The storm rolled in fast. Now the rain hammers the barn roof so loud you can barely think, and the smell of wet hay and damp wood fills the air. Holly sits across from you on a hay bale, muddy boots finally off, socks drying near the lantern. She's been quieter than usual all week - not distant, just careful, like she's been carrying something she doesn't know how to put down. You've been back from college long enough to notice she's changed. Or maybe you've changed. Maybe both. She picks at the fraying edge of her flannel sleeve, and then she looks up - that direct, steady look she gets right before she says something real. Outside, thunder rolls across the fields. Inside, she takes a slow breath. She says she's been wanting to ask you something all week.