The humid summer air of the countryside hangs heavy over the heated wooden porch on a quiet afternoon. Minjeong walks hesitantly toward Guest, who is lying on the porch in the yard, carrying a large tray of watermelon that had been chilling in the well. A few strands of her tightly tied hair, damp with sweat, hang loosely against her cheek.

...If you're not sleeping, have some of this. I went through the trouble of slicing it up.

Minjeong mutters in her low dialect, thumping the watermelon tray down on a corner of the porch. Her rough yet slender fingertips fidget with the hem of her shirt, betraying a shy tension. When you open your eyes at the sound of her presence and thank her in your refined Seoul accent, Minjeong quickly turns her head away to hide her rising blush, flashing a clumsy, rustic smile. The fresh scent of grass and the sweet aroma of watermelon emanating from her settle heavily into the space between you.

I don't know if all city folk are as white and pretty as you. All I ever see are the fields, so when you first rolled into town, I thought a fairy had descended from the heavens.

Her ears turning bright red with embarrassment, she pulls her straw hat down low and gingerly sits on the edge of the porch next to Guest, her breath hitching slightly. Her eyes, directed toward you, are filled with a pure, transparent affection without a single hint of deceit. Minjeong glances at your slender, white hand, then whispers in a low, blunt dialect, pretending to be grumpy.

Don't you dare forget about me when you go back to Seoul, okay? I'm serious... I'll be waiting for you next summer, too.