He didn’t see them arrive, not really.

“What the hell?”

One minute, he was hauling a sack of corn feed out of a wagon. The next, he looked up and there they were - like ghosts coming out of the afternoon sun. Abigail and Jack walking down the worn wagon path, trailed by a dog.

John dropped the sack.

He didn’t even notice it hit the ground.

“You…you’re -”

She didn’t answer right away. She just set her suitcase down and looked at him like she wasn’t sure if the place was real, or if he was.

John took one step, then another, Abigail mirroring his movements. They crashed into each other with the weight of the years between them as she leapt into his arms.

He stuttered and felt Abigail’s smile against his cheek. “You always did have that fine way with words.” 

His arm looped around her, hers around his shoulders, not letting go. How many nights had it been since he was alone? How many nights had he thought that she had finally done the right thing and left his sorry ass? How many times had he written and rewritten that letter begging her to come back, that he was building the life she had always dreamed of?

How many times had he cursed himself, having taken her and his son for granted? 

Jack stands tall behind his mother. John reached one arm out and placed it upon his head, “You doing alright, son?”

Jack swallowed, eyes still on the house. “Sure, pop. Can I go see the house?”

The “pop” hit him square in the chest. For a second, he couldn’t breathe around it.

“Sure,” John managed.

Jack didn’t need telling twice. He shot his mother a quick look, got a small nod, then took off at a run toward the porch, boots thudding on the steps. The dog bounded after him, claws scrabbling, tail flagging.

The screen door squealed as Jack shouldered it open. 

Abigail’s shoulders dropped a fraction, some tightness easing there. “Just give him some time… he’ll warm up,” she said quietly, eyes tracking the boy’s movement through the front windows. Then she looked back at John, really looked, her gaze traveling over the porch rail, visible past his shoulder. “It’s quite a place you got here.”

He swallowed, suddenly aware of every crooked board and scuffed plank. “It’s yours.”

Her eyes jumped back to his. Something flickered there—surprise, maybe, or hurt, or both. “Ours,” she corrected, and the way she said it made his chest ache. She glanced toward the doorway again. “I should see about that boy.”

She stepped past him, skirts brushing his leg, the familiar scent of her—dust and horse and soap and something underneath that was just Abigail—curling around him for a moment before the breeze stole it away. Her hand brushed his arm, light, almost accidental, and then she was on the steps, following Jack inside.

The dog hesitated.

He’d bounded up after Jack but stopped halfway, turning back to look at John with bright, assessing eyes. Then he padded down again, trotted over, and started circling him instead, sniffing at his boots, his jeans, the hem of his shirt. His tail swished thoughtfully. He let out a low, questioning woof.

John stared back at him. “Who’s my new rival?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

From the doorway, Abigail’s voice answered, dry and amused. “Oh, that’s Rufus, he’s… loyal, dumb, and angry… so he reminded us of you.”

John blinked, dragging his eyes from the dog to her. She was leaning against the doorframe now, one hand braced high, watching him with a look that slipped somewhere between fondness and exasperation.

“That your idea of a joke, miss?” he asked.

A corner of her mouth twitched. “I guess.”

The dog—Rufus—gave an agreeing bark, as if he’d been personally consulted.

John reached down, fingers brushing over coarse fur as the dog shoved his head under his hand, demanding more. It was ridiculous, how fast the simple, eager weight of that head against his palm made something tight inside him loosen just a notch.

“Come on,” Jack’s voice called from inside, a little breathless. “Ma! Rufus! Pop!”

The boy stood just inside the doorway, eyes bright now, pointing emphatically at something in the dim interior. Rufus whipped around at his name, nails scrabbling on the wood as he tore back up the steps.

Abigail pushed off the frame. She looked at John one more moment, something unreadable in her gaze.

“It’s a good start,” she said softly. “Now come show us the rest.”

—

The inside of the house smelled like cut wood and old smoke. For so long, “home” had just meant dust and leather and the stink of horse next to wherever the tent was set up.

Now there was the faint iron scent of the stove that he had yet to use and the sun-warmed dust drifting through the air in thin, golden spears.

Abigail’s boot heels thudded quietly on the plank floor as she stepped in. Jack followed, eyes everywhere, head swiveling with every new thing.

“This is the, uh… main room.” John cleared his throat. “Figure we can put more shelves up along that wall. Maybe a real table, someday. That one’s… borrowed.”

The table was old, its legs a little uneven, but it held. Two mismatched chairs sat on either side. A chipped tin plate had been left out next to an old coffee tin of nails. A single pewter candlestick burned low near the center.

Jack drifted toward it, fingertips skimming the table’s nicked surface. “We’re gonna live here?” he asked, not quite looking at either of them.

“If it suits your ma,” John said, keeping it light.

Abigail’s gaze flicked to him, something sharp passing behind her eyes. She walked instead toward the small iron stove against the far wall, running her hand along the edge. The stovepipe snaked up through the ceiling, patched with tin where he’d misjudged the fit the first time.

“You fixed that?” she asked quietly.

“Took a few tries.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Smoked the whole damn place out first time. Thought the roof’d catch for sure.”

Her lips twitched, a ghost of the old wry amusement he used to live for. “You always were impatient.”

“Still am,” he said, eyes on her hands. “Just… tryin’ to be impatient about different things now.”

She let that sit between them. Then she looked past him to the far doorway, where a rough frame hinted at another room. “And through there?”

He nodded. “Bedroom. Yours. Ours. If…” Words failed him. He let them fall.

Abigail turned her head just enough to glance at Jack. “And where’s his?”

“Back there.” John pointed to the short hallway he’d fought the damn boards over for two days. “Got him a bed. Ain’t much, but—”

“Can I see?” Jack cut in, the first real excitement in his voice.

“Go on,” Abigail said, with a small smile. “Careful of the nails.”

The boy shot off, boots clomping down the hall.

They both watched him go. The sound of a door scraping against a rough floor, a muted exclamation of, “Ma, there’s a window!” drifted back.

Abigail’s shoulders sagged, just a fraction. Some of the road-weary tension eased out of her spine. She exhaled slowly, eyes closing for half a heartbeat.

“I wanted it right,” John said, quiet now. He wasn’t sure if he was talking about the house or something else entirely.

She opened her eyes again, looking up at him. “You did all this yourself?”

“Charles and Uncle. Mainly Charles. You know Uncle ain’t doing any real work.”

That got a goggle out of her. He huffed a small, incredulous laugh in return. God, he’d missed this. Her. The way she cut right through nonsense and left him standing there with nothing but the truth.

From down the hall came the creak of bed slats and Jack’s delighted, “It’s soft!”

Abigail’s face eased in a way he hadn’t seen in years. She didn’t smile fully, not yet, but something loosened around her eyes.

“Bedroom?” she asked.

He jerked his head toward the curtained doorway. “Yeah. Uh. This way.”

—

The bedroom was small.

Not even a proper door yet—just a curtain hung from nails. The mattress sat low to the ground on a frame he’d cobbled from leftover planks and scavenged boards. A rough wool blanket lay on top, the gray softened by wear. Boxes and crates lined the walls, half-unpacked, some still with old ranch brands stamped faintly into the wood.

A chipped-enamel basin sat on the windowsill, half full of water that had gone slightly cloudy with dust. A cracked mirror leaned against the far wall, catching the last of the light and splitting it down the center.

“It’s not much,” John muttered, suddenly seeing every flaw. “The bed’s cobbled together. Floor’s still soft in the corner over there. Was gonna fix ‘em once I—”

Abigail wasn’t listening. She was already moving toward the window.

The holey curtain fluttered in the breeze that snuck in through the crooked frame. She caught it with two fingers and pushed it aside.

Outside, the land rolled away in scrub and dry grass, the fence line zigzagging like a scar through the field. Farther out, the ride flashed silver behind the low hill. The sky had tipped into that soft, bruised pink, the edges deepening into purple. Crickets and cicadas had begun their nightly din in the grass. A lone coyote yipped somewhere distant.

The first stars were pricking their way through the darkening blue, bright and cold and countless.

Abigail’s shoulders lifted and slowly dropped. She set one hand on the window frame like she needed to touch something solid.

John stepped up behind her almost without deciding to, drawn by some old, familiar pull. Close enough that he could see the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stir in the evening air. Close enough that the heat of her back seeped through his shirt.

He hovered there for a heartbeat, not quite touching.

“It’s all for you,” he mumbled near her ear, the words rough and rusty in his throat.

She didn’t answer. Not right away. Her fingers slid along the warped sill, tracing the dent where he’d mis-hit with the hammer and cursed for an hour.

Then he heard it: that soft sound she made, half snort, half disbelieving breath. The one she saved for when she thought he was being particularly foolish.

“Us, John,” she corrected, turning in his arms.

Her front pressed to his chest now, close and warm. “It’s for us.”

Something in him lurched. Then she was moving, closing the last inch of space between them, throwing her arms around his neck like she meant to knock him over.

He staggered back a step, caught off guard by the force of her. She had always been like that—more than she looked. Stronger than she let on. When she wanted something, she didn’t come softly.

She hadn’t touched him like this in so long. Not since before she left. Before she packed up the boy and what little they owned and walked out of his life again, too tired of his ghosts, too worn down by his actions, his disappearing acts, the way he carried his lawlessness around like a second skin.

But now she was here, pressed against him, her fingers digging into the back of his neck. Clutching like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.

His arms came around her waist on instinct. He buried his face against her neck, into the familiar, dizzying mixture of sweat and road-dust and the faint scent of soap she’d used. His eyes slid shut.

She was back.

God, she was back.

He didn’t know if he deserved it. Any of it. The land, the house, the boy down the hall. The woman in his arms. He didn’t know how a man like him got handed so many chances when so many never did.

But he’d built it all with her in mind. Every damn plank and nail. Every fence post he’d driven into this stubborn dirt. Every acre he’d fought to claim with blood and sweat and the ache in his bones. All of it had her shadow on it. Her voice in his head.

“Abi…” he whispered into the notch of her shoulder.

She made a quiet sound and pulled back just enough to see his face.

Her hands slid down his chest, fingers brushing over the sweat-stiff front of his leather vest. He watched her watching him, her gaze flicking over the new creases at the corners of his eyes, the rough stubble along his jaw, the scar near his collar where a bullet had grazed him before all this.

Then her eyes dropped.

Her brow furrowed faintly in thought, like she’d come to some decision.

Slowly, carefully, she started to unbutton his vest.

His breath caught.

Her fingers were steady, despite the faint tremble along her bottom lip. She worked each button loose, the soft clink of it almost loud in the quiet room. The vest pulled a little where sweat had dried, and she had to tug.

John didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

He just watched her.

There was something reverent in it. Like she was unwrapping a memory she’d kept folded away somewhere she didn’t look too often.

When she reached the last button, she eased the leather off his shoulders. It slid down his arms with a whisper and dropped to the floor in a soft, heavy heap.

He stood there like a fool—boots still on. Shirt half-unbuttoned from the heat. Hair a tangled, sweat-damp mess around his face. Her eyes moved over him like she was reading him line by line, looking for where the words had changed.

He opened his mouth, intending to say something—anything.

He never got the chance.

He moved instead.

He kicked his boots off with a graceless grunt, one heel thumping off the frame of the bed. His fingers fumbled at his belt, clumsy and all thumbs now that she was this close, smelling like dust and road and the faintest hint of the perfume she saved for when she felt like remembering what it was to be wanted.

But she was already stepping into him again, closing the space. Her hands flattened on his chest, right over his racing heart. She pushed up on her toes, and her mouth found his before he could say another word.

The kiss was slow. Deep. Not tentative—there was nothing tentative about Abigail—but careful in a way that made his throat burn. Her lips were warm and sure against his, moving with the same stubborn focus she brought to every damn thing in her life. Her fingers slid up, into his hair, threading through the tangled strands at the nape of his neck.

Heat rushed through him, fierce and sudden. His knees felt a little loose.

He felt twenty-two again. Felt like some fool-boy in her tent, boots still on, hat nervously twisting in his hands, staring at the girl on the cot, who’d told him her name was Abigail, but he could call her Abi if he wanted. A girl that Uncle had fetched from a brothel in town to live amongst them.

He’d gone back to her, week after week, burning through what little money he had. She’d taken it with a practiced hand and a neutral face. He’d given it freely anyway. Half-aware, even then, that it wasn’t just the sex. It was the way she sometimes smiled at him without meaning to. The way she’d laugh, sudden and bright, when he said something stupid. The way her eyes sharpened when she looked at him like she could see everything he wasn’t saying.

He’d never really known how much money had gone into her coin purse, never tracked it proper. He just knew that every time he walked out of her tent, he felt both emptier and more full than he ever had in his life.

Abigail pulled away only long enough to drag in a ragged breath. Her hands slid down his chest, catching the edges of his shirt. Then, in one smooth motion, she took her blouse by the hem and tugged it over her head.

She shook her hair free and let the blouse drop onto the bed. Her skin was flushed from the ride, a faint line of dust marking where her collar had lain. The chemise beneath was thin from wear, the swell of her breasts visible in the low light.

His mouth went dry.

She reached for his shirt next, fingers deft on the buttons. He let her undo them one by one, his chest heaving under her touch. When she had them all, she pushed the fabric off his shoulders. It snagged at his wrists; he shook free.

Their mouths crashed together again, this time less careful, more desperate. They stumbled toward the bed, bumping shins and catching toes, neither of them truly caring.

He caught her around the waist when she tripped on a loose board, his hand sliding up the smooth span of her back beneath her chemise. Her skin was hot and damp with sweat, her spine a familiar, perfect curve under his palm.

“John,” she breathed against his mouth, the sound breaking on the edges of his name.

He didn’t remember getting his belt undone. Didn’t remember his trousers hitting the floor. Everything blurred. The scrape of fabric, the thud of boots shoving aside, the soft rip of a thread giving way.

He remembered her hands, though.

The way they moved over him like she’d never forgotten a single inch. Callused now from honest work—laundry, scrubbing, hauling—but still softer than his. Her fingers traced the ridge of his ribs, the old scar along his side, the place on his bicep where a bullet had once lain deep.

She sat back on the bed and tugged her skirt up, then off, kicking it aside. Stockings followed, rolled down, and tossed into the vague direction of the crates. She peeled her chemise over her head last, leaving her bare in front of him, the lamplight painting shadows in the hollow of her throat.

He stopped breathing.

“Abi…” he said again, a little helplessly.

“Don’t you start apologizing now,” she said, voice rough but steady. “You can do that in the mornin’.. Right now I just want you to—”

He cut her off with another kiss, less neat this time. His hands found her hips and pulled her toward him, fingers sinking into warm, familiar flesh. She parted her thighs without prompting, knees bracketing his hips as he climbed onto the mattress.

The rough wool scratched his knees. The bed frame creaked under their weight but held.

He cupped her breast in one hand, thumb sliding over the peaked, flushed nipple. She gasped into his mouth, her back arching, pressing herself more firmly into his palm. He kissed down her jaw, along the column of her throat, tasting salt and dust and something underneath that was just her.

He grazed his teeth along the tender tendon where neck met shoulder. She sucked in a sharp breath, fingers tightening in his hair.

“You remember,” she said, half-accusation, half-delight.

“I remember every damn thing,” he muttered against her skin.

He dragged his mouth lower, over the swell of one breast, then the other, circling her nipple with his tongue before closing his lips around it. She made a sound then—a low, broken sigh that went straight to his gut. He sucked gently, then harder, his hand kneading the other breast.

Her legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into his lower back to haul him closer. He could feel the heat of her through the last barrier of cloth between them, could feel how she shifted and rolled her hips, seeking friction.

“John,” she breathed. “Please.”

He didn’t want to rush. God knew, they’d rushed enough in their lives. But he was only a man. And she was Abigail. And she was beneath him, real and warm and wanting.

He slid his hand down, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her stomach, the softness of the hair between her thighs. He found her slick and ready, heat pulsing against his fingertips.

She jolted when he stroked her, eyes flying open. “Oh.”

He couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. “Jesus, Abi.”

She caught his wrist, not to stop him but to guide him, urging him a little higher, a little firmer. He obeyed, pressing his thumb where she was most sensitive and working her with slow, careful circles. Her head tipped back, neck baring, lips parting on a soft, helpless moan.

“John, I—Jack,” she gasped suddenly, eyes snapping open, some habit of caution flaring. “The boy—”

“Asleep,” he panted. “Room’s down the hall. Door’s shut. We’ll be quiet.”

She let out a choked laugh. “You ain’t never been quiet a day in your life.”

He grinned, teeth flashing, and leaned in to kiss her again, swallowing the next sound she made as his finger slipped inside her. She clenched around him, wet and hot, and his whole body shuddered.

“Abi,” he rasped against her mouth, “if you keep doin’ that I ain’t gonna make it.”

“Then don’t,” she said, words slurring against his lips.

She pushed at his shoulder, urging him onto his back. Surprised, he let her. The mattress creaked as he settled, hair fanning out on the thin pillow. She swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. For a second, she just sat there, breathing hard, eyes roaming his face, chest, stomach, as if cataloguing each new scar carved into him since she’d last had him like this.

Her hand slid down between them, fingers curling around him, firm and sure. He swore, hips jerking up. She held him steady, the head of his cock nudging against her slick folds.

Their eyes locked.

“Abi,” he said, because he didn’t know what else there was.

“John,” she answered, voice soft but fierce. “Shut up.”

She sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.

The sound he made was not fit for any church. His fingers shot out, gripping her hips so hard he knew he’d leave bruises. Heat wrapped around him, tight and wet and perfect, her body stretching to take him in.

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for years.

The sound she made—low, rough, relief and need and grief and love all tangled together—broke right in his ear. It reached inside him and pulled something loose. He stayed still, jaw clenched, every muscle locked, letting her adjust. Her hands planted on his chest, fingers splayed wide, feeling the frantic drum of his heart beneath her palms.

After a moment, she rolled her hips.

His vision went white around the edges.

“Shit, Abigail—” he choked, voice harsh. “I’m gonna—”

Her thighs tightened around him. She ground down again, slower this time, savoring the drag of him inside her. “Good.”

He’d wanted to make this last—wanted to take her apart piece by piece like he used to, learn every new way her body liked to be touched now that time and life had carved more into both of them.

But his body had never learned patience when it came to her.

His shoulders began to heave, breaths punching out of him in ragged bursts. The tight pull in his gut coiled sharp and fast, like a looped rope dragged too quickly through callused hands. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her hips, guiding her movements without meaning to.

She leaned down as he started to come undone, bracing her hands on either side of his head. Her hair fell around them in a dark curtain, shutting out the rest of the world. 

He buried his face against her neck to muffle the groan tearing out of his chest, his hips jerking up into her with a rough, helpless rhythm.

She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked—hard.

Just like she used to in those early days, when there’d been no illusions of anything like love on either side. When he was still paying and she was still pretending he didn’t mean more to her than any of the others did.

“John…” she gasped, his name cracking apart in the middle.

That was it.

That was the end of him.

He slammed up into her once, twice, and then he was gone, coming with a low, guttural sound that he couldn’t have stopped if someone had held a gun to his head.

Pleasure ripped through him in hot, blinding pulses. He felt himself spill inside her, each thick surge dragging a broken groan from the back of his throat. His hands flew up her back, holding her to him like he thought she might fly apart if he let go.

Her thighs trembled around his hips. Her breaths hitched, then stuttered. He felt the shift in her, the way her body tightened all at once, heat flaring almost painfully around him. She shuddered, a desperate mewl breaking free as her own release rolled through her. Her inner muscles clenched, milking every last drop from him.

She buried her face in his neck as she shook, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to hurt. He welcomed the sting. It meant she was there. It meant this was real.

The room slowly came back into focus—the creak of the bedframe, the wind brushing at the curtain, the faint chorus of crickets just outside the thin walls.

And still—he stayed inside her.

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t even think to.

There had been a time when he would’ve. A time when every touch between them was measured by practicality and fear and the knowledge that their world didn’t exactly reward softness.

He was so goddamn tired of fear.

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled carefully, bringing her under him without losing their connection. The bed protested, but held. She made a faint sound of surprise, then a small, wry noise that was almost a laugh.

He settled his weight on his forearms so he wouldn’t crush her, his chest rising and falling against hers, their hearts beating too fast in tandem.

He didn’t want a barrier between them. Not anymore.

Let the world burn down.

He was home.

His head dropped to her shoulder, forehead pressing into the sweat-damp skin there. He felt the steady thud of her pulse against his lips.

For a few long moments, neither of them moved. Their breaths gradually slowed, syncing, the frantic thunder in his chest easing into something slower, steadier.

Her fingers slid up into his hair again. This time, they were gentle. She pushed the sweaty strands from his face, tucking them back behind his ears. They fell loose again almost immediately.

She did it a second time anyway.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t, just yet. His throat felt too tight for words.

But she did.

“I missed you, John,” she said quietly.

There was no drama in it. No accusation. Just simple truth, laid bare between them like everything else.

He drew in a long, grateful breath against her neck before lifting his head. Their foreheads touched lightly, noses almost bumping. Up close like this, he could see every fleck of gold in her brown eyes, every tired line life had carved into her face.

She was smiling.

It wasn’t big, not the wild grin she sometimes let slip when Jack did something unexpectedly funny, or when the world surprised her in some small kindness. But it was real. And it was for him.

He almost cried.

“Christ, Abi’ darlin’,” he whispered, voice rough. “I ain’t nothin’ without you.”

Her smile softened at the corners. “Stop your silliness,” she chided, the familiar phrase rolling easily off her tongue.

But he saw it. The way her lip trembled for half a second. The way her eyes went wet again, tears catching on her lashes before she blinked them back.

She ran her fingers through his hair once more, smoothing it back. It immediately fell forward again over his brow. She huffed a fond, exasperated little breath.

“Gonna have to cut this,” she murmured.

“You always say that,” he said. “Never could deny you when you came at me with them scissors.”

She snorted softly. “That’s ‘cause you turn into a big baby soon as I nick your ear.”

“Only got two of ‘em,” he protested mildly. “Figure I oughta keep ‘em.”

Her hand drifted down, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck. She let her palm rest flat over his heart, feeling the steady beat there.

Their son was asleep down the hall in the room John had built with his own blistered hands. A boy who deserved far better than the man he’d been given. A boy John finally wanted—more than anything—to be good enough for.

She was beneath him, warm and spent, their bodies still joined, his softening cock still nestled inside her, the last evidence of what they'd just done slowly easing into a sweet, sticky warmth between them.

The curtain stirred in a faint breeze, the edge of it brushing against his bare calf. Outside, a coyote called again, farther away this time. The house held around them, walls solid, roof intact.

He didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky. Didn’t know how he hadn’t ruined it beyond repair. He’d done everything in his power to destroy himself, and somehow, somehow, she was still here. In his house. In their bed.

“John,” she said after a while, her voice low. “You gonna fall asleep on top of me?”

He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “Thinkin’ about it.”

“Mm.” Her fingers traced idle circles on his chest. “Jack’s gonna come lookin’ in the mornin’.”

“He can find us,” John said. “Ain’t runnin’ no more.”

She studied him, eyes searching. “You say that now.”

“I mean it,” he said, more fiercely than he intended. “I ain’t goin’ back to what I was. Ain’t leavin’ this land, this house. You. Him.” He swallowed. “Not unless someone drags my cold body off it.”

Abigail’s eyes softened in that way that made his chest ache. “Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s the only way I know how to say it,” he admitted. “Ain’t good with pretty words, Abby. Never was. But I built this place thinkin’ of you. Every damn day. Got up swingin’ a hammer with your voice in my head tellin’ me the boards weren’t square. Went to sleep on the floor imaginin’ you complainin’ ‘bout how cold it was, how drafty.”

She smiled, small but bright. “Was I very loud in your head?”

“Always have been,” he said. “Hope you never shut up.”

She laughed then, a quiet, breathless little thing. She leaned up to brush her lips against his, soft, chaste after everything they’d just done.

“You ain’t gotta be perfect,” she murmured. “Just gotta stay. Do the work. Be here when the boy wakes up.”

“I can do that,” he said. “I swear to you, Abigail. I can do that.”

“We’ll see,” she said, but there was no real doubt in her voice. Only tired hope.

She shifted beneath him, and he finally, reluctantly, eased out of her. The loss of her warmth around him made him shiver. She hissed softly at the sensation, then exhaled, legs relaxing.

He rolled to his side, gathering her against him, pulling the blanket up over them both. She came easily, fitting her body to his like she always had, back to his chest, his arm snug around her waist.

He pressed a kiss into the unruly hair at the back of her head.

“Sleep,” she murmured, already halfway there. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

His truck is old and beat up, the kind of Chevy that rattles when you roll down the window and smells like pine air freshener, motor oil, and the Marlboros the man chain smokes. That warm, leathery scent you swear clings to your skin after he has held you too long.

The two of you parked just outside of town, far enough that the lights fade and the grass swallows sound. The field hums with crickets and cicadas and low country wind, the truck bed cushioned with old flannel blankets and a couple of pillows stolen off his couch. Arthur’s got one arm behind his head, the other curled lazily around your waist as you lie across his chest, the rise and fall of him steady beneath your cheek. His fingers trail soft, absentminded circles against your lower back, occasionally slipping under the hem of your tank top.

Above you, the sky flashes — the first firework goes off with a low whump, a golden burst that lights up his stubble-shadowed jaw.

“You see that one?” he murmurs, voice low and lazy.

You hum against him, tilting your head back so you can catch his smirk. “You askin’ like I’ve got my eyes closed or something.”

Arthur chuckles. “Well, you’re lyin’ on me like I’m a goddamn mattress. Thought maybe you fell asleep.”

You draw a slow circle with your finger on his chest, right over his t-shirt — a worn grey one, clinging just enough to let you feel the muscle underneath. “You’re the one breathin’ like an old dog in the sun.”

“Ol’ dog, huh?” He raises a brow, catching your hand with his. “You’re feelin’ real bold tonight.”

“Might be,” you say, and wiggle a little closer.

Another firework booms, this one a bouquet of blue and green, and it lights up the side of his face just long enough for you to see the glint in his eye. His beaten-up old ball cap is pushed back behind his head, and the tips of his hair that escape are tousled from your fingers already. He looks too good under an open sky like this. That golden boy grin, those thick arms, the veins on his forearms flexing every time he shifts to hold you tighter.

“You smell like motor oil and sweat,” you tease softly.

He shrugs. “Ain’t that what gets you goin’?”

You grin. “You think a greasy mechanic with a bad attitude and a busted truck is my type?”

“Don’t think you got much room to deny it.”

You tilt your head up and kiss him — slow and warm, a little smirking thing that deepens the second his mouth parts for yours. He makes a low noise, something like a growl, and his hand slides down your back, fingers flexing on your hip. He kisses you like he has all night and no rush to get there. Lazy and full.

Another firework cracks the silence, and you jump just slightly. Arthur smirks against your lips. “Aw, you scared?”

You murmur against his jaw, “Not scared. Just distracted.”

“By me?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you let your hand drift. From his chest, to his stomach — slow, teasing — fingers brushing the edge of his jeans, feeling that warm line of skin just beneath his shirt. He goes still under you.

“Oh,” he says, a little breathless now, “you’re up to no good, ain’t you?”

You keep your voice soft. “Thought you liked when I was trouble.”

He’s already hardening under your hand — not full yet, but getting there. You kiss down the side of his neck, feeling that pulse hammer under your lips. His fingers tighten at your waist.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “you don’t waste time.”

You prop yourself up just enough to look at him, smirking. “Should I stop?”

“Hell no,” he growls, pupils blown and suddenly darker than the sky.

You grin and undo the top button of his jeans, real slow, watching his face the whole time. He watches you right back, jaw tight, chest rising with every breath. The fireworks keep going - a red one, then gold, then blue again, and the color flashes over both of you in waves.

You ease the zipper down and slide your hand inside. Arthur hisses through his teeth.

“Goddamn,” he mutters.

You tug him out, slow and deliberate, until you’ve got him in your hand. Already thick and twitching under your palm. You stroke him gently at first, just enough to make him buck his hips once, then still, like he’s trying to behave.

But he’s not good at behaving. Not when it’s you.

Your voice is like honey when you lean down and whisper in his ear. “You always this hard just layin’ with me?”

He groans. “You always this mean?”

“Not mean,” you say, wrapping your hand tighter around him. “Just like seein’ you lose that rough cowboy act.”

“Ain’t no cowboy,” he grits out, though he’s already panting. “You’re the one makin’ me act up.”

You lean in and kiss him again — deeper now, teeth dragging his bottom lip — and your hand keeps working him in slow strokes that twist just right. He lets out a strangled sound into your mouth, hips shifting under you.

Then you feel his hand slide down, gripping your ass tight, fingers digging in. “Goddamn tease,” he growls.

“You like it,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he pants, “I like it. Like that little hand of yours on my cock. Like that mouth talkin’ dirty in my ear.”

You kiss him again, let your teeth graze his neck. “You gonna be good and let me finish you?”

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he grunts, “ain’t got much of a choice.”

Another firework goes off — a massive gold burst — and it lights up the sweat on his brow, the flushed red climbing down his neck. You keep stroking him, wrist twisting just so, thumb teasing the head. He’s a mess now. Groaning softly, head tipped back, thighs twitching.

“You look so good like this,” you whisper. “All worked up, beggin’ me.”

“I ain’t beggin’-” he tries, but you tighten your grip, stroke him faster, and he chokes on the rest.

“Oh, you’re gonna,” you purr. “You want it that bad, don’t you?”

He growls low. “God, you’re filthy.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he gasps. “Fuck, I do.”

You kiss him again, hard and wet, hand working him faster now. He bucks into your touch with a groan, grabbing your ass with both hands now like he needs something to hold onto, or he is gonna fly apart.

“C’mon, baby,” you whisper against his ear. “Wanna feel you lose it. Right here. Under the fireworks. Just like this.”

He’s panting now. “You -fuck, you keep doin’ that-”

“You gonna come for me?” you tease, squeezing just right. “Gonna make a mess all over my hand?”

“Jesus,” he groans, voice shaking. “Yeah. Yeah, baby, fuck- don’t stop-”

You don’t. You stroke him faster, twisting at the top, eyes locked on his face. He’s beautiful like this - all flushed and wrecked, gasping your name, begging without even realizing he is.

Another explosion lights up the sky, a roaring finale, and under it, Arthur groans deep in his chest, hips jerking as he spills hot into your hand.

You stroke him through it, slow and gentle again, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear while his body shakes beneath you. He’s cussing low, breath hitching, hand still clamped tight to your hip like he needs to ground himself.

When it’s over, he collapses back against the blanket with a ragged sigh, chest heaving.

“God damn,” he mutters, voice wrecked.

You grin down at him, wiping your hand on the edge of the blanket. “Better than fireworks?”

He cracks one eye open and smiles that lazy, ruined smile. “Darlin’, you’re better than anythin’ they could put in the sky.”

You roll your eyes, then stretch out beside him again, tucking your head against his chest. He pulls you in tighter, kisses the top of your head, still catching his breath.