lit up when you saw her.
Ellie followed you into the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of yeast, toasted sugar, and warmth.
“Man, I’m sorry,” she started, her hands diving into her pockets. “The chickens decided today was a great day for a jailbreak, and then — well, it doesn’t matter. I missed the grand opening. I’m a shitty friend.”
“Ellie, relax,” you laughed, turning back to a massive mound of dough on the stainless steel table. “It was so loud in here three hours ago I wouldn’t have been able to hear you speak anyway. It’s better now.”
She leaned against a flour bin, watching you work. Your movements were rhythmic, practiced. You folded the dough over, pressing into it with the heels of your hands, and Ellie found herself mesmerized by the strength in your wrists.
“The old ladies were the worst,” you said, huffing slightly as you worked the gluten. “Mrs. Gable practically interrogated me. She couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that I only sell the blackberry jam at the market on Sundays. She almost staged a sit-in at table four.”
The timer cut you off. You wiped your hands on your apron, grabbed a pair of heavy mitts, and pulled a tray from the industrial oven. The scent hit Ellie like a physical weight — bright, citrusy, and dangerously sweet.
“Orange cake,” you announced, setting it on the cooling rack. You looked over your shoulder, a playful glint in your eyes. “You want a piece? Or did you just come here to watch me knead bread?”
“Well,” Ellie said, her voice dropping into that raspy, sheepish tone she only used with you, “I was promised free cake. I’m a woman of my word. Gotta follow through.”
You cut a generous, steaming slice and handed it to her on a small plate. While you ducked into the walk-in pantry to grab something, Ellie took a massive bite. The heat of the cake was perfect, the orange zest exploding on her tongue.
“Holy shit,” she called out, her mouth half-full. “This actually rocks. Like… I might have a religious experience right now.”
She heard your muffled laugh from inside the pantry before you emerged, holding a fresh block of butter.
“Trust me,” you said, sliding a small pat onto the warm cake. “It gets better.”
Ellie took another bite, the butter melting into the crumb. She closed her eyes for a second, letting out a hum of pure appreciation.
“I feel like Remi the rat, you know? When he eats the strawberry and the cheese at the same time and the colors start exploding in his head?”
You paused, your hand on a rolling pin. “Right… the Pixar rat. High praise, Ellie.”
“I’m serious. It’s incredible.” She leaned back, licking a stray crumb off her thumb. “When did you even start doing this? Like, professionally?”
“Always did it for my family,” you said, finally letting out a tired sigh as you leaned against the table. “But eventually, I realized I’d rather smell like flour than whatever else Jackson had to offer. What about you? Are you a secret baker on that farm?”
Ellie snorted. “God, no. I tried to bake a cherry pie once. Picked them right off the tree in my yard. It turned out… well, Joel said it tasted like a scab. Bitter as hell, and the crust was basically a brick. I haven’t touched an oven since.”
You snapped your head toward her, your eyes wide. “Wait. Wait, wait… you have a cherry tree on your property?”
“Yeah?” Ellie blinked, slightly thrown by your intensity. She swallowed the last bit of cake.
“But it’s probably not the kind you’re thinking of. They’re called Montmorency. Small, sour, kinda —”
“Ellie, those are the perfect kind to bake with!” You practically lunged across the table, eyes lighting up. “The sweet ones turn to mush in an oven, but the sour ones? They keep their bite. They’re the holy grail of pies.”
Ellie felt a flush creep up her neck. She glanced down at the empty plate.
“I mean… I could pick some for you,” she said. “There’s way more than I can eat before the birds get to ’em.”
“Yes. Absolutely yes,” your excitement was borderline alarming. “How much do you want for a crate?”
Ellie scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Obviously nothing. They’re literally falling on the ground and rotting. It’s doing me a favor, really.”
You grabbed a scrap of parchment paper and a pen, scribbling something down with frantic energy.
“Right. Well, I’m not taking them for free. Here.”
You slid the paper across the counter.
Your home address. Your phone number.
“Come by my house on Friday, 5 PM,” you said, your voice softening into something warmer. “Bring the cherries, and I’ll actually teach you how to bake a pie that doesn’t taste like… whatever Joel said. How’s that?”
Ellie stared at the paper. Your address. Your number. A Friday night in your kitchen.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Yeah… I can manage that.”
Friday morning was brutal. The sun was already high enough to bake the scent of pine and dry earth into the air by nine o’clock. Ellie had her hat pulled low, a heavy wicker basket hooked over her arm, and a mission.
She’d spent the last hour perched on a rickety ladder, the leaves of the Montmorency tree rustling around her. She had her headphones clamped on, the distorted guitar of The Replacements blasting so loudly it was probably vibrating her skull.
The heat was becoming a problem, so she paused, pulling a hair tie from her wrist. She bundled her hair into a messy, high knot — the same way Joel used to do it for her when she was fourteen and too busy playing in the dirt to care about how she looked.
She was reaching for a particular cluster of deep red cherries when a hand suddenly gripped her ankle.
“Jesus —” Ellie shrieked, the basket nearly slipping from her hand. She ripped her headphones off, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “Motherfucker! Fucking… shit, Dina! You trying to give me cardiac arrest?”
Dina stood at the base of the ladder, looking entirely too amused by the near-death experience. “You were really in the zone, Williams. I could hear that garbage music from the fence.”
She reached up, plucked a cherry from a low-hanging branch, and popped it into her mouth.
“Hey! Back off,” Ellie barked, swatting Dina’s hand away. She climbed down the ladder, guarding the basket like it contained gold. “Those belong to someone. Don’t just go grazing like a goat.”
Dina arched an eyebrow, spitting a pit into the grass. “Someone? Since when do you care about the local bird population getting their share?”
“I’m baking a pie,” Ellie muttered, her face turning a shade of red that rivaled the fruit in her hand.
Dina stared at her. Then she let out a loud bark of laughter that echoed across the pasture.
“A pie? You? Ellie, the last time you used an oven, we had to open every window in the house,’ she shook her head. “You don’t believe in your own culinary skills. Why should I?”
“Shut up,” Ellie grumbled, marching toward the farmhouse.
She said she’d be baking with you.
Dina’s laughter stopped instantly, replaced by a slow, wicked grin. She trotted after Ellie, following her into the kitchen.
“Oh, wow. You finally grew some balls? Look at you, using seasonal fruit to secure a date. Who would’ve imagined?”
“It’s not a date! It’s a… trade. Professional development,” Ellie shot back, throwing a cherry at Dina’s head with expert precision.
Dina dodged it, leaning against the counter as Ellie began washing the fruit in the sink. The water splashed against the red skins, making them glisten under the kitchen light. Once they were clean and tucked into the fridge, Ellie checked the clock on the wall. It was nearly four.
“Right. Not that I don’t love your company, but I need to take a shower and actually look like a human being,” Ellie said, gesturing toward the door. “So… shoo.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” Dina said, walking backward toward the porch, hands raised in mock surrender. “You finally get some action and forget about your friends? I see your true colors, Williams!”
Around 5 PM, Ellie’s beat-up truck pulled up to the curb in front of your house. It was a cozy place, with a porch light that cast a warm glow over the evening shadows.
She sat in the driver’s seat for a full minute, hands gripping the steering wheel.
A ginger cat peeked out from behind the lace curtains of the front window, watching her with judging yellow eyes.
“Don’t make a fool of yourself,” she whispered to the rearview mirror. “Just a pie. Just fruit. No big deal.”
She grabbed the crate of cherries from the passenger seat, hopped out, and slammed the door. She spent a good ten seconds aggressively cleaning her work boots on your welcome mat — trying to scrub off any lingering evidence of the farm — before she finally worked up the nerve to knock.
The sound echoed through the quiet street, and Ellie shifted her weight, the crate of sour cherries feeling suddenly very heavy in her arms.
When you opened the door, Ellie’s brain hit a physical snag. Your hair was damp, dripping onto the shoulders of a soft oversized sweater. You looked like you’d just stepped out of steam, and the sight was enough to give her a near aneurysm.
“Hey. Come in, don’t just stand on the porch,” you said, pulling her inside.
As she stepped into the entryway, something soft and insistent rubbed against her shins. Ellie looked down to find a round orange cat staring up at her with blinky, judgmental eyes.
“That’s Betty,” you said, heading toward the kitchen with the crate of cherries. “She thinks she runs the place.”
Ellie leaned down, calloused fingers disappearing into the orange fur.
“Hey, kitty,” she murmured softly, voice dropping into that gentle, private rasp. The cat let out a motor-like purr, leaning into her touch.
Your house was… sweet. That was the only word for it. It smelled like cinnamon and beeswax. There were little trinkets on the shelves, mismatched frames, and a cluster of family photos by the hall. Her eyes snagged on a baby picture of you, face absolutely smeared with what looked like raspberry jam. She couldn’t help the lopsided grin that tugged at her mouth.
The irony, she thought. Born for the trade.
“Alright, Williams, no wasting time,” you called from the kitchen. “Come on. I’m gonna teach you how to not burn the house down.”
When she walked in, you handed her a spare apron. It was bright yellow with bold red lettering that read: WHAT’S COOKING, GOOD LOOKING?
Ellie paused, holding the fabric up. A crooked grin tugged at her mouth.
“Wow,” she said, eyebrows lifting. “Subtle.”
You let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Don’t ask. Secret Santa gift. Just put it on.”
The baking part was a revelation. Ellie had always viewed the kitchen as a place where things either caught fire or stayed raw, but watching you was different. You explained the science of the crust and the balance of the sugar with a level of passion that made it hard for her not to just… stare. She found herself getting lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way your hands moved with total confidence.
She stood to the side like a dutiful apprentice, obeying every order.
“Okay, open the flour,” you commanded.
Ellie grabbed the bag, determined to prove she wasn’t completely useless. She pulled. Hard. Too hard.
The paper snapped, and a localized white cloud erupted directly into her face.
You slapped your hands over your mouth, shoulders shaking as you tried to stifle a laugh. Ellie stood there, eyelashes coated in white, a fine dust settling over her nose.
She squinted through the haze.
“You wanna laugh, don’t you?” she deadpanned. “Just get it over with.”
“You’re so stupid,” you whispered.
She felt you move into her space. Your hands reached up, fingers gentle as they began brushing the flour away.
You wiped it from her eyebrows, cheeks, and the bridge of her nose with a soft sweeping motion. The air in the kitchen felt ten degrees hotter as your fingertips dragged across her bottom lip to catch a stray smudge of white.
“There,” you murmured softly, hand lingering for just a fraction too long before pulling away.
By the time the pie was pulled from the oven and cooled enough to eat, the sun had dipped below the horizon. You stood behind the counter, leaning on your elbows, while Ellie sat on a high stool. You slid a warm slice toward her.
The sour bite of the cherries hit the flaky buttery crust, and Ellie’s head actually hit the counter with a dull thud.
“Holy shit,” she groaned dramatically. “I’m not kidding. I could eat this for the rest of my life.”
You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet house. You talked for a while longer — about the farm, the bakery, and how Joel would probably try to steal the leftovers.
When it was finally time for her to go, Ellie stood at the door, clutching the rest of the pie like a trophy.
“Well,” she said, leaning against the frame, trying to reclaim some swagger. “Now I gotta teach you something. Trade’s a trade.”
“No need for teaching,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Then, softer: “But… I would really love to go horseback riding. Would you take me?”
Ellie’s brain short-circuited.
Something about the way you asked — quiet, hopeful — made it impossible to say no. Ellie felt like if you’d asked her to help bury a body right then, she would’ve gone straight to the truck for a shovel.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Yeah… I’ll take you.”
“Sunday next week? After the market?”
Ellie walked back to her truck feeling like she was floating six inches off the gravel.
Sunday was supposed to be a victory lap, but instead, it felt like a slow-motion car crash. The market was sweltering, and Ellie was stuck behind her booth like a prisoner.
She kept glancing toward your stand. You were looking sweet and entirely too far away. Your jam jars were thinning out — a successful day — and Ellie was itching for an excuse to cross the street. But every time she caught a gap in the crowd, another customer appeared, and Joel was currently about as reliable as a three-legged stool.
Worst of all, there was a man at your booth.
He was unfortunately good-looking in that rugged, effortless way that made Ellie want to kick a fence post. He looked annoyingly kind, too, leaning over your counter and occupying your personal space with a familiarity that made Ellie’s blood simmer.
She found herself being clipped, almost rude, to a woman asking about the grain of an oak bowl.
“It’s wood, ma’am. It grows in a circle,” Ellie muttered, eyes already darting back to you.
She was in the middle of selling a little wooden tiger to a mom and her son, trying to explain how she carved the stripes, when she saw it.
The man leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t push him away. You just kept smiling, looking perfectly content.
Ellie’s words died in her throat. She swallowed hard, the back of her throat feeling like she’d swallowed a handful of sawdust.
“Is… is the tiger okay, mister?” the kid asked, staring at her wide-eyed.
“Yeah,” Ellie said, forcing her gaze back down. “Yeah, kid. It’s great. Here.”
She handed over the carving with shaking hands, took the credits, and watched them walk away. The second they were out of earshot, she leaned forward, bracing her weight on her palms and letting her head drop between her shoulders.
“What’s going on, kid?” Joel’s voice drifted from behind her, low and gravelly.
Ellie didn’t move. “Nothing, Joel. Just hot out.”
She heard the rustle of his newspaper. Joel didn’t say anything for a beat, eyes following her line of sight across the market to where the man was still hovering by your side.
A short, dry laugh escaped him.
“You look like a creep,” he muttered, turning the page.
“You’re a creep,” Ellie snapped, though there was no heat in it. She just felt hollow.
She knew she had no claim on you. You’d known each other for a few months; you were friends who had shared a very intense, flour-dusted moment over a cherry pie.
But the way your fingers had lingered on her lip… She hadn’t imagined that.
Now, watching that guy stand where she wanted to be, Ellie felt the weight of every awkward thing she’d ever said to you. She stayed hunched over her table, staring at the grain of the wood until the shapes blurred, wondering if she’d just been another “project” for the girl who made the best jam in Jackson.
The market was finally packing up, the frantic energy of the morning replaced by the tired, dusty quiet of Sunday afternoon. Ellie was hauling a crate of unsold coasters and a heavy oak bowl toward her truck, boots kicking up small puffs of grit with every step.
She felt like she’d gone ten rounds with a forest and lost.
She spun around, the crate nearly slipping from her damp palms. You were jogging toward her, looking like you’d stepped straight out of a storybook. Denim overalls, pale yellow shirt. Ridiculously charming.
You reached the truck huffing. You held up one finger, leaning your weight against the tailgate of her Ford to catch your breath.
“I’ve been… calling your name,” you panted, looking up at her with a lopsided grin. “But you didn’t hear. I’m sorry… I’m so out of breath.”
Ellie felt a sharp, immediate pang of guilt.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, shoving her crate into the truck bed. “Guess I was just… in a zone.”
“It’s okay,” you said, straightening up. “I wanted to come over sooner, but my cousin stopped by. He’s a talker, so I really couldn’t leave the stand until he finally headed out.”
Ellie froze, hand still gripping the truck.
“Oh,” Her voice came out too fast. Too sharp. “That… that guy? That was your cousin?”
“Yeah,” you said calmly, entirely unaware of the psychological warfare Ellie had endured for the last three hours. “He lives somewhere up north, but he’s staying a couple of days with my mom. He’s sweet, just… a lot.”
“Cool,” Ellie rasped. The weight in her chest evaporated instantly, replaced by dizzying relief. “Cool. Yeah. Cousins.”
You shuffled your feet, boots tapping lightly against the dirt. You looked down at your hands, then back up at her, something soft flickering in your eyes.
“So… are we still on? For next Sunday? Horseback riding?”
Ellie leaned back against the truck, finally finding her smirk again. The universe had corrected itself.
“Yeah, I’ll have the horses ready,” then, teasing: “Just don’t blame me if you can’t walk on Monday.”
“I’ll take the risk,” you laughed.
You stepped closer. Before Ellie’s brain could process the danger, you rose onto your tiptoes. Your hand settled against her tattooed forearm for balance. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss against her cheek.
Ellie’s brain stalled, completely.
She stood there, paralyzed, as you pulled back with a bright, devastating smile.
“See you then, Williams.”
Ellie mumbled something that was probably meant to be “bye,” though it barely resembled language. Her face burned a deep, visible crimson as she climbed into the driver’s seat and sat there for a long minute, staring at the steering wheel.
Saturday was a personal battle between Ellie and a very annoyed horse. She was in the stables, the air thick with the smell of hay and old leather, working a brush over Shimmer’s coat with enough force to polish a diamond.
Shimmer let out a low, huffing whinny, shifting her weight and tossing her head in protest.
“Stay still,” Ellie muttered, brow furrowed in concentration. “You gotta look good, Shimmer. Help me out here, alright? Today’s high stakes.”
Joel was a few stalls over, hunched over a broken gate hinge. He’d been grumbling for twenty minutes — mostly about the humid air and how his knees felt like they were filled with rusted bolts.
He’d moved on to a long-winded story about how Tommy had managed to black out on a Tuesday and ended up sleeping in the communal laundry room, but when he realized the only response he was getting was the frantic scritch-scritch-scritch of a brush, he stopped.
“Ellie!” he barked, voice echoing off the rafters.
Ellie jumped, hand slipping. “What, Joel? Jesus.”
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” He stood slowly, wiping his greasy hands on a rag and squinting at her. “Also, stop torturing that horse. Why are you brushing her like that? You trying to take her skin off?”
Ellie’s posture went rigid. She suddenly became very interested in the exact texture of Shimmer’s mane, ears turning a bright, unmistakable pink.
Joel dropped the rag and marched over, boots heavy on the dirt floor. He leaned against the stall door, crossing his arms in that quintessential Joel way that meant there was no escaping the conversation.
“What are you hiding from me, kid?”
Ellie exhaled a sharp, defeated breath, finally dropping the brush into the grooming kit.
“I’m… I’m taking a friend riding tomorrow, okay? Satisfied?”
Joel’s eyebrows shot up. A slow, mischievous glint appeared in his eyes — the kind Ellie dreaded.
“Yes, Joel,” she groaned. “The jam girl — wait, how’d you know?”
“Well, you’re not subtle, kid,” Joel said, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest as he turned back toward his tools. “That’s a great investment. Free jam for life. Smart thinking, Ellie.”
“It’s not an investment. It’s just… a ride. God.”
“Right. A ‘ride’ that requires Shimmer to be polished like a show horse.” He picked up his wrench, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. “You gonna wear that flannel with the holes in the elbows?”
“Go away, Joel!” Ellie yelled, cheeks reaching a temperature that could’ve boiled water.
She went back to the horse, but the aggression was gone, replaced by a nervous, fluttery energy. She leaned her forehead against Shimmer’s neck and whispered,
“Don’t listen to him. He’s an idiot.”
Ellie was white-knuckling the reins, trying to remember how to breathe in a steady rhythm. Normally, she would’ve brought a second horse — maybe an older, docile mare from the stables — but you’d mentioned feeling a little shaky about riding solo.
So, here you were, tucked securely against her back on Shimmer’s saddle, your arms wrapped firmly around her waist.
Every time Shimmer took a step, Ellie felt the warmth of your chest press against her spine. It was a good kind of torture.
“The light through the canopy is incredible,” you whispered, your voice vibrating right through her flannel. “I’ve lived near Jackson for years, but I’ve never seen this part of the woods.”
“Yeah, well,” Ellie rasped. “Most people stick to the main trails. You gotta know where the soil’s right. Like those over there — those are quaking aspens. See how the leaves shimmer? They’re actually all part of the same root system. It’s basically one giant organism just… hanging out.”
“One giant tree?” you asked, shifting slightly to get a better look.
“Pretty much,” Ellie said, voice dropping slightly as she felt your grip tighten. “Sturdy, though. They don’t mind the cold.”
She guided Shimmer through a dense thicket of ferns until the trail opened up into a hidden, sun-drenched glade. Ellie pulled back on the reins, clicking her tongue.
“Alright, let’s get off here.” She hopped down with practiced ease, dirt crunching under her boots. She grabbed the lead rope — the tack — and looped it securely around a low-hanging branch. Turning back to the horse, she reached up for you. “Alright, come on. I’ve got you.”
She gripped you firmly by the waist, calloused hands steady as she helped you slide down. For a heartbeat, she held you there, faces inches apart, before planting you firmly on the forest floor.
“Okay, good. There we go,” she muttered, quickly stepping back before her face could catch fire.
“Thank you, Ellie,” you said, smoothing out your shirt.
She jerked her head toward the center of the glade, where the grass gave way to a carpet of low, green leaves dotted with bright red.
As you walked into the clearing, your eyes went wide.
“Fort Laramie strawberries,” she said, crouching down and pointing to a particularly plump one. “They’re hardy. They handle Jackson winters better than the garden varieties. They’ve got this… I don’t know, deeper flavor. Higher sugar content because of the cold nights.”
You knelt beside her, staring at the patch in disbelief.
“Ellie, what the fuck? This is like… fucking cool. How do you even find a spot like this?”
Ellie let out a huff, a cocky, lopsided smirk tugging at her mouth. She knew she’d hit the jackpot with this one.
“I try,” she said, attempting casual while her chest swelled with pride. “Spent a lot of time scouting the perimeter with Joel. Figured this was better than a grocery store.”
“Can I eat them?” you asked, already reaching out.
“Yeah, of course. Just watch for the ones the birds got to first.”
You popped a berry into your mouth and let out a soft groan of approval.
“Oh my god. These are way better than the ones I buy for the jam.” You ate at least ten in quick succession. You plucked a particularly large one and held it out to her. “Here. You have to have some too.”
Ellie took it from your hand, fingers grazing yours. She chewed slowly, watching you. She reached into a patch of tall grass nearby and pulled out a small wicker basket she’d stashed there the day before.
“Here,” she said, handing it to you. “Thought you might want to take some back to the house. For… research. Or whatever.”
You smiled so brightly Ellie felt like she’d been hit by a physical wave of heat. You took the basket, thanking her over and over, and started busily picking the best ones.
Ellie stood back, leaning against a tree trunk and hooking her thumbs into her belt loops.
She watched you move through the field, your hair caught in the dappled sunlight, and smiled.
The ride back from the strawberry glade felt different. The sun was dipping low, bleeding bruised orange and gold across the horizon, casting long shadows over the rolling hills of the farm.
Ellie led you through the rows of her orchard, the scent of damp earth and ripening fruit hanging heavy in the cooling air.
She was in her zone, gesturing toward the gnarled branches. “So, the Montmorencys you liked are over there, but these? These are Northstars. They’re a dwarf variety. They don’t get as big, but they’re like… genetic tanks. They can survive a Jackson blizzard without breaking a sweat. The fruit’s deeper, almost mahogany.”
She kept talking, moving from tree to tree, explaining soil pH and pruning techniques like she was narrating a documentary. When she finally turned back to you, she stopped mid-sentence.
You were standing perfectly still, staring at her with an intensity that made the air feel thick. Your pupils were blown wide, tracking the way the sunset hit the sharp line of her jaw.
Ellie shifted her weight, heart doing a nervous stutter. “Uh… you okay? I’m boring you, aren’t I? I’m talking about dirt again.”
You didn’t look away. You just bit your lower lip, gaze dropping to her mouth for a split second before mumbling, “No. I’m fine. Just… listening.”
“Right. Well,” she rasped, stepping into your space to reach for a cluster of fruit. “You gotta look for the ones that are firm but give a little. If they’re too soft, they’re bird food.”
She came up right behind you, chest brushing against your shoulder blades as she reached up over your head. The heat from her body rolled over you, the scent of pine and horsehair everywhere.
She plucked a single, perfect Northstar cherry and held it out for you. “Here. Try this one. It’s the best on the branch.”
“Oh my god,” you whispered, voice breathy. “You were right. That’s the one.”
A stray drop of dark juice escaped, staining the center of your bottom lip. Before she could think better of it, Ellie reached out, thumb catching the drop.
The silence that followed was deafening. Ellie realized what she was doing and yanked her hand back like she’d been burned.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, suddenly fascinated by her boots. “Juice. It was… messy.”
“I should, um… I should probably get going,” you said, voice a little shaky. “It’s getting late.”
Ellie nodded. “Yeah. Totally. But, uh… I mean, you could stay a little longer if you want. I can drive you home in the truck later. Save you the walk.”
You hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”
The kitchen in the farmhouse was cozy, lit by a single warm lamp over the stove. You asked if she had any chocolate, and after some digging, she found a half-forgotten bar in the back of the pantry.
“I could make us some chocolate-covered strawberries?” you suggested.
“I would literally never say no to that,” Ellie said, leaning against the counter.
Ellie tried to help. She put the bowl in the microwave for way too long, and the smell of scorched cocoa soon filled the room. You pulled the bowl out, staring at the blackened, lumpy mess, then looked at Ellie. She was already looking at you with a sheepish, lopsided smile, hands shoved deep in her pockets.
“You really are a disaster in the kitchen, aren’t you?” you teased.
“Hey, that’s why I have you around,” she shot back with a grin. “I handle the heavy lifting, you handle the stuff that requires… grace.”
Eventually, you managed to save enough chocolate to dip the berries. You took the plate out to the porch, sitting on the top step as the last sliver of sun vanished. Ellie had pulled out a small block of cedar and her carving knife, hands moving with a precision that was the polar opposite of her microwave skills.
“What made you move out here?” you asked, watching her hands. “To the farm?”
She didn’t look up, eyes fixed on the wood. “To get away from Joel and his dumb jokes.”
“I hope you’re aware you make the exact same jokes he does.”
Ellie looked up then, mock-offended, pointing the carving knife at you. “Okay, fun’s over. I’m taking you home. That was a low blow.”
“I’m joking, I’m joking,” you laughed, reaching out to nudge her knee.
She smiled, the edge of her mouth softening. “I don’t know. I always wanted a place like this. It’s peaceful. No one bothering me. I get to make my own stuff, grow my own food… it’s just mine, you know?”
You talked for another hour, the crickets providing a steady rhythm in the dark. When you finally stood up to leave, Ellie grabbed her keys from the hook inside.
The ride home was quiet, the interior of the truck smelling like old upholstery and strawberry sugar. Ellie kept her eyes on the road, but her mind was back in the orchard, thinking about the way your lip felt under her thumb.
She glanced at you out of the corner of her eye, watching the moonlight hit your face, and thought about how good you probably tasted — sweet, like cherries and chocolate.
The Tipsy Bison was exactly what you’d expect from the only real watering hole in Jackson. It smelled of spilled lager, sawdust, and the faint, lingering scent of woodsmoke from the hearth. The air was thick with the stomping of boots and the twang of an old George Strait song playing from the corner, where a few of the older folks were already spinning around the floor.
Ellie had tried to put this off for weeks. She wasn’t built for crowds; the noise usually made her want to retreat to the quiet of her workshop, but Dina had been relentless.
So Ellie had scrubbed the strawberry stains from her fingers, put on her crispest flannel, and polished her boots until they caught the low amber light of the bar.
Dina met her at the dark mahogany rail, already nursing something bright and fruity. Ellie just signaled the bartender for a beer.
“By the way,” Dina said, leaning in with a wicked glint in her eye. “Your old man was here just a bit ago. I caught him dancing with Patricia.”
Ellie raised her eyebrows, a sharp laugh escaping. “Patricia? As in the woman who just became a widow last month?”
“That’s the one,” Dina chuckled. “Your old man doesn’t waste any time.”
“I’m never letting him live that down,” Ellie muttered, taking a long pull of her beer.
Then Dina’s tone shifted, becoming way too nonchalant. “Oh, also? Your girlfriend is here.”
Ellie didn’t have a girlfriend, but the word hit her like a physical jolt. She tried to keep her face flat, her voice cool. “Who?”
“The jam girl,” Dina teased, nudging Ellie’s shoulder.
Ellie didn’t waste a second. Her head snapped around, scanning the dim, smoky room.
“First of all,” she said, “she has a name. Second, she’s not my girlfriend, so your teasing is literally not gonna work.”
Dina just shrugged, unaffected. “Not your girlfriend… yet.”
It wasn’t hard to spot you. You were standing near the edge of the dance floor, talking to that cousin of yours. You were wearing a dark blue sundress that hit just above the knee, paired with your scuffed cowboy boots. You had makeup on — nothing heavy, just enough to catch the light — and your lips were shimmering with a layer of gloss.
Ellie felt the air leave her lungs. How the hell was she supposed to even talk to you when you looked like that?
She realized she was staring when you caught her eye. You didn’t look away; instead, you gave her a shy, bright smile and gestured with your hand, asking if you could come over. Ellie nodded, her throat suddenly very dry.
You excused yourself and walked through the crowd. Up close, you were devastating. The scent of your perfume mixed with the sweetness of the bar air, and Ellie had to white-knuckle her beer bottle to keep from reaching out.
“You just missed Joel dancing,” you said, leaning against the bar next to her.
“I’m aware,” Ellie said, voice a low crackle. “I feel like I just missed a very important historical moment in Jackson history.”
“He was really getting into it,” you laughed, eyes crinkling. “It was actually pretty dope. He’s got moves for an old guy.”
You looked at her, then glanced at the dance floor where a slower tempo was starting to pick up. “You wanna dance?”
Ellie shifted, her usual awkwardness flaring. “I don’t… I don’t really dance. I usually just watch people embarrass themselves from back here.”
“I’ll teach you,” you said, not taking no for an answer as you grabbed her hand.
She followed you out, feeling tense and out of place until you placed her hands firmly on your waist. You were swaying together, the rhythm easy, when a man Ellie didn’t recognize stepped up, tapping your shoulder to ask for a dance. Ellie immediately started to take a step back — she didn’t want to be a nuisance.
But you didn’t even look at him. You just shook your head, telling him off with a polite but firm “No thanks,” before turning your full attention back to Ellie.
“Not your type?” Ellie asked, heart hammering.
“Men in general are not my type, Ellie,” you said. The way you said her name sounded like an invitation, low and steady.
Ellie swallowed hard, pulse racing.
“What’s your type then?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.
“Girls who don’t take a hint.”
Ellie looked at you, confused for a heartbeat, brain scrambling to process the words. Then it clicked. Her face turned a violent, beautiful shade of red.
She didn’t get to finish. You leaned in and kissed her. Your mouth fit perfectly against hers, the shimmer of your gloss slick and sweet. Ellie felt her hands flex against your waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your dress as she pulled you flush against her.
When you finally pulled away, she could feel the stickiness of the gloss on her own lips. She ran her tongue over them, tasting strawberry sugar. You pressed a long, lingering kiss to her cheek, then dragged your lips to her ear.
“I still have some leftover pie at home,” you whispered, low enough that only she could hear. “If you want.”
Ellie blinked, brain still rebooting from the kiss. “Oh, I still have some at the farm, don’t worry about it,” she said honestly.
You pulled back, giving her a deadpan look. The silence stretched for a second before the gears finally turned in Ellie’s head.
“You’re unbelievable,” you laughed, shaking your head.
“I… I just can’t believe you actually kissed me,” she said, shy smile returning.
“Yeah,” you said, looping your arms around her neck. “And now I just asked you to go home with me. You gonna make me ask a third time?”
You stumbled through your front door, the keys jangling loudly in the quiet house. The moment it swung open, a loud meow echoed from the darkness.
"Hey kitty..." she murmured, her voice a low, gentle rumble. She extended a cautious hand, and when Betty rubbed against her fingers, a deep purr rumbling in her chest, Ellie’s shy smile widened. "Good girl."
You flicked on the kitchen light, bathing the small space in a warm, yellow glow.
"Hey, come to the kitchen," you called over your shoulder, leaning against the counter. Ellie straightened up, giving Betty one last pat before following you in, her movements a little hesitant, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be there.
You closed the small distance between you, your hands finding the worn cotton of her flannel. You started on the buttons, your fingers working them open one by one, revealing the simple white t-shirt she wore underneath.
Ellie tentatively slid her hands underneath your dress. You reached for her belt next, the cool leather a contrast to her warm skin as you unbuckled it.
Her shyness was still there, but it was melting away. You popped the button on her jeans and slid down the zipper, your knuckles brushing against the fabric of her underwear.
She hooked her thumbs into the straps of your sundress and slid them down your arms. The dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in just your boots and a simple pair of panties. She kicked her own boots off, then shucked her jeans and t-shirt, until she was standing in front of you in just her sports bra and boxers.
She closed the gap again, but this time she was in control. Her mouth crashed against yours, a kiss that was all desperation and tongue. She backed you up until your ass hit the cool edge of the kitchen table.
In one swift, surprisingly strong movement, she lifted you onto it, the wood creaking under your weight. She knelt on the floor, her hands spreading your thighs wide.
"Fuck," she breathed, her eyes fixed on the damp spot on your panties. She didn't wait. She leaned in and pressed her mouth right against you, her tongue hot and firm through the thin cotton. You cried out, your hands flying to her hair. She licked and sucked, soaking the fabric until it was sheer, the outline of your swollen lips clear against the material.
She hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled your panties down, tossing them aside. She stared at your exposed pussy, her gaze hungry and mesmerized.
"You're so wet," she murmured, almost to herself. She leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, and you saw stars.
She ate you out with a focused, desperate energy, like she was starving. Her tongue was everywhere, exploring your folds, circling your clit, then dipping down to fuck into your hole.
You were writhing on the table, your moans filling the small kitchen. She brought her fingers up, sliding two into your tight cunt, curling them just right. She started fucking you with them, her mouth never leaving your clit.
"Ellie, fuck, right there," you panted, your hips bucking to meet her thrusts. She listened, her fingers pumping into you harder, faster, hitting that spot inside you over and over. The wet, sucking sounds of her mouth and fingers were filthy, the only noise besides your broken moans.
Then you noticed it. A new sound joined the chorus of your pleasure—a low, slick rhythm. You propped yourself up on your elbows, your hazy vision clearing just enough to see. Ellie had shifted her weight, and while her mouth and one hand were still devoted to you, her other hand had disappeared into her own underwear. Her arm was moving, her shoulder flexing as she touched herself, her muffled moans vibrating against your cunt.
The sight sent a fresh, violent jolt of arousal through you. The knowledge that eating you out was getting her so hot she had to get herself off, that she was so turned on by your pussy she was fucking her own hand. A fresh gush of wetness leaked from you, coating her chin and fingers.
She pulled back slightly, her fingers still buried deep inside you. Her other hand came up to spread your lips open, exposing your swollen, aching clit. She looked at it for a second, then leaned in and spat directly on it.
The shock of the hot, wet liquid made you gasp. She used her thumb to rub her saliva over your sensitive nub, her eyes locked on yours. Her free hand, the one that had been touching herself, was now slick with her own arousal, and she brought it up to smear her wetness onto your inner thigh.
She went back to work, her tongue lapping at your clit while her fingers continued their relentless assault. The pressure built, a tight, hot coil in your stomach.
When she sucked your clit hard into her mouth and bit down gently, you shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, your back arching off the table, a loud cry tearing from your throat as your cunt clenched wildly around her fingers.
She didn't stop, lapping at your release, her fingers slowing to a gentle rhythm as you came down from your high. When you were finally still, she pulled her fingers out, covered in your slick. She looked at them for a moment, then put them in her mouth, her eyes closing as she tasted you.
She stood up, leaning over you to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathless. She looked down at you, a shy, proud little smile on her face.
"Next time," she said, her voice still hoarse, "we're doin' this on the bed."
Ellie woke up while the room was still painted in the soft gray-blue of early Saturday morning. She stayed still for a long time, just watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your shoulders under the quilt.
Her eyes traced the line of your jaw, memorizing the way you looked when the rest of the world wasn’t demanding a piece of you.
She wanted to stay. Every instinct told her to crawl back under the covers and lose another three hours, but the farm didn’t care about her love life. The chickens needed grain, and the horses didn’t feed themselves.
She moved quietly, pulling on her jeans and flinging her flannel over her shoulders.
After a quick pass in the mirror to tame her sleep-mussed hair, she sat on the edge of the mattress. She reached out, her calloused fingers gentle as she brushed a stray curl away from your temple.
“Hey,” she whispered, shaking you slowly.
You groaned, squinting one eye open before squeezing it shut against the dim light. “What are you doing up, Ellie? This is not ‘being awake’ time.”
Ellie let out a soft huff of a laugh, pulling the covers up to your chin to keep the morning chill off you. “I gotta go, yeah? Animals aren’t big on sleeping in. I gotta get back to the farm.”
You frowned, your eyes still closed, but you reached out and caught her hand for a fleeting second. “You’ll call?”
Ellie stood up, a genuine soft smile tugging at her mouth — the kind she only ever saved for you. “Yeah. I’ll call.”
By Sunday, things started to feel off. Ellie had skipped the market; Shimmer had been acting strange, colicky and restless, and Ellie couldn’t risk leaving her alone. She spent the day in the stables, her mind constantly drifting back to your kitchen and the way you’d looked in that blue dress.
When night finally fell, she sat on her porch and dialed your number. It rang three times before going straight to voicemail. She frowned. Maybe you were just busy with the Sunday clean-up at the bakery.
“Hey,” she said into the receiver, her voice sounding small against the backdrop of crickets. “Just checking in. Hope the market wasn’t too brutal without my expert security. Call me back when you can… also, about Friday night? Yeah. It was… it was really good. Okay. Bye.”
By Wednesday, the silence was deafening. You hadn’t called back.
Ellie spent the week in a state of anxiety. She paced the workshop, ruined a perfectly good piece of cedar because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and replayed every second of your time together.
Maybe I said something stupid. Maybe I was so bad at sex.
Sunday morning at the market was a nightmare.
You were at your stand, but you wouldn’t look at her. Not once. When Ellie tried to catch your eye, you suddenly became very busy with a jar of preserves or a customer’s change. Ellie stood behind her booth, biting her nails until they bled and scratching at the skin of her arms.
Joel saw it. He’d tried to make a joke about the “jam girl” early on, but Ellie had snapped a “Not now, Joel” so sharp he’d actually held up his hands and retreated into his newspaper for the rest of the morning.
As the market began to pack up, Ellie couldn’t take it anymore. She saw you loading your crates into your car.
“Joel, watch the stand. Five minutes,” she barked, not waiting for an answer.
She jogged toward your car, her boots heavy on the pavement. You were reaching for the driver’s side door when she finally caught up.
“Hey,” she said, breathless. “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”
You didn’t look up. Your response was short, clipped, and so politely distant it felt like a slap. “Hey, Ellie. I’m just busy.”
Ellie’s brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and genuine hurt bubbling up in her chest. “Did I do something? What’s going on? You haven’t said a word to me in a week.”
Now it was your turn to frown. You finally looked at her, but your eyes were glassy, filled with a resentment she didn’t understand. “It’s nothing, Ellie. I just need to go.”
You reached for the door handle, but Ellie moved faster. She stepped into your space, slamming her palm against the door to keep it shut. She didn’t pin you, but her arm created a barrier that forced you to stay.
“Ellie, just let me go home. Please.”
“I don’t understand,” Ellie said. “You didn’t call me back, I haven’t seen you, and now you’re acting like I’m a stranger.”
You let out a sharp, bitter laugh that didn’t reach your eyes. “Ellie, you know… if you just wanted to fuck around or play some game, you could’ve picked someone else. I really like you. Like, a lot. And I really just want to go to my house. Okay?”
Ellie froze. Her hand dropped from the car door as if it had been electrified. She looked at you, completely lost.
“I… what?” she whispered.
But you didn’t wait for her to figure it out. You got into the car, started the engine, and pulled away, leaving her standing in the middle of the dusty street.
Ellie walked back to her stand in a daze. Her head was spinning, her heart heavy with a leaden kind of dread. When she reached the booth, she didn’t even look at the carvings.
“Joel,” she said, voice hollow. “Help me pack up.”
Ellie stood in the middle of the orchard, glaring at the Montmorency tree like it had personally offended her. The ground was littered with overripe fruit she’d been too miserable to pick, and she punctuated her frustration by kicking a cluster of them into the dirt.
“Stupid fucking cherry tree,” she muttered, the brim of her hat casting a shadow over her bloodshot eyes.
She had called you. Ten times. Every single one had ended with the mechanical drone of your voicemail, and by the tenth attempt, her pride had finally cracked alongside her heart.
She hadn’t heard from you since the car door incident at the market, and the silence in the farmhouse was starting to feel like a physical weight.
When she pulled her truck up to the house and saw Dina’s car, she let out a long, jagged groan. She wasn’t in the mood for teasing. She wasn’t in the mood for the inevitable “I told you so” energy.
She pushed through the screen door to find Dina perched on the kitchen counter, casually swinging her legs and eating a slice of thick bread smeared with your blackberry jam. The sight of it — the deep purple color, the smell of sugar — made Ellie feel vaguely ill.
“Hey,” Dina said, mouth half-full. She stopped chewing the second she saw Ellie’s face. “Whoa. You look like shit. What happened?”
Ellie didn’t even try to play it cool. She just spilled everything. The market, the car door, the way you’d looked at her like she was some heartless asshole. Dina stopped munching out of pure sympathy, her expression shifting from amused to genuinely concerned.
“That sucks, Ellie. Seriously,” Dina said, hopping off the counter. “But there’s gotta be an explanation. People don’t just flip like that for no reason.”
Ellie collapsed onto the couch, burying her face in her calloused hands. A muffled, frustrated groan escaped. “Dina, I’m probably just… I’m probably just so bad at sex she couldn’t even tell me to my face. She probably realized I’m a disaster and decided to cut her losses.”
Dina started pacing the small living room, gesturing with a half-eaten piece of toast. “Look, you can’t just mope around the farm forever. If she’s done, she’s done. You’re gonna have to move on, Ellie. Jackson is full of girls who’d love to have you.”
“But I don’t want to move on,” Ellie muttered into her palms. “I like her. I actually like her.”
Dina was mid-sentence, about to launch into some recycled “plenty of fish” speech, when she stopped dead in front of the small side table where Ellie kept the landline.
She stared at the scrap of parchment paper pinned under a heavy glass paperweight — the one you’d scribbled your number on back at the bakery.
Ellie noticed the sudden silence. She pulled her hands away from her face, squinting. “What? What are you doing?”
Dina turned around slowly, holding the piece of paper like evidence. “Why do you have my old house number saved? We changed it over a year ago. I thought I gave you the new one.”
Ellie stood up, her heart kicking violently against her ribs. She snatched the paper from Dina’s hand. “What do you mean ‘old house’? This is her number, Dina. She wrote it down for me.”
Dina tilted her head, her eyes widening as she looked at the digits again. “Ellie… that’s my family’s old landline. My parents had it forever. If she wrote this down, she must’ve gotten one digit wrong. Or you did.”
Ellie stared at the paper. Then she stared at Dina. The realization hit her like a punch to the sternum. Every call she’d made, every voicemail she’d left — it had gone to a disconnected line in an empty house.
“Dina,” Ellie whispered, voice thin.
“She thinks I didn’t call, doesn’t she?”
Dina nodded slowly, her expression softening. “Yeah. She thinks you ghosted her after Friday.”
“Fuck,” Ellie breathed, her knees suddenly weak as she collapsed back onto the couch. “I’m an idiot. I’m such a fucking idiot.”
The farmhouse was too quiet. Ellie had spent the last hour treating her living room like a high-stakes obstacle course, pacing until the floorboards groaned in protest.
She’d fixed the couch pillows six times, tied her hair into a knot, ripped it back down, and then spent three minutes staring at her own reflection in a windowpane, wondering if she looked like a total wreck.
The phone call had been the hardest part. Hearing your breathing on the other end — steady, cautious, and quiet — had made her stomach do a slow, agonizing roll.
She’d stammered out the truth, the whole ridiculous story about the dead landline and the wrong digit, and then she’d just whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
When you’d finally whispered “Okay” to her invitation to come over, Ellie felt like she’d been given a stay of execution.
Now she sat on the edge of the sofa, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, until the sound of a car engine pulling up the gravel driveway made her bolt upright. She smoothed her flannel with shaky hands and met you at the door.
The air between you was thick with a week’s worth of misunderstood silence.
“Hi,” you said softly, your hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket.
“Hey,” Ellie rasped. She stepped back, gesturing awkwardly into the house. “Come in. Please.”
You followed her into the kitchen, the room bathed in the deep honey-gold glow of a Jackson sunset. The light caught the dust motes dancing in the air and turned the white countertops into polished amber. Outside the window, the cherry trees swayed in the gentle wind, their leaves a dark, rhythmic blur.
Ellie busied herself with the kettle, movements jerky and stiff. “You want some tea? Or… I don’t know, water? I have water.”
“Tea is fine, Ellie,” you said, leaning your back against the counter opposite her.
“I felt like the biggest idiot on the planet,” she started, voice low. She set the mugs down, still not quite looking at you. “Dina just… sat there eating your jam and told me I’d been calling a house full of raccoons for six days. I felt sick. I thought you just… realized I wasn’t worth the effort.”
You looked down at your boots, shifting them until the toes nearly brushed hers in the narrow space between the counters.
“I should’ve given you a chance to speak at the market,” you whispered. “I was just so hurt. I thought Friday meant something to you, and when the phone stayed quiet… I guess I jumped to the worst possible conclusion. I’m sorry too.”
Ellie finally looked up, her gaze searching yours. The tension in her shoulders began to bleed away, replaced by that raw, earnest vulnerability that always made your chest ache.
“It meant everything,” she said. “I clearly can’t read a piece of paper for shit… but I really like you. Like, more than I’m probably supposed to.”
The shy, crooked smile tugging at her lips was so quintessentially Ellie that you felt the last of your resentment dissolve.
“I like you too, Williams,” you breathed. “Even if you are technologically impaired.”
Ellie let out a soft huff of a laugh, stepping out from behind the counter. She moved into your space tentatively, hand lifting as if to check whether you were really there.
Her calloused fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheek with a reverence that made your breath hitch.
You didn’t wait for her to bridge the rest of the gap. You reached up, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the underside of her wrist before your hand shot up to grab the collar of her flannel. You hauled her forward, the sudden force making her stumble a half-step until she had to plant both hands on the countertop on either side of you to steady herself.
You were caged in now, her face inches from yours. You rose onto your tiptoes, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck to pull her down. Ellie didn’t hesitate. She tilted her head, a low, breathy sound escaping her throat as she finally pressed her mouth to yours.
The kiss was good. Her lips were chapped and perfect against yours, and she wasted no time, swiping her tongue along the seam of your mouth, a silent, demanding command to open for her.
You did. It was a wet, messy slide, all heat and need. She tasted like tea and something uniquely her, something that made you want to devour her whole.
With a low groan, she hoisted you up, your feet leaving the cool wood floor as she settled you on the kitchen counter. You wrapped your legs around her waist, pulling her closer by the worn flannel of her shirt, your hands fisting in the soft fabric.
You tugged on her hair, just hard enough to make her hiss, and the sound went straight to your cunt. Her hands drifted from your waist, sliding up the sensitive skin of your thighs, disappearing under the hem of your sundress. Her fingertips traced the lacy edge of your underwear.
She shifted, lifting one of your legs higher, wrapping it firmly around her back. The new angle pressed her denim-covered thigh directly against your core, and you couldn't stop the roll of your hips, seeking friction.
She was kissing you like there was no tomorrow.
She gently bit your bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth, soothing and stinging all at once. A string of spit connected you when she pulled back for a half-second, her pupils blown wide with lust, before she was on you again.
She sucked your tongue into her mouth, a slow, deliberate pull that made your toes curl in your boots. You could feel the slick, wet sounds of your mouths meeting, the messy, uninhibited noise echoing in the quiet kitchen.
Her hands roamed higher under your dress, her palms skimming over your ass, her fingers tracing the curve where it met your thigh. Then her thumb brushed over the damp fabric of your panties.
She stilled. Her kisses faltered for a beat, her mouth hovering over yours. She pressed her thumb more firmly against the soaked cotton, feeling the undeniable evidence of your arousal, the way the fabric was practically glued to your swollen lips.
Ellie pulled back, her chest heaving, her lips swollen and slick.
"Alright," she said, her voice a low, raspy thing that vibrated through you. "Bedroom.”
The sun was just beginning to highlight the edges of the jagged mountains when Ellie slipped out of bed. She moved like a shadow, leaving you buried under a mountain of quilts, and stepped out into the crisp morning air.
She made her way to the coop, the rhythmic crunch of her boots on the frost-drenched grass the only sound on the farm. As she tossed handfuls of grain to the clucking hens, she found herself narrating the highlights of the previous night.
“Yeah, you guys don’t even know,” she whispered to a particularly plump Rhode Island Red. “Scored big time. Absolute legend status.”
She was so high on the memory of your hands in her hair that she dumped an extra scoop of corn into the feeder.
“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered, though she was grinning like an idiot.
She even took a detour to the stables to give Shimmer an extra-long neck scratch. “Thanks for not bucking her off last week, girl. You’re the best wingman I’ve ever had.”
By the time she made it back to the kitchen, her arms were full of fresh eggs and a handful of late-season cherries she’d found. She was setting them on the counter when she heard the floorboards groan upstairs.
You emerged a moment later, looking a little too good. You were wearing a pair of tiny boyshorts and the flannel she’d left on the chair last night — the sleeves rolled up, the hem hitting mid-thigh. Ellie’s throat went dry. She nearly fumbled an egg.
“Morning,” you yawned, your voice scratchy and sweet.
“You should’ve woken me up,” you complained, hopping up onto the counter and letting your legs swing. “I wanted to help with the chickens.”
“Sorry,” she rasped, finally regaining her composure. “You looked like you were fighting a war with the pillows. I didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”
“I do not sleep that aggressively, Williams.”
“Tell that to my bruised ribs,” she teased, though she was already cracking eggs into a cast-iron skillet.
She reached into the fridge to grab the butter, but as the door swung wide, the sheer, obnoxious volume of homemade jam was laid bare. There were rows of them — blackberry, strawberry, peach — stacked like a sugary fortress on the top shelf.
Ellie realized the door was open too far a second too late. She slammed it shut with a loud thud, spinning around to face you with a look of pure, unadulterated panic, like she’d just been caught committing a felony.
You raised an eyebrow, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across your face. “Ellie… is that all my jam?”
She took a long, agonizing beat, her eyes darting toward the ceiling. “…No?”
You let out a genuine, bright laugh that made her ears turn a violent shade of pink. “Why do you have so many? Ellie, there are like twelve jars in there.”
“I… okay, fine,” she grumbled, poking at the eggs with a spatula to avoid looking at you. “I used to buy a jar every Sunday just so I had an excuse to talk to you for more than thirty seconds. I don’t even eat that much toast.”
You shook your head, hopping off the counter to walk over to her. “You’re so silly.”
“Hey, don’t question the results, just the methods,” she shot back, her lopsided grin returning as she felt your warmth behind her. “It worked, didn’t it?”
You leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the center of her back — right between her shoulder blades — before whispering that you were heading to the bathroom.
Ellie stood there, frozen over the stove, watching you walk away. Her eyes drifted down, tracking the way the flannel swayed over your hips, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out the most painfully cringeworthy pun she’d ever thought of.
You’re my jam, she thought, before shaking her head. Man, if I said that out loud, she’d punch me in the face.
Ellie hadn't actually planned on working. She had stopped by the bakery with the purely noble intention of leaning against your counter and distracting you until you gave her a sample of whatever was coming out of the oven.
But within ten minutes, you’d shoved a massive bowl of dough in front of her and told her to get to work.
Now, her forearms were burning from the heavy, rhythmic kneading. She could feel a bead of sweat tracing a slow line down her spine, her flannel sticking to her back as she pressed the heels of her hands into the elastic dough.
"Come on, Williams! Put some actual force into it," you barked, hovering over her shoulder. "That bread isn't going to develop gluten by itself!"
Ellie let out a huff, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face. "Yes, Chef. I thought I was the one who did the manual labor in this relationship, but apparently, I'm just an unpaid intern."
"You're being paid in experience, Ellie. Now keep going."
By the time the shop was locked up and you were walking home, the sun was casting long, purple shadows over the streets of Jackson. Ellie had her arm linked through yours, her muscles feeling like jelly. You were mid-rant, gesturing wildly with your free hand about the domestic terrorism occurring in your kitchen.
"I’m telling you, she looked me dead in the eye," you said, your voice thick with lingering indignation. "Betty just swiped her paw, and crunch. Three mason jars. My good ones, Ellie! The ones with the reinforced lids!"
"It's just glass," Ellie chuckled, nudging you with her shoulder.
"I actually cried! I sat on the kitchen floor and sobbed over glass shards! I think the stress of the opening is finally melting my brain."
"Hey, it happens to the best of us," she said softly, squeezing your arm. "I once cried because I dropped a chisel in the sawdust and couldn't find it for an hour. Joel thought I’d finally snapped."
When you reached your front porch, you turned to her, digging your keys out of your overalls. "You want to come in? I think I have some leftover stew."
Ellie hesitated, her hand drifting to the back of her neck. "I probably shouldn't. I gotta be up at five to load the truck for the market tomorrow. If I don't get those animal carvings organized, Joel’s gonna start naming them, and then he won't let me sell them."
"Right. The Old Man factor," you smiled, leaning against the doorframe. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow." Ellie started to turn away, but then she stopped. The air felt charged, and the realization she'd been carrying around for weeks finally hit her — she’d never actually made it official.
She looked at you, standing there in the porch light, looking beautiful and tired, and she knew she had to say it.
You turned back, one hand on the doorknob. "Yeah?"
Ellie took a breath. She decided to lean into the one thing she knew would make you groan. "You know, you’re like… you're like my jam, right? But how would you feel about actually being my girlfriend?"
The silence that followed was heavy. You stared at her for ten long seconds, your expression completely blank. Then, slowly, you raised your hand and facepalmed so hard the sound echoed in the quiet street.
"I can't believe this," you muttered through your fingers. "I actually cannot believe you just said that."
Ellie stepped closer, a nervous, cocky grin pulling at her lips. She reached out, gently pulling your hand away from your face so she could press a quick, firm kiss to your mouth. "So… is that a no on the girlfriend thing? Because of the high-quality wordplay?"
You let out a long, theatrical sigh, but you didn't pull away. You looped your arms around her neck, pulling her back in. "No. I'd love to. You're like… kind of the jam to my toast, too."
thank you for reading!! if you have any suggestions on what you want me to do next please lemme know!!
