I thought about it. “I want to be where you are.” Because it was was the first thing that came to mind, and because it was true.
He smiled, just a little. “That’s easy, then.”
We walked in together, shoulders brushing, the comfort of routine slotting over us like a soft quilt. I dropped my bag by the door and toed off my boots. Gunner hung his hat on the hook and grabbed me by the wrist, spinning me into a gentle hug.
I buried my face in his chest. I could smell the leather of his belt, the soap he used (always the same, always the cheap kind), and underneath it all, the clean spice of his skin. He held me there, arms around my waist, chin resting on top of my head. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing, in and out, the perfect rhythm of two animals content to be alive.
We changed for bed in the low-watt bathroom light. I watched him move, the solid lines of his back, the way he took care with the buttons on his shirt, how he folded his jeans before setting them aside. I pulled on one of his old t-shirts and brushed my teeth with the high-quality toothpaste he always bought; you only get one set of teeth after all. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, hair wild, face pale and splotched, but my eyes—my eyes looked brighter than they had in years.
He met me in the bedroom, already under the covers, reading from a dog-eared paperback he kept on the nightstand. He set it aside when I climbed in, pulled me close, and tucked the blanket around my shoulders. The wind rattled the windowpanes; the rain had picked up, drumming a slow rhythm against the siding.
I curled into his chest, soaking up the warmth. He traced lazy circles on my back, fingertips rough and calloused, but gentle as rain. I closed my eyes, let the comfort of him wash away the last clinging shreds of doubt.
It was in that soft darkness, with his heart thumping steady under my ear, that I started thinking about all the ways he cared for me. Not the big, loud gestures—though he had those, too—but the tiny, invisible kindnesses. How there was always coffee waiting for me in the morning, just the way I liked it, even if he had to set an alarm to get up before me. How the fridge was always stocked with my favorite drinks, the lemon seltzer and the weird green juice I’d become addicted to in college. How he’d started bringing home fresh flowers—wild ones from the ranch, or the occasional grocery store bouquet—and set them in an old glass jar on the kitchen table, because he knew I liked color in the house. And how he’d noticed, without ever being told, that I was almost out of shampoo, and had driven all the way to Amarillo to buy the brand I used because the store in town never carried it.
The realization hit me so hard it made my throat ache. For the first time in my life, I felt completely, stupidly safe. Cared for. Loved in a waythat didn’t require me to perform or impress or become someone else. Just loved.
The tears came out of nowhere—hot and silent and embarrassing as hell.
He must have felt me shaking, because he rolled onto his side, cradling my face in his big, warm hand. “Hey.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “Talk to me.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out a wet, hiccupy mess. “I’m sorry. I’m not sad. I just…” I broke off, wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I just can’t believe this is my life. That I get to have this. You. Us. I didn’t think it was possible.”
He looked at me like I’d told him the secret to immortality. “You deserve all of it, Brie. More than anyone I know."
I shook my head. “You don’t get it. I was always the fuck-up. Even when I was doing everything right, I felt like I was always one step away from blowing it all up. I thought that’s just who I was. But with you, it’s like—like the world finally makes sense.”
He kissed the corner of my mouth, the salt of my tears. “You’re my mate, Maverick. There’s nothing you could do to fuck this up. Even if you tried. You show the world the fighter you've always thought you had to be. And yes, you can be that bratty little girl that I love. But I see the tenderness beneath it all. I see it in the beauty of your art. That's what is in your soul. Two things can be true at the same time. ”
I laughed, because I knew he meant it. “I'll try to balance those two better.”
He grinned, pulling me closer. “I’m serious. I thank the Goddess every damn day that she gave you to me. Even if I don’t say it.”
I buried my face in his neck, breathing him in. The mate bond pulsed between us—warmth, light, something that felt almost holy. For the first time in a long time, I let myself lean into it, let it hold me up instead of fighting to carry it alone.
“I love you,” I whispered, soft as the storm outside.
He pressed his lips to my hair, my forehead, my cheek. “I love you, too, little girl. More than anything.”
And just like that, I was whole.
I drifted off to sleep, the thunder a lullaby, his arms a fortress. For a few precious hours, the world outside could do whatever it wanted. In here, I was exactly where I belonged.
The sound of rain on the skylights was a relentless white noise that started in the ears and ended in the bones. It was the kind of Saturday where the hours dissolved, where the storm pinned everything in place and all you could do was survive the deluge. The gallery had become a mausoleum of unfinished dreams and the smell of wet paint.
I wandered through the main floor, arms folded tight across my chest. The temporary walls were only half-built, metal braces sticking out like broken ribs, protective mats on the ground squelching under every step. Every surface was covered in fine drywall dust; even the exit signs looked like they were losing a slow fight with time. The humidity made the air taste like soggy cotton.
I didn’t know why I insisted on working today. Maybe because there was no one to talk to, no one to ask me how I was, no one to notice if I stood in the middle of the gallery and screamed until my voice cracked. I’d sent the contractor crew home at noon because they were all but finished with everything. Lysander was in Boston. Gunner had gone with Wrecker’s help on a short cattle haul; he texted that he’d be home by six.
So it was just me, the storm, and the unholy pile of paperwork that refused to shrink no matter how many hours I fed it.
I took the long way up to the office—through the darkened lobby, past the wall of still-unhung canvases, up the metal stairs where each footstep echoed like a hammer blow. The glass-walled “penthouse” looked out over the whole gallery, every window streaked and rattling with the rain. From up here, the world outside was just a blur of gray and motion.
I slumped into the cushioned office chair and pulled the laptop toward me. The spreadsheet glared back on my large screen monitor, full of notes and reminders and cells highlighted in angry, anxious colors. I rubbed my eyes, scrolled through the numbers, and tried not to think about how I couldn’t remember entering half of them. My body felt like it was made of old bread; every joint was stiff, every breath sticky in my lungs.
I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck, tried to blink the fatigue away. I’d been fighting it all day—the slow pull of sleep, the leaden sense that the real world was a few feet behind me and catching up fast. I couldn’t keep my focus; the numbers on the screen squirmed, doubling and then snapping back into place.
The HVAC kicked on. The hum was deeper than usual, more of a shudder. It vibrated through the glass walls, rattling the pens in their cup, making the shadows twitch. Thunder rolled overhead, low and predatory.
