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It feels like such an old-fashioned word, one that belongs back when blokes actually knew what they were supposed to do in situations like this instead of standing in their kitchen silently panicking about how to make a bloody cheese sandwich.

I spend twenty minutes staring at my wardrobe before accepting that my idea of dressing up means jeans without fence wire tears and a shirt that’s never seen the inside of the woolshed. The shirt even has all its original buttons, which practically makes it formal wear in my book.

The drive to Benji’s place has never felt longer.

My hands are sweating on the steering wheel like I’m sixteen again, learning to drive stick in Dad’s old Hilux. Each fence post I pass marks the seconds until I make a complete fool of myself. I keep the radio switched off because my thoughts are making enough noise.

I pull into his driveway.

The engine ticks as it cools while I try to convince myself to get out or drive away.

There’s no point overthinking it now. Not when my truck’s probably left a dust trail on the gravel road that’s visible from space.

Taking a deep breath, I climb out of my truck, striding up to Benji’s front door and knocking.

Maybe he’s out? Hopefully, he’s out.

Benji opens the door.

“David. To what do I owe this pleasure?” It’s his standard greeting, the one he always gives me every time he sees me.

He’s leaning against the doorframe wearing dark jeans and a green shirt that makes his eyes look like the sun through spring leaves. His hair’s slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, and the half-smile on his face is the one that makes my chest feel too tight for breathing.

“It’s a nice evening.” I clear my throat. “Thought we could go down by the river for a picnic. If you want.”

His eyebrows shoot up for a moment. But the speed at which his eyebrows settle and the happy smile spreads across his face makes me realize I’m the last to work out what’s been happening here.

Which I’m sure is something he’s not going to let me forget.

“Sure, a picnic sounds great,” he says, and I can’t take my eyes off his mouth, the way one corner lifts higher than the other. “What do you want to eat?”

“I chucked together some food for us,” I say.

His eyebrows rise. “I think in the interest of my tastebuds, I’d better contribute something edible to this venture. Your reputation with anything more complicated than a sandwich is legendary around here, and not in a good way.”

“I made cheese sandwiches,” I admit, and Benji’s laughter fills his kitchen like sunshine, warming places inside me I didn’t know were cold.

“I just baked some honey buns. They’ll go great with cheese sandwiches,” he says.

I hover awkwardly in the door as Benji bustles around his kitchen, grabbing containers and wrapping things in tea towels.

“Take your truck?” he asks once he’s packed things up.

“Yeah.”

My pickup bounces down the track to the river like it’s trying to remind us why farm vehicles aren’t meant for romance.

The air between us feels thick with all the things we’re not saying. The rhythm of his fingers tapping on his knee matches the nervous flutter in my chest.

The evening light’s gone soft and hazy, making everything look like one of those photographs in farming magazines, all golden grass and long shadows stretching across paddocks.

The river appears through the willows, braided streams glinting like silver wool threads.

I park the truck and grab the picnic blanket and the bag containing our food.

A pair of paradise ducks take off as we approach, their calls echoing across the water. Everything smells of warm grass, river stones, and something else I can’t quite name.

I spread the picnic blanket on a patch of grass, and Benji settles next to me, his knee knocking against mine. He unwraps his baking like he’s revealing prizes at the A&P Show, which makes me want to roll my eyes and smile at the same time.