Will shifts beside me. Leans in. Reads the message.
His voice is low, clipped. “Isn’t your phone supposed to be on airplane mode?”
I snort without looking at him. “Wow. That’s what you’ve got? Airplane etiquette?”
He leans back in his seat, jaw tight.
I keep typing, pretending I don’t feel the heat radiating off him. Pretending his presence doesn’t still reach under my skin. But it does. And this flight? Just got longer.
The plane lands in Sheridan, and as soon as we step out onto the tarmac, the wind hits my face like a slap or maybe a reminder.
You’re back in Wyoming now, sweetheart. No more hiding.
We walk in silence through the tiny terminal. No one says a word, and maybe that’s the safest option. Inside, Will grabs our bags without asking. Carries them like it's nothing. Like he hasn’t been simmering in silence since takeoff. Like the tension between us hasn’t been buzzing louder than the engines.
Outside, the sky stretches wide and cloudless, so painfully blue it almost hurts to look at. The air is crisp and cleaner than Texas. It smells like dust and pine and home. My chest tightens.
Will’s truck is parked out front, the same beat-up beast it’s always been. Familiar. Uncomplicated. Unlike everything else. I climb in. Buckle up. Fold my hands in my lap and stare out the windshield like this is just another ride home.
Then I make the mistake of looking at him.
His profile is sharp. Jaw clenched, one hand gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The muscle in his forearm flexes as he shifts into gear, and my stomach coils because I know that silence. I know exactly what it’s covering.
Rage.
Regret.
Restraint.
I look away quickly, swallowing down the storm rising in my chest. Because if I let myself look too long, I’ll remember everything his hands said that his mouth still hasn’t. And I’ll ask for more.
We drive all the way to Broken Heart Creek without a word between us. Just the hum of the tires on the road, the wind outside, and the echo of what I just said hanging in the air like smoke.
When he finally pulls behind Knot and Spur, he kills the engine and turns toward me as I reach for the door handle.
“Phern.”
I pause.
“I didn’t mean—” he starts, then stops. “I just… I’ve never seen you smile at someone the way you smiled at him.”
I turn to him slowly, keeping my voice even. “Maybe because he never made me feel like I had toearnit.”
Then I open the door. And I don’t look back.
My peace lasts exactly one hour.
That’s how long it takes before Sam and Charlie show up at my place. No text, no warning. Just the sound of a familiar truck in the driveway and two sets of determined footsteps at my door.
Probably because Will told them I was home.
I open the door with a sigh already forming in my chest, but Charlie’s holding baby Sam, and all my irritation dissolves in one breath.
“Oh my God,” I coo, taking the baby from her arms. “I swear he’s grown since I saw him last.”
Charlie laughs, stepping inside behind me. “I think so, too. He’s already outgrown every newborn outfit we bought. Sam says he eats like a linebacker.”
I cradle the baby close, inhaling that sweet, powdery scent. It's grounding and pure. Everything else fades for a second.
