January 21st
I wake up warm.
That’s the first thing I notice. Not the rooster down the road or the faint hum of the heater, not even the soft ache in my body that says, very clearly, that last night actually happened and was not, in fact, a very detailed stress dream.
Just… warmth.
Inside and out.
The clock on the nightstand reads 6:12 a.m., and my heart is already pounding with excitement.
Dallas’s bed is big, but somehow I’ve ended up smack in the middle of it, tucked into his side like I belong there. His arm is heavy around my waist, palm splayed over my stomach. Even in his sleep, he’s making sure I don’t go anywhere.
His breathing is slow. The kind of calm, deep breathing I’ve watched other people have and always assumed was a myth.
For a few blessed seconds, there’s only that. The hush of early morning, the pale winter light leaking around the curtains, the rise and fall of his chest against my back. No to-do lists, noanxious buzzing, no tight rope in my spine waiting for someone to yank.
Just… quiet.
I blink my eyes open and turn carefully, easing onto my back so I can see him.
Dallas McCoy should not be allowed to sleep this prettily. It feels unfair somehow. His lashes are scandalously long for a man who probably doesn’t even own face wash, his mouth relaxed, a little softer than it ever is when he’s awake and grumpy. The line between his brows has smoothed out. He looks younger like this. Less guarded. Less like the whole family is balanced on his shoulders.
His hand, still resting just above my hip, gives a tiny twitch. Whatever he’s dreaming about involves holding on.
My chest does a slow, helpless flip.
There was a time, when I told anyone who would listen that Dallas was “just my friend.” My best friend, sure. My favorite person, absolutely. Butjusta friend.
Lying here now, with his hand warm on my skin and his hair all messed up because of me, that feels… hilarious. And a little bit tragic. Like mislabeling a thunderstorm as “light drizzle” or insisting a barn fire is “a cozy glow.”
He was never “just” anything.
Not when he spent entire summer afternoons teaching me how to back a trailer in a straight line because I refused to let my father’s voice be the only one in my head when I drove.
Not when he held my hand under the bleachers while I cried over college letters.
Not when he hugged me like he meant it the night before I left town.
And definitely not now, when every cell in my body seems to be oriented toward his.
I should probably feel embarrassed that it took me this long to admit it to myself, but right now… Right now, watching the way his mouth curves almost imperceptibly when I brush my thumb over his knuckles, I mostly feel…
Safe.
Ridiculously. Unfathomably. Shockingly safe.
In a bed that technically isn’t mine. In a house that technically isn’t mine. With a man who, by all reasonable metrics, should be the last person I tangle my already messy life up with.
And yet.
My brain, which usually likes to run through catastrophic scenarios before I even finish my first cup of coffee, is strangely quiet. Instead, the rogue thoughts that sneak in sound like:
Maybe… maybe I could stay.
Not just in this bed, even though the bed is really helping my imagination along. In Buckhorn. At the ranch. In this weird, magical little pocket of life where my name isn’t followed by “Ross, from William’s firm,” but just… Faith.
Maybe I could actually build a life here.
