He crosses to the bed, and the edge dips as I sit up, reaching for one of the mugs he holds.
Austin cocks his head to the side, face shy but radiating happiness and heat. “Sleepyhead suits you,” he drawls, bringing a hand up to smooth my bedhead hair.
I yawn. The exclamation point to his statement.
He chuckles deep, a low rumble.
“Only because someone didn’t let me sleep much last night.”
“Wait a second,” he says with a dark chuckle. “I thought that was you. Are you trying to blame this on me?”
“Maybe it was me,” I say with a wicked grin. “Either way, I slept like a baby after. How about you?”
He nods once.
“Then,” I add, giggling. “Let me guess. You were up before the crack of dawn, out piling wood, checking on the horses, making sure all’s right with the world and your ranch?”
“Guilty as charged.” He removes his Stetson, setting it on the bed and tousling his hair. “Thought about you the whole time, too. Drove me to distraction. Had to concentrate not to hurt myself again.”
“Wait,” I say, mind working, eyes narrowing. “Is that why you hurt your hand yesterday? Because you were thinking about me?”
He shrugs with a timid grin. “Some things are worth thinking about. Getting hurt for, too.”
“How’s your hand today?” I ask, fingers brushing gently over the neat bandages.
“Fine. Have a first-rate nurse.” He winks.
I cradle the mug between my palms, letting the warmth seep in. Not rushing. Not bracing. Just… being.
It hits me then—how strange it is to wake up without dread. Without needing to inventory the day for exits and explanations. My body still remembers how to flinch, but it’s learning something new. That it can rest.
That I can, too.
Austin watches me over the rim of his mug, quiet and unassuming, like he’s not trying to read my thoughts. Just willing to stay if I want to share them.
“I should probably say something,” I murmur.
He raises a brow. “Only if you want to.”
I swallow, surprised by the simplicity of that. By how often he offers me choice without fanfare.
“I don’t regret last night,” I say. The words come out steady. True. “Not even a little.”
Something softens in his face—not triumph. Not relief. Just acceptance.
“Good,” he says. “Neither do I.”
Silence stretches between us, easy and warm. He reaches out, fingers brushing mine—not claiming, not asking. Just there.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I admit.
He nods once. “That’s okay.”
“And I don’t want promises,” I add quickly. “Or pressure. Or?—”
“Allie,” he interrupts gently. “I’m right here. That’s all I’ve got today.”
It’s enough. More than enough.
