I don’t say anything, but I know this surprises him. I fixed the water main. Replaced the piping. Repaired the barn door with minimal help. If he hadn’t already handled the outer fence, I would’ve tackled that too.
“What’s next?” I ask.
He gestures toward the barn, then hands me a clipboard. “Can you double-check the equipment list for the insurance claim? I’ll repair the pasture-side door.”
I give him a mock salute. He rolls his eyes and heads off as I cross-check serial numbers against the inventory.
I round the corner to inspect one last area when a sharp crack splits the air.
“Ah—shit.”
I spin around. Gage’s fallen back, gripping his arm. Blood seeps dark through his flannel.
I drop the clipboard and jog over. “Let me see.”
I lift his hand carefully. It’s a deep gash—ugly, but not catastrophic. I shrug out of my flannel and wrap his arm tightly. “Everything else can wait. Let’s get this cleaned up.”
I help him inside, pausing just long enough to make sure the front gate is locked.
When I return, Gage’s at the sink, running water over the wound. It runs pink, then darkens into red. He hisses.
I grab the first aid kit and a towel from the mudroom and set them on the table. He joins me, resting his arm on the wood.
“Feels like déjà vu,” he says quietly. “You’re patching me up this time.”
“Thankfully, my wound healed,” I reply, smiling as I clean his gash. This one’s worse than mine was. He sucks in a breath when the antiseptic hits the cut.
After ointment and gauze, I wrap it securely, check it once more, then meet his eyes.
I linger longer than necessary, my fingers resting against his skin even after the bandage is secure in place. The contact feels different now—less clinical, more charged. I’m aware of the quiet between us, the way his breathing hasn’t quite steadied, the way mine hasn’t, either.
When I secure it in place, I rest my hand over it and meet his gaze. It doesn’t feel volatile or reckless. It feels deliberate. Chosen. The awareness sends a shiver down my spine, leaving me exposed in a way I don’t retreat from.
He rises from the chair, stops in front of me—and then drops to his knees.
I freeze.
Gage Hollis—on his knees for me.
The shift in power steals the air from my lungs. This isn’t a performance. It’s raw. Earnest. He looks up at me, breathing deep, controlled.
“I’m not great with words,” he says, “but I know every time we’ve been together has been… messy.”
I lift a brow.
“Not because the act itself was bad,” he adds quickly. “But because it was tangled up with anger or confusion. There was never any space in between. I should’ve been clearer with you the other night.”
A small smile curves my mouth.
He’s not asking me to interpret him anymore. He’s putting it out there—unpolished and exposed. This awkward, earnest man, trying so hard not to trip over his own feelings, softens something in me.
I realize then this isn’t about forgiveness anymore. It’s about trust—fragile, tentative, still forming, but real. I don’t want leverage. I want forward motion.
I take his face in my hands and kiss him deeply. He grips the chair behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
The kiss isn’t frantic. It’s grounding. I feel him steady beneath my hands, feel the tension ease just enough to let something warmer settle in its place.
I pull back just enough to keep him close, licking my lips, tasting him. “Take me upstairs,” I murmur.
