When he pulled back, he looked me up and down. His gaze snagged on my neck, where the bruise from last night was still fresh, a purple-red stamp just above my collarbone. He ran his thumb over it, and the touch burned through me.
“Looks good on you,” he said, voice low and pleased.
I flushed, then looked up through my lashes. “Want to put another one there?”
He bared his teeth in a grin. “Later. I want you to feel it all day.”
I shivered, not from cold. “I will.”
He wrapped his arms around me, chest rumbling with something almost like a purr. We stood like that, heat building, until the world narrowed down to just our breath and the tick of the clock on the wall.
I pressed my face to his throat, breathing him in. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
“I know,” he answered, and the finality in his voice made me feel safer than anything else ever had.
We let the rest of the day go by, both of us wound tight and vibrating. The house felt like it was waiting for something, every corner and shadow crackling with promise.
We never went far from each other, even when we pretended to. I caught him watching me in the yard, eyes following every move. When I came inside with dirt on my hands, he gripped my wrist and pulled me to the sink, washing me off with water that was too hot and a touch that was too gentle.
Later, he found me at the window, arms folded, thinking about nothing and everything. He stepped up behind me, hands on my hips, breath warm against my ear.
He kissed my neck, right where the old mark was fading. “Mine,” he said.
And I was. Every molecule. Every last, ruined inch.
I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
We fell into a kind of rhythm, the afternoon sliding by with chores and a thousand small moments that felt, together, like more than just time passing.
When the horses needed hay, we did it together—me dragging bales, Rawley hefting them one-handed like he was in a recruitment video. He called me “city boy” when I struggled, but the way his eyes sparkled made it sound like a compliment.
I liked being beside him, even when we didn’t talk. Especially then.
The kitchen was where it felt most real. After we’d both showered and changed, we cleaned up the remains of dinner in silence, stacking plates and scraping crumbs into a compost bucket I’d set under the sink.
We moved around each other with a weird, accidental grace: I’d reach for the soap and he’d already have it in his hand, or I’d grab for a dish towel right as he tossed it over his shoulder.
Every time our fingers touched, it was like a little jolt of static.
The sink filled with soapy water, and I dunked my arms up to the elbow, scrubbing at the plates with a focus that would’ve made my old bakery boss weep with pride.
Rawley dried. He leaned against the counter, towel slung over one shoulder, arms crossed as he watched me.
I tried to keep my head down, but I felt his gaze like a brand. When I passed him a plate, his fingers overlapped mine, the grip lingering long after the dish was in his hand.
I looked up, and his eyes were locked on me—gray and unblinking.
“Did you always want this?” I asked, before I could stop myself.
He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“The ranch. The whole…life.”
He set the plate down with care, then reached for the next one. “Not at first,” he admitted. “When my granddad sent me letters, I thought he was just lonely. I never figured on coming out here, not until the will was read.”
He shrugged, towel bunching under his hand. “But now? I don’t think I could go back. Even if they begged.”
I nodded, suds climbing my arms. “It’s good here,” I said.
