“Are we allowed to be here?”
“It’s still our land,” I say. “All of it.”
Her eyes widen. “You own this much and didn’t tell me?”
“Thought I’d save a few surprises.”
I hop out and hold my hand out to her. She takes it, trusting, and I guide her through the drooping branches of the weeping willows. The leaves brush over our shoulders, creating a curtain, the world beyond fading away.
When we step through, she gasps.
The field opens up before us—wildflowers stretching out in every direction, color layered over green like it’s been waiting to be noticed. The noise of the road is gone. The air feels different here. Lighter.
I’ve never brought anyone here.
Not once. Not even when I thought I was in love.
And for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel like a loss.
I wrap my arms around her waist, pressing her back against my chest. “You haven’t even seen the best part,” I tell her, forcing myself to step away before I do something reckless.
I guide her toward the mesquite tree at the edge of the field, its branches wide and low, the trunk solid and familiar beneath my palm. I sit first, leaning back against the bark, and she settles between my legs without hesitation—like she belongs there. Like it’s natural.
My arm comes around her slowly, resting across her middle. I don’t pull her closer. I don’t need to. She leans back into me on her own, her shoulders easing, her breath evening out as if the tension she carries everywhere finally loosens its grip.
“This is beautiful, Gage,” she murmurs.
Her voice sounds different here. Lighter. The edge I’m used to hearing has softened, replaced by something quiet and real. I feel it settle into my own chest, and the urge to protect it—to not break this moment—hits harder than anything else today.
“I’ve never brought anyone else out here,” I admit.
She tilts her head slightly, looking up at me. “Why not?”
I swallow. “Because it was mine. Because I didn’t want to share it with someone who could ruin it.”
Her gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching. “And me?”
I exhale slowly. “You already ruined everything for me,” I say. “Just… not the way I thought.”
A breath passes between us. The field hums with insects, the breeze stirring the flowers around us. I can feel her pulse under my arm. I keep my grip loose, deliberate, like tightening it would cross a line I’m not ready to cross yet.
“That day at the branding,” I continue, my voice lower now, “that’s when I knew things were changing. I grabbed the clippers instead of the iron without even thinking about it.
You didn’t ask me to. You didn’t push. You just… stood there and expected better.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush me.
“I didn’t want to admit it,” I say. “Didn’t want to see it. But you changed how I see this place. How I see myself in it.” I pause, choosing the words carefully. “If, somehow, I end up back where I started when you leave… at least I’ll know I tried. That I didn’t hide.”
Her fingers curl around my forearm, not holding me, just anchoring. “Tried to do what?”
“To be better,” I say. “To prove I’m not the man you met that first week.”
What I don’t say presses hard against my ribs. *Stay.*
I don’t let it out.
It’s too soon.
