His gaze locked onto me at the fence. Relief hit his face so hard it almost looked like pain.
He crossed the yard in long strides, his breathing not quite steady yet.
“Jesus,” he said when he reached me. His voice was rough, scraped raw. “You vanished.”
“I needed air.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t want to wake anyone.”
His jaw worked as he studied me, eyes flicking over my bare feet, my posture, the way my hands gripped the fence like it was the only thing holding me upright.
“You scared me,” he said quietly, as he reached out and pulled me into his embrace.
My throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head once. “I’m not angry.”
We stood there in silence, our arms wrapped around one another, the morning stretching out wide and uncertain. His presence felt heavy and grounding all at once. I could feel the pull of him even now, the way my body registered him without my permission.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whispered.
“You don’t need to figure it out right now,” he said. I glanced at him. His gaze was fixed on the pasture, expression unreadable. The morning light caught in his eyes, turning them a softer blue than usual.
“You’re thinking about selling.”
I stiffened.
“I’m not asking,” he added quickly. “I can just see it on your face.”
I exhaled slowly. “I’m thinking about everything.”
“That’s fair.”
“I don’t want to lose this place. But I don’t know if I can save it.”
He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was steady. “Whatever you decide, it should be because it’s right for you. Not because you’re scared. Not because you think you owe anyone anything.”
I swallowed. “That’s a lot easier to say when you’re not the one drowning.”
He turned to face me fully then. “I know.”
Something about the way he said it made my chest ache.
We stood there, wrapped in one another, the fence creaking softly under our weight, the land stretching out in front of us like it was waiting for something I wasn’t ready to say.
Thirty-Eight
Wyatt
The noise drained out of the brewery slowly. The last clink of glass. The scrape of chairs being turned upside down and stacked, employees waving as they left for the night. The hum of the refrigeration system took over, settling into a lower register, like a living thing easing into sleep. By the time I locked the front door and slid the bolt home, the space felt different. Intimate. Watchful. Like it knew something was about to happen and was willing to keep the secret.
She’d come in as the last customer left and stood near the bar. She ordered a drink, her fingers wrapped around a lowball glass she hadn’t taken a sip from. Her hair was loose, falling over one shoulder in a way that felt deliberate even if it wasn’t. Like she’d dressed for herself and ended up dressed for me anyway.
She looked over her shoulder when she heard me coming behind her.
“You’re closed now?” she asked. Her voice was steadier than I expected. Mine wasn’t.
