She trusts me to do this—because I finallydidn’t argue.
The realization settles low in my chest—not pressure, not panic. Responsibility. The kind I don’t want to shrug off or resist. The kind I chose when I told her I’d handle it.
I reach over the console and lace my fingers through hers without thinking. For half a second, I expect her to pull away. Instead, she squeezes back—quick and sure—then turns her attention back to the folder like this is normal.
Like we’re not rebuilding something fragile one choice at a time.
I keep my eyes on the road, even though every instinct in me wants to look at her. To check. To make sure she’s still there. Old habits die hard.
The miles stretch out ahead of us, fence lines blurring past, the land flattening as we leave Bell River behind. I catch myself wanting to fill the silence—to explain, to apologize again, to say something meaningful.
I don’t.
That’s the difference.
I let the quiet exist. Let the space stay unfilled. Let her breathe without me crowding it.
She shifts in her seat, her knee brushing mine. Not accidental. Not deliberate either. Just there. My thumb traces a slow circle against her knuckle, grounding myself in the simple fact of her presence.
This feels… different. Unfinished. But real.
The sign for Buckley comes into view, green letters flashing past the windshield. I lift her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles, quick and restrained. She looks up at me then, her mouth tilting into a soft smile that hits harder than any argument ever did.
“So, this is where you disappear into bureaucracy?” she asks.
“Temporarily,” I say. “I plan to survive.”
She snorts, shaking her head as I pull up in front of city hall and cut the engine. I hop out, circling the truck as she rolls the window down and hands me the folder.
“I’ll hopefully not be too long,” I say.
“Just you going instead of me is a step in the right direction,” she replies.
I grin. “Last thing I need is to deal with your wrath again.”
She gasps, lifting her boot like she might actually climb out and kick my ass. I laugh and step back before she can try.
I step inside Buckley’s city hall and immediately feel out of place.
The building smells like old paper and cleaner, the kind that’s been diluted one too many times. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the hallway walls are lined with framedphotos of smiling officials who look like they’ve never touched a shovel in their lives.
I follow the directory to the floor that manages irrigation and water supply, my boots echoing louder than I’d like against the tile.
Sloane warned me about this part.
Not the logistics—the resistance.
I take a number, sit, wait.
A man across from me keeps glancing at the folder on my lap like he’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble. A clerk finally calls my number, her expression neutral but guarded, and leads me into a small office with a desk that’s seen better decades.
“What can we help you with?” she asks, fingers already hovering over her keyboard.
I lay the folder down carefully.
Not rushed.
Not aggressive.
