Not haunted.
Just a man standing up for a woman he wanted to see.
“Hey,” he said softly when I reached him.
“Hey,” I replied, and my voice surprised me with how steady it was.
He took a beat to look at me—really look—then his mouth curved slightly. “You look beautiful.”
Something warm and dangerous unfurled inside me.
“Thank you,” I said. “You look … really good.”
His gaze darkened, just a fraction. Like the words landed somewhere physical.
We sat. Menus opened. A waiter offered water and cocktails, and Wyatt ordered bourbon neat while I ordered a glass of red wine, because my hands needed something to do and because I refused to feel like a child tonight.
But I couldn’t wait.
I’d carried the wrapped buckle all day.
Before the bread arrived, before the waiter could return, I reached into my handbag and pulled it out.
Wyatt’s eyes flicked to the package, then back to me—curious, cautious.
“I got you something,” I said.
His brows lifted. “Sophie, you didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to,” I cut in gently. “Open it.”
He hesitated, then took it carefully—like he understood it wasn’t just paper and ribbon.
He untied the ribbon, unfolded the paper, and opened the velvet-lined box.
The buckle caught the candlelight.
Wyatt’s face stilled.
He swallowed once, slowly, and I watched emotion move through him like a wave he didn’t know what to do with.
“Valentine, TX,” he read out loud, voice roughening.
I nodded, forcing myself not to babble. “I had it made today. I thought … for the next time you go line dancing. Or the next time you’re anywhere you need to represent where you came from.You don’t talk about Valentine much, but I know it’s in you. I wanted you to have something that says you don’t have to leave it behind to be who you are now.”
His thumb brushed the etched letters. Once. Twice.
For a second, he didn’t speak.
And that silence could’ve been terrifying—except it wasn’t empty.
It was full.
“Jesus,” he murmured, like the word had nowhere else to go. Then he looked up at me, eyes bright in a way that made my throat tighten. “Soph … this is?—”
He cleared his throat, jaw working like he was trying to keep himself from cracking open in public.
“This is … the kind of thing you don’t forget,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
