I stand at the window a moment longer, watching the clouds thin into ragged shapes against the night sky. Storms pass. That’s the lesson.
I glance at my phone on the counter, taking action before I back out of the decision to message him.
Me:Storm passed clean here at my house. Hope everything held at the ranch.
I send it before I can second-guess myself. The reply doesn’t come right away. I rinse my glass, set it in the rack, and change out of my clothes, moving on instinct while my mind stays alert. By the time I’m pulling on jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, my phone buzzes. I pick it up.
Harrison:We’re handling it. North fence line went down. One of the lower barns took on water. Nothing hurt. Just a mess.
This sounds unfortunate. The “we” in his message catches my attention. He’s not alone. He has hands. And if they’re still working this late, it matters.
I sit on the edge of the bed, phone warm in my hand. This would be the point where most people saygoodnightand leave it there. I don’t.
Me:You want an extra set of hands?
The reply comes faster this time.
Harrison:You don’t need to
I smile faintly. That’s not a no.
Me:I know I don’t. I’m asking anyway.
A pause stretches just long enough for me to picture him standing somewhere in the dark, phone in hand, jaw tight, rain still clinging to him.
Harrison:It’s late.
Me:Doesn’t matter
I wait. When the response comes, it’s different.
Harrison:You sure about this?
Me:Yes.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Finally—
Harrison:Alright. I’ll text you the address.
The address comes through a second later. I grab my boots and keys, already moving. This isn’t about the kissing. It’s about what happens after. Friendship, help, and building trust.
Harrison trusts competence, consistency, and loyalty. So that’s what I’ll give him. If he’s going to learn that not everyone leaves once the storm passes, it won’t be because I convinced him with words. It’ll be because I was there when he didn’t ask … and didn’t push me away.
Chapter 16
Harrison
The north fence looks worse in the dark. Headlights sweep across bent wire and snapped posts, a tree down on a portion of it from the wind that came through. The storm didn’t tear things apart all at once. It tested the weak spots until something gave. That’s how it usually goes.
“Luke, grab the stretcher,” I call out. “We’ll reset the post first.”
Luke moves without a word, boots sinking into the soft ground as he crosses the field. He’s been with me long enough to know when talk wastes time. So has Ben, who’s already hauling replacement wire off the truck like he read my mind.
The repair is in controlled motion with lights strung along the barn throwing hard shadows, engines idling, and three men working the way they always do after weather turns mean.
Still, my attention keeps slipping. Every few minutes, I catch myself glancing toward the drive. We’re halfway through resetting the post when headlights crest the drive, slower than the trucks, cautious over the ruts.
