#bigsky

One month later.

The world was different.

Still messy. Still imperfect.

But better.

Because every morning now, Beau woke up with you curled against him — your hair a wild tangle on his chest, your soft breath warming his skin.

And he didn’t flinch at every sound anymore. Didn’t dream about gunshots and blood every night.

Not because the ghosts were gone — but because you were there.

You stayed.

Some mornings, he found little yellow sticky notes in the strangest places.

Tucked into the mirror of his truck:

"You survived hell. Now go live."

Folded into his boot:

"Today, you're stronger than yesterday."

Stuck to the coffee pot:

"You're my favorite reason to wake up."

And every time he found one, Beau’s chest would ache in the best way — full of pride and love and a kind of peace he thought he’d never get to have.

Nights were even better.

Sitting on the back porch wrapped up in old quilts, a fire crackling lazily in the pit, stars smeared across the black sky.

You'd lean your head on his shoulder, tracing little shapes on his arm with your fingertips.

Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t.

It didn’t matter.

Just being close was enough.

Other nights — tickle fights broke out across the living room floor.

Breathless laughter echoing off the walls, Beau pretending to be scandalized when you tackled him onto the couch.

"Darlin'," he gasped dramatically once, "you’re assaultin’ a man of the law!"

You only grinned, straddling his hips and tickling harder until he surrendered with a laugh so pure it made your heart ache.

Beau still came to the diner sometimes — sitting at his usual booth, arms folded, trying to look stern.

But every time you walked by with a pot of coffee, he caught your wrist and tugged you down for a quick, sneaky kiss.

"Sir," you’d say in a mock-offended voice, "this is a place of business."

He'd just grin, his green eyes wicked and warm. "Reckon the coffee tastes better with a kiss in it."

You always turned bright red. He always loved it.

At home — it was stupid little things that made it feel real.

Sharing a bathroom. Arguing about where to put the ketchup in the fridge. Slow dancing barefoot in the kitchen at midnight to songs crackling from an old radio.

Patching each other's bruises when clumsiness got the better of you. Stealing each other's hoodies. Sneaking kisses when nobody was looking — even when there wasn’t anyone to hide from.

And through it all — through every morning kiss, every bad cup of coffee, every Post-it note stuck to his steering wheel — Beau realized something he never thought he'd have again.

He wasn’t surviving anymore.

He was living.

With you.