“I don’t want what’s easy, Sable.” I lean onto the center console, voice steady. “I want what’sreal. The kind of real that’s messy. Unfinished. Still figuring it out.”
I watch her closely as I continue, “You don’t have to earn me. You don’t have to hold your breath or shrink yourself down just so I’ll stay.”
Her head tips slightly, eyes glassy but focused on me.
“You show up with all your sharp edges and I’ll keep showing up with steady hands. That’s the deal.”
She blinks, slow.
I reach out, my hand resting over hers, thumb brushing that tight curl of her fingers.
“I don’t need you perfect. I just need you. And you’ve already given me more of that than most people ever do.”
Her mouth pulls tight, ensnared within a fragile space between laughter and tears, unsure which emotion will win. She presses her lips together and blinks hard. “You’re gonna ruin me if you keep saying those kinds of things.”
I smirk, but it’s softer now. Quieter. “Pretty sure we’re already ruined, Sable.”
She glances at me, breath hitching.
I squeeze the delicate hand below mine. “The point is finding someone who’ll walk out of the ruin with you.”
The air in the cab shifts. Not fixed. But less sharp and easier to breathe.
Outside, the land opens wide around us. Rolling hills unfurl under a cotton-candy sky, dotted with wind-gnarled oaks andranch gates rusted with stories. It’s quiet in a way that feels earned.
And for the first time since we left, Sable exhales the kind of breath you don’t fake. The kind that says she’s finally letting some of it go.
The house greeted us with a hush so profound, it felt as if the world had paused at its threshold. Beyond the creaking door, silence pooled the way it only can in a place this remote.
I take a step inside and just… stop.
The place smells of cedar, leather, and something warm and lived in. Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams stretch overhead. The walls are all-natural wood and stone, textured and imperfect in a way that feels honest. Everything’s rich but minimal—thick rugs underfoot, a leather sectional that belongs in a whiskey ad, and a fireplace that demands attention even when it’s not lit. There’s no TV in sight, just the peace of good design and windows that pour the Hill Country right into the room.
“This is…” I trail off, turning in a slow circle. “This is insane, Hex.”
He drops the keys in a dish near the door and glances over at me. “Good insane?”
“The best kind.”
He reaches for my overnight bag and heads down the hall. “Bedroom’s this way.”
Hex disappears down the window lined corridor with my belongings. I trail behind him, feet sinking into velvet carpet, stepping into a room that whispers bedtime stories with a wicked twist. The bed is massive, all dark wood and soft linen. Windows frame a sweeping view of the enormous trees outside—towering oaks and knotted cedars with branches that twist like old hands.
He sets the bag at the foot of the bed. “Hope it’s not too presumptuous that I figured we’d share a room.”
I lift a brow. “After whisking me out to the middle of nowhere with your arms, your bourbon, and your woodsy candle smells? I’m all yours.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Fair.”
I fold my arms across my chest and square my stance near the foot of the bed. “Okay. Here’s the deal. If we’re doing this, I’ve got needs.”
Hex glances up from where he’s unzipping one of his bags. “Needs?”
“Air conditioning at sixty-eight. Non-negotiable. I wake up in night sweats more often than I care to admit.”
He stands, tossing a hoodie onto the nearby chair. “Done. I sweat too.”
“I need the side closest to the bathroom,” I say, circling around the bed, pressing my palm against the mattress to test the give. “Because aging is brutal, and I get up to pee. Twice. Minimum.”
