It’s one of the things I’m starting to love about him: the way he holds space for others without making it a big deal. Care looks like action, not words.
Tank sets me up on a bench near the equipment shed, giving me a perfect view of the timber stacks with the mountains rising behind them. The morning light is gorgeous—soft gold cutting through the pines, throwing long shadows across the raw wood.
“I’ll be in the office if you need me.” He hesitates, and I think he's going to leave it at that. But then his hands come up to adjust my scarf, pulling it higher around my neck and tugging the wool snug against my chin.
“Wind picks up around ten,” he says, as if he’s not currently short-circuiting my entire nervous system. He pulls my beanie down over my ears, smoothing the edges with a gentleness that doesn’t match his rough hands. Then he reaches into his jacket and produces a thermos I didn’t even know he’d brought.
“Coffee. Still hot.” He sets it on the bench beside me. “Don’t let it get cold.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, aiming for teasing. It comes out breathless.
“I’ll be in the office if you need me,” he says, tapping the toe of my boot with his. “You need anything, just wave. Or yell. Preferably yell.”
“Yes, sir,” I repeat, sweet as pie.
He gives me a look that promises payback later, then turns back toward the crew.
“Jesus, Tank,” one of the guys calls as he passes. “You bubble-wrapping her now?”
“She’s an artist,” another adds. “Delicate.”
I cup my hands around my mouth. “I bruise easily and require snacks every two hours.”
That earns a laugh. Tank shakes his head like he doesn't know me at all, but the corner of his mouth lifts anyway.
His eyes darken. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me properly, but he brushes his lips across my forehead instead, so quick I almost miss it. Then he disappears inside.
I sit there for a full thirty seconds, clutching the thermos like an idiot, my forehead tingling where his mouth touched.
Get it together, Jessie.
I take a sip of coffee—perfect, of course, exactly how I like it—and pull out my sketchbook.
The view is stunning in that harsh Montana way, with its endless sky, rolling hills, and mountains cutting the horizon like teeth. Timber stacks rise in neat rows, pale wood catching the morning light. In the distance, Sullivan has turned the mare loose in the paddock and is leaning against the fence, watching her move. There’s something peaceful about the scene, something still.
I lose myself in the work: the scratch of pencil on paper, the way light falls across the landscape, the distant rumble of equipment from somewhere deeper in the yard. It’s meditative, grounding in a way my life in the city never was.
I’m shading the tree line when I hear it.
A sharp whinny from one of the horses. A crash. Then a sound that makes my blood run cold—a man's ragged, gasping breath.
My head snaps up.
Sullivan is on the ground, not moving right as the spooked horse circles with wild eyes. He’s curled in on himself, hands pressed over his ears, body shaking.
Tank is already running.
“Sullivan. Hey. You’re at the yard. You’re in Montana. Can you hear me?”
He doesn’t respond. His breathing is ragged, too fast, and his eyes are open but seeing something else entirely. Somewhere else. Somewhenelse.
“I need you to breathe with me,” Tank says, calm as still water. “In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?”
I realize with a jolt that the horse’s panicked snorts and stomping hooves are making things worse for Sullivan. I don't think. I just move.
As I reach the horse, I slow down, approaching carefully, keeping my movements deliberate. Its ears are pinned back, but it doesn’t bolt.
I edge closer, murmuring comforting sounds and soothing nonsense.
