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"He talks about you," Anna says quietly. Setting down the corn stalks and straightening. Her face open, kind, not pushing. "Not pushy. Just, your name comes up. At dinner. On the porch with the guys. He lights up when he says it, and Luke pretends not to notice, and I pretend not to notice Luke pretending."

"He's twenty-seven."

"So?"

"I'm thirty-five."

A shrug that says everything. "Luke's twelve years older than me. I was twenty-six when I showed up here terrified and running from something awful. He was thirty-eight, broody, barely spoke, and wouldn't let me out of his sight from day one. Age is just..."

"If you say 'just a number,' I'm putting this candle down and walking home."

She laughs. Full, warm, the laugh of a woman who found her person and wants everyone she loves to find theirs too. "I was gonna say, age is just the excuse you're using because the real thing scares you more."

No answer. Because she's right. The real thing is thirty yards away swinging an axe.

He catches me looking. Pauses mid-swing, axe head resting on the chopping block. Holds my gaze across the field. No grin. Something steadier. Deeper. The look of a man who knows what he wants and is willing to wait for it. Who's been willing to wait from the first turkey club.

I look away first.

The bonfire goes up at dusk.

Hunter built it right. Flames catching slow, climbing, throwing orange light across the clearing in waves. The whole crew gathered around with mugs of Anna's cider, sitting on hay bales and leaning on fence rails. Easy talk between people who share land and weather and the daily work of keeping something alive. Diego telling a story about a fence post and a goat that has Luke almost cracking a smile. Gwen and Anna arguing about lantern placement with the intensity of people who care about things that matter to them.

My spot is on the edge. I'm good at edges. Eight years of marriage taught me how to be present without being involved. How to occupy a room without disturbing its air.

Jake sits beside me. Not too close. Not too far. Just right. Like it's the most natural thing in the world for him to be wherever I am.

"Good day."

"It was." Cider warm in my hands. Fire warm on my face.

"You had fun."

"Helped with decorations. That's labor."

"You smiled six times." His voice low, for me alone. "I counted."

Turn to look at him. Firelight on his face, softening the curls, turning brown eyes to amber. No grin. Just looking at me the way he looks at the mountains. Open, warm, patient. Like he'd sit on this hay bale until the fire burned to coals and the sun came back and the fire went up again and burned down again if that's what it took.

"You counted my smiles."

"Couldn't help it. They're rare. Like seeing something endangered. You want to document every sighting."

Something cracks in my chest. Small, internal, deep. I've been holding everything so tight for so long. The armor, the distance, the campaign of boring that was supposed to protect me from ever feeling anything this sharp again. This man keeps finding the cracks in the concrete and pouring warmth into them until they widen.

"Kidd."

"Jake." Low voice. Eyes on mine. "When it's just us, it's Jake."

"Jake." Different in my mouth. More real. More dangerous. "I need you to understand something. I'm not available. Not like that. I came here to be alone. To figure out who I am without somebody else's expectations telling me."

"Complications." He finishes for me, and the word isn't dismissive. It's acknowledging.

"Yes."

He nods. Fire pops. Sparks spiral up into the dark.

"Can I tell you something?"