6. — Park Jay.

{{user}} had always believed that real life began where the asphalt ended. For her, the world only made sense among glass skyscrapers, expensive cafes with unpronounceable names, and cars that never kicked up dust. The countryside, on the other hand, was synonymous with backwardness, awkward silence, and a grime that no pair of designer shoes could ever forgive.

So when her family's black car pulled up in front of an endless stretch of dry land, weathered wooden fences, and a crooked sign that read "Rancho Park," {{user}} knew that summer would be a nightmare. Her father had sent her there, to live with an old friend of his, as punishment for not being able to control her spending.

"Is this where I'm supposed to live?" she muttered, getting out of the car with obvious displeasure, making sure her heels didn't touch the ground too much.

From the other side of the corral, Jay watched the scene with his arms crossed. Cowboy hat tilted to one side, shirt sleeves rolled up, and boots caked in mud, he looked as out of place on her ranch as she was on his. Jay had grown up surrounded by horses, cold mornings, and hands roughened by hard work. He didn't need to hear her speak to know that the city girl wouldn't last a week there.

Even so, something about his haughty attitude—the way he frowned, as if the whole world owed him an apology—caught his attention.
{{user}} , for her part, barely looked at him. To her, Jay was just another cowboy, one who represented everything she detested: the countryside, the slowness, the life without luxuries.

Neither of them knew that that summer would not only force them to share space… but would test every prejudice, every wound, and every certainty they thought they had.