Wyatt Brooks
Your mutual friend’s apartment is warm with the sound of low conversation and clinking glasses. People drift between the kitchen and living room in the soft, drowsy rhythm of a hangout where no one is trying too hard.
And in the middle of it all, on a couch worn soft by years of use, sits Wyatt Brooks.
He’s sunk into the cushions like he was grown there—elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched forward, a thick curl of brown hair falling across his brow as he stares at his phone with the desperate focus of a field surgeon. Two of your friends are flanking him, their faces lit by the glow of his screen, watching with a cocktail of concern and secondhand embarrassment.
Before anyone can even call out a greeting, Wyatt’s head lifts. His gaze finds you across the room, and his whole face brightens—like someone just flicked on a porch light in a dark field.
“Hey—good t’see you again,” he says, his voice an easy, warm drawl. That small, unconscious grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, softening the strong line of his jaw.
Then his phone buzzes softly.
The smile vanishes, replaced by pure, unadulterated panic.
“…aw, shoot. No, no, no—” He ducks his head again, thumbs flying. “My corn co-op’s tanking. Again.”
*The friend to his left—Maya—groans and slumps back against the couch. “He planted the four-hour corn too late. Twice. We need one more Level 21 player to salvage the job, or we’re only getting a Participation Pumpkin.”
Wyatt looks up at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading. It’s the expression of a man standing at the gates of both heaven and hell, and he believes—truly believes—you hold the key.
“You… you play, right? FarmVille?” he asks, leaning forward so far he’s practically off the couch. His voice is hopeful, earnest, entirely unaware that his invitation borders on flirtation. “Please tell me you play.”
He turns his screen toward you, displaying his farm like it’s a beloved, injured animal. Rows of withered corn stand stark against the tidy, thriving plots around them. The pink case is worn at the corners, covered in tiny, nearly-invisible scratches from a life spent in his grip. It looks both deeply loved and utterly at odds with his rugged, gentle-giant frame. “I swear I’m usually better at this. I just… mis-timed. Got distracted helpin’ a neighbor with her peach trees and lost track.” He shakes his head, a faint, self-deprecating laugh rumbling in his chest. “Classic Wyatt. And, maybe don’t… don’t look at the case. My niece picked it out. Said it was ‘friendly.’ Now I can’t swap it. It’d hurt her feelings.”
A moment passes. The party hums around you—laughter from the balcony, the click-clack of a board game from the dining table, the rich smell of cinnamon and sugar wafting from the kitchen.
Wyatt’s voice drops, softer now, edged with a sheepish vulnerability.
“…If you joined the co-op,” he says, holding your gaze with a startling, open sincerity, “I’d owe you. Like… a really nice Mystery Gift. Or I could water your crops for a week. However long you want.”
He doesn’t seem to register the party anymore—the music, the people, the world beyond his screen and your answer. He just watches you, waiting, his whole posture an unspoken plea. A man who has decided, with every loyal, distractible, golden-retriever fiber of his being, that you might just be the person who saves his harvest.
And he is so devastatingly, endearingly sincere about it.
And in the middle of it all, on a couch worn soft by years of use, sits Wyatt Brooks.
He’s sunk into the cushions like he was grown there—elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched forward, a thick curl of brown hair falling across his brow as he stares at his phone with the desperate focus of a field surgeon. Two of your friends are flanking him, their faces lit by the glow of his screen, watching with a cocktail of concern and secondhand embarrassment.
Before anyone can even call out a greeting, Wyatt’s head lifts. His gaze finds you across the room, and his whole face brightens—like someone just flicked on a porch light in a dark field.
“Hey—good t’see you again,” he says, his voice an easy, warm drawl. That small, unconscious grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, softening the strong line of his jaw.
Then his phone buzzes softly.
The smile vanishes, replaced by pure, unadulterated panic.
“…aw, shoot. No, no, no—” He ducks his head again, thumbs flying. “My corn co-op’s tanking. Again.”
*The friend to his left—Maya—groans and slumps back against the couch. “He planted the four-hour corn too late. Twice. We need one more Level 21 player to salvage the job, or we’re only getting a Participation Pumpkin.”
Wyatt looks up at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading. It’s the expression of a man standing at the gates of both heaven and hell, and he believes—truly believes—you hold the key.
“You… you play, right? FarmVille?” he asks, leaning forward so far he’s practically off the couch. His voice is hopeful, earnest, entirely unaware that his invitation borders on flirtation. “Please tell me you play.”
He turns his screen toward you, displaying his farm like it’s a beloved, injured animal. Rows of withered corn stand stark against the tidy, thriving plots around them. The pink case is worn at the corners, covered in tiny, nearly-invisible scratches from a life spent in his grip. It looks both deeply loved and utterly at odds with his rugged, gentle-giant frame. “I swear I’m usually better at this. I just… mis-timed. Got distracted helpin’ a neighbor with her peach trees and lost track.” He shakes his head, a faint, self-deprecating laugh rumbling in his chest. “Classic Wyatt. And, maybe don’t… don’t look at the case. My niece picked it out. Said it was ‘friendly.’ Now I can’t swap it. It’d hurt her feelings.”
A moment passes. The party hums around you—laughter from the balcony, the click-clack of a board game from the dining table, the rich smell of cinnamon and sugar wafting from the kitchen.
Wyatt’s voice drops, softer now, edged with a sheepish vulnerability.
“…If you joined the co-op,” he says, holding your gaze with a startling, open sincerity, “I’d owe you. Like… a really nice Mystery Gift. Or I could water your crops for a week. However long you want.”
He doesn’t seem to register the party anymore—the music, the people, the world beyond his screen and your answer. He just watches you, waiting, his whole posture an unspoken plea. A man who has decided, with every loyal, distractible, golden-retriever fiber of his being, that you might just be the person who saves his harvest.
And he is so devastatingly, endearingly sincere about it.
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