Mud that clings to my shoes and my jeans and refuses to be ignored.
Work that leaves my hands tired but my mind clear.
And I can handle that.
What I can’t afford is letting myself linger on my boss’s voice—low and steady—when he said baby girl.
The way it wrapped around the words like he meant them.
Or the way his hand moved with quiet certainty when he touched my back, urging me inside.
Not rough. Not careless.
Just sure.
Like he expected me to listen.
Like he knew I would.
Or the look he gives me sometimes.
That one is the most dangerous of all.
Like he sees past the careful version of me—the polite smiles, the controlled breaths, the woman who learned how to make herself smaller—and straight into the one underneath.
The one I buried when it wasn’t safe to be her anymore.
Maybe I’m imagining that part.
But I don’t think so.
That kind of attention isn’t harmless.
It’s heavy.
It asks questions I’m not ready to answer.
Especially from a man whose presence feels larger than life—rooted and unmovable, like the mountain itself.
Thatcher McCrae doesn’t just exist here.
He belongs.
And some quiet, unsettling part of me is starting to believe I came here for a reason.
Not just to hide.
Not just to survive.
But to stand somewhere solid again. To remember what it feels like to be seen without being diminished.
That terrifies me.
So yes—I might daydream about him.
Okay, I might even dream-dream about him.
About his scowl.
