"I need you to see me," he says, voice strained. "Need you to know who you're with."
"I know." My voice breaks. "I know exactly who you are."
The rhythm builds faster. Harder. My wrists flex against his grip but he holds firm, keeping me present, keeping me here with him.
"I love you," I gasp between breaths.
"I love you too."
The pleasure coils tighter until I can't hold it anymore. I break apart beneath him, his name tearing from my throat. He releases my wrists and I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer as the waves crash through me.
He follows seconds later, my name breaking from him like a prayer. His whole body shakes with it. Both of us holding tight, neither willing to let go.
Afterward, we don't let go. Stay tangled together, breathing hard, hearts beating against each other.
I rest my head on his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder. The quiet settles around us, comfortable and warm.
After a while he says, "Stay here. Move in with me."
I lift my head to look at him. "What?"
"We've waited our whole lives." No hesitation. Like it's already decided. "I'm not waiting anymore."
A smile tugs at my mouth. "Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Okay."
His arms tighten around me. His lips brush my temple.
Outside, the ranch is dark and quiet. Inside, we're building something new. The moonlight stretches silver across the bed, the floor, the future neither of us is running from anymore.
I press closer and close my eyes.
Finally home.
Epilogue- Eli
Iwake to cold November air seeping through the window and Hazel's weight pressed against my side.
It's 4:30 in the morning. Early enough that the world outside is still dark, still quiet. The kind of cold that makes you want to stay in bed until spring. But I've got horses to feed and she's already stirring, trying to slip out without waking me.
I tighten my arm around her waist. "Where you going?"
She freezes. "Barn. Go back to sleep."
"I'm up."
She turns to look at me, hair messy, eyes still heavy. "You don't have to—"
"I'm up," I repeat.
She smiles, small and soft, then presses a kiss to my shoulder before sliding out of bed. I watch her pull on jeans and one of my flannels, the fabric hanging loose on her frame. Six weeksand she still steals my clothes more often than she wears her own.
I don't mind.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, she's already started the coffee. Her mug sits on the counter next to mine—hers chipped at the rim, mine with the ranch logo fading from too many washes. Small things. Domestic details that six weeks ago felt fragile, temporary. Like if I acknowledged them too hard, she'd spook.
