He didn’t answer for a long time, just watched the tip of my pencil as it traced the boundary line. The lamp light made his eyes look molten, almost silver.
“I didn’t picture you as a Montana guy,” he said.
I snorted. “I wasn’t, at first. But it’s… real out here.”
He nodded, then reached for the map. Our fingers collided, skin on skin, and I felt my whole body go tense, like the touch was a threat and a promise. Neither of us moved.
He looked up at me then, and there was nothing gentle in his gaze. “You nervous?”
I shook my head, the lie so obvious it hurt. “No.”
He smirked, but it wasn’t mean. “Good. Because you’re the smartest hand I’ve had on this place, and I don’t want you bolting.”
My heart jackhammered in my chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He leaned in, closer than before. “You sure about that?”
I swallowed, forcing myself to hold the eye contact. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
The words hung between us, too heavy for the room, and I had to look away. I focused on the plans, but all I could see was his hand, the way it dwarfed mine, veins and calluses, the lingering heat from that brief contact. My whole body was vibrating, and I wasn’t even sure if it was fear or want.
I made a show of marking the fence line, but my hand shook so bad the pencil snapped. I set it down, felt stupid, but when I looked back at him he didn’t look amused. He looked hungry.
The lamp guttered, making the shadows waver across the wall. The only sounds were the chicks, the stove, and the slow, even draw of his breath.
He didn’t move away.
Neither did I.
If you had asked me what we talked about for the next hour, I couldn’t tell you. It was just words, cover for everything else—the lines of the fields, the crops, the livestock, the endless, stupid chores that would never get done. But every time I reached for the map, every time our hands brushed, the charge built higher and higher until it was a miracle the room didn’t catch fire.
At some point, he moved his chair closer, until our knees touched under the table. I could smell him: soap, leather, the ghost of sweat and the warm, unmistakable musk of alpha that made my head swim.
He didn’t say another word for a long time, just watched me, letting the air between us thicken and pulse with things neither of us wanted to name.
I gave up on the maps, eventually, and just stared at the table. I could feel him watching me, waiting for me to make the next move, but I couldn’t. I was too scared, or too hopeful, or maybe just too desperate for him to want me.
It got so quiet that I could hear the blood pounding in my ears.
Then, softly, he spoke. “You got something on your mind, Jojo?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He reached out and put his hand over mine, firm and steady. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, right over the vein, and I shuddered at the contact.
“You got nothing to be afraid of,” he said, his voice barely more than a rumble.
I looked up at him, and in that moment, I knew exactly what was coming. I knew I wanted it.
I just didn’t know how to ask.
He squeezed my hand, just a little, and the gesture—so careful, so deliberate—nearly undid me.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “I don’t want to mess this up,” I said, the words escaping before I could stop them.
He shook his head, slow. “You couldn’t, even if you tried.”
I believed him.
