My body goes tense. Old reflex. Matt used to stand outside doors. Waiting. Building the silence into something that pressed against your ribcage until you couldn't breathe.
"Naomi." Low. Rough. Not angry. Something else entirely. "Please don't be packed."
Silence. My fingers grip my knees.
"Please."
That word, from a man who talks to cattle more willingly than people, cracks something open in me. He doesn't say please. Not to Rebecca on the phone, not to the stubborn tractor, not to the heifer that kicked over the water trough yesterday. Sullivan Cross is a man who operates in statements, not requests.
Getting up, I open the door.
He's standing in the hallway in jeans and nothing else. Bare feet on the cold floor. Hair wrecked from running his hands through it. Eyes red. Not from crying. From something worse. The raw, sleepless look of a man who spent three hours staring at a ceiling and lost an argument with himself.
His gaze drops to the suitcase behind me. His jaw clenches.
"You're packed."
"What did you expect?"
The question isn't cruel. Just tired. So goddamn tired of being the woman with one suitcase who's ready to go before the dust settles.
"I expected you to fight me on it." He swallows hard. "You fight me on everything. The spices. The coffee ratio. Whether Gerald is a good name for a bull."
"Gerald is a great name for a bull."
"Naomi." His voice breaks on my name. Actually breaks, splitting down the middle so the raw part shows through. "I got scared. I got so scared I did the thing I always do, which is push first so I don't have to feel it when someone leaves. And you walked into that spare room with your bag in the closet because you already knew, didn't you? You already knew I'd do this."
My throat tightens. "I hoped you wouldn't."
"I know." He runs a hand down his face. "Gran would've slapped me sideways. She'd have said, 'Sullivan James Cross, that woman baked you sweet potato pie and you made her sleep alone, you absolute donkey.'"
A laugh escapes before I can catch it. Watery. Shaky. But real.
"She called you a donkey?"
"Regularly." He leans his shoulder against the doorframe. Close now. The hallway is narrow. His chest is right there, warm skin, dark hair, breathing hard. "Here's the thing. I've been alone on this mountain for a long time. Alone was safe. Alone meant nobody could leave because there was nobody to go. Then you showed up with your suitcase and your grandmother's Bible, making my coffee right, naming my cattle, sleeping in my bed. And when you told me about Matt, the fear wasn't about him. It was about you."
"About me."
"About losing you. About caring this much after a week. About sitting on this porch when I'm sixty watching that road, wondering if today's the day you pack the bag and go down the mountain like everybody else."
My heart is hammering. Every defense I have left wants to build a wall, protect the soft parts, prepare for the moment this dissolves into another goodbye. But his eyes are locked on mine with an honesty so complete it hurts to look at.
"Here's what I came to say." He straightens off the doorframe. "I don't want you to go. Not tomorrow. Not next month. Not when Matt is a memory neither of us thinks about anymore. If he shows up at this cabin, I will handle it. Not because you need protecting. Because you're mine, and nobody touches what's mine."
The breath leaves my lungs.
"I know that sounds like something a crazy person says after a week."
"It sounds like something your grandmother would've written in a letter."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Gran's exact words were, 'Sully needs a woman who won't let him calcify.' I'm pretty sure she meant you."
Stepping forward, I close the distance between us. My palms press flat against his bare chest. His heart is hammering as hard as mine. This man, this big, stubborn, terrified man who talks to cows and reads crossword clues like love poems, is shaking under my hands.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say. "But I need you to hear me. I have spent two years running from a man who thought he owned me. If I stay, it's because I choose to. Every day. Not because you carried my suitcase or fixed my door or told Sanctuary Match you'd be at the bus stop. Because I want this. I want you."
He pulls me against him so fast my feet leave the floor. Both arms wrapped around my waist, face buried in my neck, breathing ragged. Warm. Solid. Real.
