"Didn't want to be late." The words came out rough, his Cajun accent thicker than usual, a sure sign he was nervous, his dark eyes flicking to me and then away like he couldn't decide if he was allowed to look.
"You said that last time." I pushed off the railing and crossed to him, my bare feet silent on the worn wood, close enough that his scent wrapped around me like a blanket, close enough to see the way his throat worked when he swallowed.
"Probably say it every time. I'm not good at new words." He shrugged one massive shoulder, the gesture somehow endearing on a man his size, self-deprecating in a way that made my chest ache.
I laughed, and watched something in his expression ease at the sound.
"I like your words just fine, even if you use the same ones twice." I reached out and touched his arm, feeling the muscle tense beneath my fingers, feeling the barely-there tremor that ran through him at the contact. "I like the shirt. Blue's a good color on you." I let my hand linger for just a moment before pulling back, watching the way his breath caught.
"You look beautiful." The words tumbled out of him rough and unpolished, blunt in a way that felt more honest than any smooth compliment, his dark eyes finally meeting mine and holding with an intensity that made heat bloom across my cheeks.
"Thank you." I stepped back, giving us both room to breathe, and grabbed my sweater from the railing, draping it over my arm. "So. Where are we going?" I tilted my head, letting my curiosity show.
"It's a surprise. It's not far. About thirty minutes. I thought we could..." He gestured vaguely toward his truck, trailing off with a frustrated expression, like the words had abandoned him halfway through the thought, his jaw tight with the effort of speaking.
"I like surprises." I slipped on my sandals and started down the steps, pausing at the bottom to look back at him with raised eyebrows, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "Coming?" I asked, letting a hint of teasing warm my voice.
He followed me to the truck like a man walking toward salvation. He opened the passenger door for me—old-fashioned, gentlemanly, something his grandmother probably taught him—and I climbed up into the cab, hyper-aware of the way his dark eyes tracked my movements. We drove in silence for a few minutes, but it wasn't comfortable silence. I could feel the tension radiating off him, could see the white-knuckle grip he had on the steering wheel, could smell the sharp edge of anxiety cutting through his cedar-smoke scent.
"You're nervous." I said it gently, not an accusation, just an observation, angling my body toward him so he could see I wasn't judging, my voice soft in the dimness of the cab.
"Yes." He kept his eyes fixed on the road, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking beneath the stubbled skin, his knuckles pale against the dark leather of the steering wheel. "I'm not good at this. Talking. Being... normal." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"I'm not looking for normal, Harper." I reached across and laid my hand on his arm, feeling the tension coiled there, the warmth of him even through his sleeve, my thumb tracing a gentle circle against the fabric. "I'm looking for real. There's a difference." I let the words settle between us, a gift without strings attached.
Something in his posture eased, just slightly. Just enough.
"The place I'm taking you," he said slowly, his voice steadier now, the words coming easier, "it belonged to my grandparents. My grandmother used to take me there when I was a boy. After my parents..." He stopped, the words catching in his throat, grief flickering across his features before he locked it away behind that stoic mask.
"You don't have to explain." I kept my voice soft, understanding, my thumb still tracing circles on his arm. "Not if you're not ready." I waited, giving him space, letting him decide how much to share.
"They died when I was seven." He said it flat, worn smooth by years of repetition, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on the road, his massive hands gripping the wheel like an anchor. "Car accident. My grandparents raised me after that. My grandfather taught me how to make moonshine. My grandmother taught me everything else." His hands relaxed slightly, the familiar story grounding him even as old grief weighted his words.
"She sounds like she was special." I let warmth color my voice, inviting more without demanding it, my hand still resting on his arm where I could feel the steady thrum of his pulse beneath my fingertips.
"She was." A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth, softening those hard features for just a moment, something warm flickering in his dark eyes. "Fierce. Sharp tongue. Didn't take nonsense from anyone, least of all me." He glanced at me briefly, something vulnerable in his gaze. "You remind me of her sometimes. The way you look at me like you can see everything I'm trying to hide." He admitted quietly, his accent thickening with emotion.
"Is that a good thing?" I asked, a hint of amusement warming my voice, my thumb still tracing slow circles on his arm, watching the way his jaw worked as he considered the question.
"Yeah." He said, the word rough with meaning, his hands relaxing on the wheel. "Yeah, it is." He glanced at me, letting me see the truth in his dark eyes—gratitude and wonder and something deeper—before he turned back to the road. The road turned from asphalt to gravel to dirt, winding deeper into what I assumed was Fontenot land. Moss hung heavy from the trees, the bayou glinting through gaps in the foliage. The golden light of sunset painted everything in shades of amber, and something about the wild beauty of it made my heart ache.
He pulled off onto a barely-visible track and killed the engine.
"We walk from here." His voice was low, rough with nerves as he climbed out and grabbed a cooler from the truck bed, then came around to help me down, his massive hand swallowing mine as he steadied me. I took his offered hand—calloused, warm, impossibly gentle—and let him guide me onto the soft ground. The path wound through the trees for about five minutes, cypress and oak closing around us. The air smelled likewater and green growing things and something sweet I couldn't identify. Then the trees opened up, and my breath caught in my throat.
A wooden dock stretched over the bayou, weathered silver by decades of sun and rain. At the end of the dock sat a small gazebo, its lattice walls covered in flowering jasmine, white blooms glowing in the fading light. The sunset painted everything gold and rose, and the jasmine perfumed the air with sweetness so thick I could taste it.
"Harper." I breathed his name, my hand tightening on his, something cracking open in my chest at the beauty of it, at what it meant that he'd brought me here. "This is beautiful." I turned to look at him, and the vulnerability in his expression made my heart stutter.
"My grandfather built it for my grandmother. Their courting spot, she called it." He set down the cooler and shoved his free hand in his pocket, his massive frame somehow making itself smaller, uncertain under my gaze. "After he died, she used to come here to talk to him. She said she could feel him here, in the wood he'd shaped with his own hands." His voice went rough, thick with years of grief and love, his dark eyes bright with memories. "I haven't brought anyone here before. Ever." He met my eyes, and I saw what it cost him to say that, what it meant that he was saying it to me.
I stepped closer, rose up on my toes, and pressed a soft kiss to his stubbled cheek, breathing in his scent—moonshine and cedar and nervous hope.
"Thank you." My voice came out barely above a whisper, my lips brushing his jaw as I spoke, feeling the fine tremor that ran through him at the contact. "For sharing this with me. For trusting me with something this precious." I squeezed his hand and stepped back, blinking against the sudden burning in my eyes.
He led me out onto the dock, the old boards creaking under his weight, and into the gazebo. The jasmine scent was stronger here, mixed with cedar and years of memories. Candles flickered in glass jars—he must have come earlier to set them up—casting everything in warm, dancing light.
"I brought food. Nothing fancy. Just... things I made." He opened the cooler and started pulling out containers, his movements careful and precise, his voice gruff with self-consciousness, and I watched him unpack a feast—smoked duck, golden cornbread, jewel-bright pickled vegetables, a jar of honey that glowed amber in the candlelight.
