Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The farm stretched out in every direction, pastures swelling and dipping golden like waves. Everything here was quiet. The hum of early summer bugs playing their soundtrack, the breeze that swayed through stalks of wheat growing in the fields. The sunrise always caught the crops and creeped its way over the porch where Louis stood, cigar hanging loosely from dry lips from the thick July heat.

The Tomlinson Ranch almost looked peaceful. Almost.

But as his tired eyes scanned over the unkempt fences and rotting wood on the barn, it felt more like the place might swallow him whole than bring any semblance of peace.

The worn planks of the porch creaked under his boots as he stood, one hand holding the cigar to his mouth, the other lifeless at his side, like the effort of moving a single muscle there wasn’t worth his energy. Not that early at least. 

His list of work never ended, not out here in the middle of the West where your neighbor was a speck in the distance and the nearest town was only accessible by horse. The ranch seemed to swallow responsibility over the years alongside of typical chores of the farm; take the cattle out to pasture, tend the crops, deliver the yield, fix the tool shed, rebuild fences, gather firewood. And that just scratched the surface. There would always be something demanding his time, energy, blood, sweat, and tears.

But, that’s not what really bothered him. Louis had always been able to handle a little dirt, some blood on his knuckles, some hard labor in the sun. Hell, he’d become friends with the dull ache in his shoulder from a gunshot wound from his younger days testing the limits of the law. He didn’t even mind the quiet routine to his days.

What he couldn’t handle was the stillness. The deathlike pause of life that pressed down on his chest, turned quiet moments into something heavier and made soft edges cut sharp in a moments notice. 

“Louis.”

The sound of his name snapped him back into the present. Louis turned toward the doorway, eyes squinting from the rising sun, and found Maggie standing there. Her long, blonde hair was pulled up artfully, a few loose strands framing a face he wasn’t sure he recognized anymore. She was a sight he’d never seen before; skirt fitted, buttons polished, blouse crisp white and untainted. It all was a far contrast to the state of their marriage.

“You gonna stand there all day,” she finally asked, “or are you actually gonna do some work ‘round here?”

Louis’ jaw ached right on the joint, the way it always did when his teeth clenched tight enough. He’d spent the last week tending the crops that had flooded from the spring rain, fixing the barn doors, painting the house, working on every task she had asked him to and she had the nerve…

“I have been. All week, actually,” he cut her off, jutting his chin toward the barn. “Fixed your barn doors and painted your shutters. Would have gotten a lot more important things done if you hadn’t been so picky about my task list.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow, but the rest of her expression was unreadable. She finally stepped out from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest as the morning breeze tugged at her hair. But her posture was rigid, like despite the years of Louis seeing her softness, she had to hide it behind a facade like it never existed.

“Well, I’ll write you an apology note later.” She nodded toward the dirt path from their porch to the front gates where a half-tilled garden she had been meaning to start stretched awkwardly along the fence-line. “David is coming by. Has some tools that aren’t rustin’, said he’d help us finish that garden I wanted.” 

David. The sound of his name hit Louis like a stampede. His hands reflexively tightened into fists and his mouth pressed into a thin line. He stubbed his cigar out on the ashtray on the porches ledge and blew out a sigh.

David. Their neighbor, if you could count acres over the hillside a neighbor. The man who always had the tool Louis had just broke, the one who always had time to lend Maggie a hand, the one who always showed up when Louis was gone, the one who always kept Maggie late into the night because ‘thats just when dinner gets served at David’s ranch.’ Right.

“I don’t need his help,” Louis muttered. He turned his back to her, looking out at the unfinished project. “Just need time.”

“The farm is consuming you. You do need help, Louis,” she huffed, her boot stomping against the warped wooden boards of the porch. 

“Not from the man sleeping with my wife,” Louis hissed, head whipping around toward her. 

She didn’t even flinch. She’d heard it from him too many times, and he knew it wouldn’t land. Wouldn’t even strike near her heart. “I’m not doing this with you,” she said, unimpressed. 

Louis just scuffed his boot on the porch before stepping down the steps, shaking his head. “You never do.”

—

The heat in the barn was sweltering thanks to the sun rays peeking through the broken slats on the roof. Louis had been at it for the better part of the morning, sleeves rolled up, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. The old wagon sat in the center of the floor, one axle snapped clean, the other hanging on by a prayer. He’d already gone through every tool that wasn’t rusted through and had nothing to show for it but grease-streaked palms and a mounting sense of failure he couldn’t shake.

He grunted, pulled back from under the wagon, and sat against a beam, wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt. His breath came slow, heavy. His body ached in that old familiar way, the one that said he could keep going, but not much longer.

The wheel leaned like a drunk against the frame, useless. The job would take at least two pairs of hands and a better jack than the bent one rusting in the corner. Louis cursed under his breath and stood, stiffly brushing the hay from the back of his pants. He gave the wagon one last look like it might fix itself if he stared hard enough. It didn’t. Nothing ever did.

By noon, he had the goods loaded; two sacks of potatoes, some onions, a few jars of preserves Maggie had put up last fall when things between them were still halfway civil. They sat in the saddlebags like guilt. He added a bushel of carrots, tucked a “Help Wanted” flyer under the flap of his coat, and saddled up Blue, the only thing on the property that hadn’t quit on him.

The ride into town was slow, the sun hanging high and mean above the hills. The dirt road stretched ahead in a long, bone-dry line, the heat coming off it in thick, warping waves. Louis kept his head down, hat low, letting Blue find the pace. There wasn’t any hurry, just another chore to cross off, another thing to survive. He passed the old Miller property on the way in, long since abandoned. Fences sagged, paint peeled, and weeds grew wild up the porch posts. Sometimes he wondered how long it would take before his place started looking the same.

Town was quiet when he arrived, just the way he liked it. He hitched Blue outside the general store, stretched the stiffness out of his legs, and grabbed the saddlebags. The screen door creaked as he stepped inside, the air cool and dusty, lit by late sunlight filtering through warped windowpanes.

“Tomlinson,” came a nod from behind the counter.

Louis returned it with a grunt, placing the goods down. “Brought what I had.”

He fished the flyer from his coat, unfolded it, and slid it across the counter. “Mind puttin’ that in the window?”

The storekeep gave it a glance, then a slow nod. “Not a lot of folks lookin’ for work these days.”

“I ain’t lookin’ for a lot of folks,” Louis said. “Just one.”

The man pinned the flyer beside an old notice about a church bake sale and a hand-drawn sketch of a missing dog from two summers back. It looked almost comical next to the clean ink of Louis’ block-lettered HELP WANTED sign. But it was up. That was enough.

Louis stepped back outside and leaned against the porch post, watching the street breathe. The wind kicked up dirt. A wagon clattered by, drawn by a gray mule too tired to protest the weight behind it. Life moved slow out here, and sometimes not at all. He saddled up again, Blue shifting under him like he already knew they weren’t headed straight back. The reins felt heavy in Louis’ hands, fingers curled tight like he was holding on to something that was slipping anyway.

He didn’t take the main trail out. Didn’t even glance toward the turnoff that led straight home. Instead, he gave Blue a nudge toward the long loop around the ridge, the trail that wrapped wide through the valley, past the dry creekbed and the burned-out old chapel that still leaned west in the wind. It’d add a good hour to the ride, maybe more if Blue took his time.

Louis wasn’t in a hurry. Not today.

He could already picture it. Maggie’s absence dressed up in excuses. A note on the kitchen table, maybe. “Went to town,” scrawled lazy in her handwriting. Like he didn’t know what “town” meant. Like he hadn’t already read every chapter of that story cover to cover.

Better to stretch the ride. Better to feel the silence of the trail than the silence of the house.

The path curved gentle through scrub and stone, the air hot but still. A jackrabbit darted across the road ahead, disappearing into brush. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried out, sharp and lonely. Louis kept his head low, hat brim cutting the sun, mind turning over slow. He used to take this trail with her. Back when they were still young enough to think they had time. She used to laugh up here, holler out across the open like she belonged to the sky. He hadn’t heard that sound in years. Now she laughed at David’s table, with a full plate and a glass of something cold. Probably touched his hand when she thought no one was looking. Probably didn’t care if they were.

Louis reached the ridge and paused, letting Blue rest. The land stretched out before him wide, harsh, and unforgiving. Just like Maggie had become. Just like he’d let her. He didn’t feel anger. Not now. That part had burned out weeks ago. What was left was quieter. A kind of tired that didn’t sleep off. A hollow where love used to live.

He reached for the canteen at his hip, drank what was left, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The wind kicked up around them, tossing dust into the air. It stung his eyes, but he didn’t blink. He could stay out here a little longer. Let the sun fall lower. Let the quiet stretch just a bit more.

Blue shifted under him again, ready to move. Louis gave the reins a tug, slow and steady.

They started down the back side of the ridge, hooves thudding soft against the packed earth. The light had changed, deeper now, casting long shadows that stretched out ahead like ghosts of old versions of himself. Ones that still waited for Maggie to come back with clean hands and good intentions.

He didn’t miss those versions. They were fools.

It was nearly dusk by the time the roofline of the ranch came into view, the chimney stark against the gold fading into indigo behind it. There were no lamps lit. No smoke from the flue. No sign of life on the porch. Just as he figured.

He didn’t dismount right away. Just sat there on Blue, watching the stillness. Part of him hoped maybe she was inside, pacing or cooking or pretending like she hadn’t been gone all day. Part of him knew better. Knew the silence of a house that wasn’t waiting on anyone.

Louis finally climbed down, boots hitting dry earth with a quiet thud. He led Blue to the post, unfastened the saddlebags, and let the gelding nuzzle into the trough without tying him. Blue never wandered far. He always came back.

Louis walked up the porch steps slow, every board groaning like it recognized the weight of a man too used to disappointment. The screen door creaked open easy. Inside, the air was stale, unmoved. The kitchen was dark.

No note. Not even the courtesy of a lie.

He dropped the saddlebags on the table harder than he meant to and stood there a moment, breathing through his nose, jaw tight. Maggie’s apron still hung on the hook by the stove, untouched. Her boots were gone. She wouldn’t be back tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either.

Beyond his reflection, the porch was dark. The fields, darker still. He could see the fence line from there; at least the part that still stood. Beyond it, the barn with the caved-in roof. The coop with the broken latch. The leaning shed. The sagging gutters. The south field that hadn’t been plowed since last season. All of it sat heavy in his chest. A slow, pressing weight.

He didn’t have the hands. Not anymore.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled the folded copy of the flyer he’d kept for himself. The corners were soft, the crease worn nearly through. He flattened it on the counter.

It wasn’t just a flyer. It was the only plan he had left. A long shot. A maybe. A last-ditch reach toward something—someone—that might breathe life back into this place long enough for him to let go with some dignity. Because that’s what it was now. Not fixing. Not saving. Just surviving long enough to pass it on.

He was going to sell it. The land, the house, the barn, the dead garden, the good saddle. All of it. Too much for one man to hold onto, especially a man who’d run out of reasons to.

But he couldn’t walk away just yet. Not while there were still debts to square and repairs to finish and Maggie’s damn chickens to wrangle back into their coop every other day. He needed help. Just a set of hands, even temporary. Just enough to carry the weight until he could put it down for good.

He left the flyer on the counter and walked back out to the porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him. The breeze had picked up, soft and dry, curling around the edges of the house like it was trying to get in. Louis sank into the old rocking chair with a low grunt, the wood creaking under him as he leaned back and stretched his legs out.

From where he sat, he could see everything and nothing—shadows on top of shadows, the outlines of what used to be a working ranch now fading into the night. He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down over his mouth like he could scrub off the day, the years, the weight.

There’d been a time when he would’ve gone looking for her. Saddled back up and ridden toward the valley, toward the lantern light at David’s porch, ready to throw a punch or demand an answer. But that time was long gone. Now, he just sat there. He didn’t light a lamp. Didn’t pour a drink. Just let the dark settle, heavy and honest.

Tomorrow, maybe, someone would show. Maybe they’d see the flyer and knock on the door like they belonged there. Maybe they’d have dirt under their nails and sun on their face and no questions in their eyes. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d wake up and keep working alone. Rebuild what he could, let the rest rot.

But tonight, he’d sit.

He watched the stars blink to life above the ridge, one by one, slow and steady. Somewhere behind him, the old wind chime Maggie had picked out from the summer market clinked once. The sound barely reached him. And still, Louis didn’t move.

He stared out at the horizon where the land met the stars. Thought about the chores still waiting tomorrow. Thought about the things he hadn’t said in years. Thought about a man sitting across from him, not talking much, maybe just there.

Someone who didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer.

Someone with the right hands.

He exhaled, slow and sure. The smoke curled up into the air and vanished.

The wind had died sometime after midnight, leaving the porch wrapped in a thick, unmoving stillness. The kind that pressed in on you, settled behind your ribs, made everything feel heavier than it was. Louis hadn’t meant to fall asleep out there, he just meant to rest his eyes, maybe breathe a little quieter for once. But the next thing he knew, his neck ached from the angle of the chair, and the sky had shifted from black to that deep slate-blue just before dawn.

His hand twitched on the armrest. His back popped when he sat up straighter. The air was cooler now, crisp enough to raise goosebumps on his arms, and the smell of something unfamiliar drifted past his nose, something sweet and sharp. Liquor. Cheap perfume. Then he heard it—the soft squeal of the screen door, eased open like someone didn’t want to be heard.

Louis didn’t move. Just opened his eyes slow and kept still in the shadows, half-covered by the porch post. He could see her now, barely, a flash of pale leg, boots in one hand, hair falling messy down her back. Maggie.

She knew he was there. She didn’t look his way, but she moved like someone being watched. Light on her feet, careful with her steps, like if she was quiet enough, maybe he’d let her slip past without a word. Like he hadn’t seen this same scene too many times already.

Louis watched her reach for the doorframe, fingers fumbling for balance. Her head dipped down, shoulders tight, every motion thick with guilt she didn’t care enough to wear properly. She paused there for a second, just long enough to listen for the creak of the rocking chair, maybe hoping he was still asleep. Still dreaming. Still too tired to call her on it.

But he wasn’t any of those things.

Louis stood. The wood groaned beneath his boots, sharp and sudden in the silence, and Maggie froze mid-step. She didn’t turn around. Just stood there, facing the kitchen, her hand still on the door.

“You gonna pretend you didn’t see me?” she asked, voice low.

“No,” Louis said, voice flat as the horizon. “You were hopin’ I would.”

Maggie’s jaw moved, but no sound came out. He watched her shoulders rise and fall, slow and tight. “I didn’t want a fight.”

Louis stepped forward off the porch, into the sliver of light coming through the window. The early dawn lit half his face, the rest still shadow.

“I’m too tired to fight you,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ left worth swingin’ over.”

She finally turned to face him. Eyes puffy, lips too red, the buttons of her blouse fastened wrong. She didn’t look sorry. She didn’t even look surprised. Just… caught. “I wasn’t gone all night,” she said, like that was the part that mattered.

Louis let out a breath through his nose, dry and humorless. “You think I care how long?”

“What do you want me to say?” she asked, eyes flashing now, defensive out of habit.

“Don’t say nothin’,” he said. “Just go on inside.”

Maggie stood there a second longer, eyes scanning his face for something, permission, maybe. Or softness. But whatever she used to find there, it wasn’t there now.

“Don’t act like this is new,” she said, her voice sharper now, like the guilt had worn off and something colder had settled in its place. “You knew what this was years ago. You knew what I needed.”

Louis blinked, slow, like the words didn’t land at first. “What you needed?” he repeated, low and bitter. “Maggie, I built this whole damn life around what you needed.”

She rolled her eyes. Actually rolled them. “Don’t do this again, Louis. Don’t act like you’re some martyr. You work yourself into the ground every day and expect me to what—wait at the door like a dog? Be grateful when you come in too tired to say two words?”

“I didn’t think I had to say much,” he said. “I thought showin’ up every day counted for somethin’. Thought maybe fixin’ the barn and plantin’ your garden and keepin’ this place runnin’ meant you’d feel like you had someone beside you.”

“You think I give a damn about fences and shutters?” she snapped. “You wanna know what I really needed, Louis? A man. One who didn’t hide behind his chores. One who looked at me like he used to, who didn’t flinch away every time I raised my voice or asked for more than a sack of potatoes and a silent dinner.”

Louis flinched now, just slightly.

“I gave you everything I had,” he said, quieter now. “Worked every inch of this land with my bare hands. Took care of your family when your daddy died. Paid off your brother’s debt. Stayed when it got bad. When you got bad.”

She scoffed, a short laugh that didn’t sound like humor. “Don’t put that on me. You stayed because you don’t know how to be alone. Because you’d rather rot in silence than admit this marriage died a long time ago.”

Louis looked at her, really looked. And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was talking to his wife. She wasn’t. Not really. She hadn’t been in a long time.

“You don’t know the first thing about bein’ alone,” he said. “You’re always off somewhere else, needin’ someone else. David, or whoever came before him. Hell, maybe whoever’s next.”

Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t deny it.

“I didn’t do this to you,” he went on. “You did this to us. You walked away a long time ago, Maggie. I just been keepin’ the lights on.”

She stood there, blinking, her arms still crossed, but her shoulders had dipped just a little. The silence between them pulsed thick.

Maggie stood her ground, eyes narrowing like she couldn’t stand the sight of him just standing there, holding his pain without yelling, without begging. “That’s the thing about you, Louis,” she said, her voice all venom and heat. “You think being quiet makes you strong. Think sufferin’ in silence is some kind of goddamn virtue. But all it ever made you was forgettable.”

His breath caught, just slightly.

“You ain’t a man people remember,” she added. “You’re a man people leave.”

The words landed hard and clean, sharper than any scream ever could’ve been. Louis didn’t flinch this time, he just stood still, like if he moved, the whole structure of him might give out.

Maggie watched him for a beat longer, waiting for something. A reaction. A crack.

He gave her nothing.

She huffed like she was bored of the whole thing, turned her back, and walked inside. The screen door creaked, then slammed shut behind her. Up the stairs. Into the spare room. Quiet again. Louis stayed on the porch.

His knees bent slow as he sat back into the rocking chair, his hands clasped between them, eyes locked on the dirt yard stretching out in front of him like a grave he hadn’t dug yet.

The sun was rising now, just enough light to show the lines under his eyes, the way his jaw trembled even though his lips stayed closed. His throat moved as he swallowed hard, blinking once, then again. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Sat like that for a long minute, trying to breathe steady. Trying not to break.

But the thing about silence was—it only held so much.

And his was full.

—

The sun hung high overhead, relentless and sharp, baking the dirt a few shades lighter and turning the air heavy with heat. Cicadas screamed from the trees, and somewhere off near the creek, a bird called once and got no answer. Louis was in the south field, shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his back as he hammered a fresh post into the ground. The fence had been half down for weeks and he finally had enough energy or resentment or both to do something about it.

The days since that fight had passed slow, thick with silence that wasn’t new, just heavier. Maggie had stayed out of his way. Slept in the spare room. Cooked for herself, left without saying where. She hadn’t offered an apology. Hadn’t even offered small talk. And Louis hadn’t asked for either. He preferred it this way. Mostly.

He wiped his forehead with the inside of his arm, squinting at the post to check if it sat straight. Close enough. He leaned into it with both hands, the ache in his shoulder flaring like it always did when he pushed too hard, too long. He welcomed it. The pain gave him something to answer to. Something that made sense.

Out of habit, he glanced toward the house. Maggie’s shape passed behind the upstairs window. Curtains shifted. Then stillness again. He didn’t look twice.

He bent down to grab the next section of barbed wire, careful with his grip. The wire sliced his glove anyway. Didn’t draw blood, but it reminded him how thin the layers were. How everything cut if you held on too tight.

He straightened, rolled out his back, and looked out over the field. Brown and brittle, rows uneven from where the plow had skipped in spring. The barn’s roof was still untouched. The coop door was hanging open again. The tomato garden Maggie had insisted on planting last year had gone to seed and weeds and hornets.

He’d done what he could with the time and hands he had. Which wasn’t much. And still, the work kept piling up like it knew he’d never leave.

He sank to sit on a crate he’d dragged from the shed and pulled the flask from his back pocket—not much left, but enough to burn going down. He didn’t drink much. Not really. But these days, the edge was hard to live on without smoothing it some. The wind kicked up just a little, bringing dust with it. Louis closed his eyes and let it pass over him. Let it pull through his hair and rustle the grass and rattle the broken shutters on the north side of the house he still hadn’t fixed.

The wind died back down, and with it came a stillness so deep it felt like the whole world was holding its breath. Louis stayed hunched on the crate, sweat drying on his neck, flask warm in his hand, when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

He squinted toward the horizon, eyes shaded beneath the brim of his hat. The heat shimmer made it hard to see straight—everything wavered like a mirage—but there, out past the split in the tree line where the old road forked, a wagon rolled slow down the dirt path. One horse. Steady pace.

He set the flask down. Didn’t stand right away. Just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the figure grow clearer. Not David. Not the peddler from the next county over. Not the preacher’s boy with his basket of tracts and too many questions.

No, this was someone new.

The rider was upright, not slouched. Not in a hurry, but not aimless either. There was something about the way he held the reins, like he’d never driven a wagon long, but he was doing it anyway. Determined. Focused.

Louis stood then, wiped his palms on his jeans. The sun caught on the wagon’s wheels as it jostled over the uneven trail, dust rising in a long tail behind it. When the figure got close enough for features to start forming, Louis took another step forward, brow furrowed.

The man had dark hair curling at the nape of his neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, shirt too clean for someone local. A satchel bounced against his hip, and something long and slim was tied down next to him in the wagon bed—maybe a walking stick. He wasn’t slouching like someone beat down by the West. He looked like he was still learning how to carry it. Louis crossed his arms and stood in the field, watching him come.

The wagon rattled to a stop a few paces from the edge of the field, just where the dirt path narrowed into the gravel strip that cut toward the barn. The horse snorted and pawed at the ground, flanks dusted in road grit, and the rider sat for a second, squinting through the light like he wasn’t sure where to go next.

Louis narrowed his eyes.

Fancy boots. Clean shirt. Something pinned to his collar that definitely wasn’t sweat. The man looked more like someone sent to audit taxes than fix a fence. Louis could already hear the pitch coming: some new tonic for aches, or a traveling knife sharpener, or a God-fearing pamphlet on the righteous path to salvation. He braced for it.

The stranger climbed down from the wagon in one smooth motion, landing light on his feet. He tugged the satchel strap up higher on his shoulder, then turned toward Louis with an easy kind of confidence that didn’t come from years out here—it came from being raised somewhere you never had to flinch when you spoke.

“Afternoon,” the man said, voice crisp and unmistakably English.

Louis stiffened.

Brit. Jesus. Of course.

“Look,” Louis said, dragging a hand down his face, “I ain’t buyin’ any snake oil, and I sure as hell don’t need someone preachin’ to me.”

The man blinked. Then smiled. “Not here to sell you a thing, I swear.”

That accent made everything sound a little too polite, a little too practiced. Louis didn’t trust it. Not yet.

“You lost?” he asked, blunt.

“No, actually.” The man’s eyes flicked over the fields, the sagging fence, the battered barn. “Tomlinson Ranch, right?”

Louis gave a single, wary nod.

“Harry Styles,” the man said, stepping forward and extending a hand. “I saw your flyer in town. The one about the help.”

Louis didn’t take the hand. He just let his gaze drag over the man—Harry—slow and deliberate, like he was trying to read a warning label written in a language he didn’t trust. He took in the clean lines of Harry’s shirt, the softness in his hands, the way the sun hit his face and didn’t highlight a single callus or scar. Too polished. Too soft around the edges. Young, too—early in his twenties.

“You don’t look like you’ve ever lifted anything heavier than that satchel,” Louis said, arms folding across his chest.

Harry let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “Fair enough.”

Louis raised a brow, waiting.

Harry looked back at the ranch, then down at his boots, dusted now from the ride. “I’m studying the land,” he said finally, looking up again. “Flora. Fauna. Soil structures. The way the climate shifts between regions. Been traveling west the past few months.”

Louis blinked, unimpressed. “So you’re a gardener.”

“I’m a botanist,” Harry corrected, tone dry but not defensive. “And no, I’m not expecting this to count for course credit. I just wanted to see the country. Understand it. Get my hands dirty.”

“You sure about that last part?”

Harry’s smile tilted, just slightly. “I might not look like much, Mr. Tomlinson, but I’m not here to be a tourist. I saw the sign. I know what I’m offering isn’t ideal, but I’ve got time, and I learn fast. I don’t mind the work. I could use the quiet.”

Louis chewed on that for a moment. “Not much pay,” he muttered.

“I’m not after your money.”

“Board’s not fancy.”

“Neither am I.”

Louis narrowed his eyes again, searching Harry’s face for a lie. There wasn’t one. Just calm, honest interest. Like he’d meant what he said about wanting to help. Like maybe he really did just need somewhere to land for a while.

Louis blew out a slow breath through his nose. “You ever used a posthole digger?”

“No.”

“A hammer?”

“Yes.”

“A shovel?”

“I’ve dug a trench or two,” Harry said, shrugging. “Though I can’t promise they were pretty.”

Louis squinted toward the sun, then back at Harry. The kid didn’t flinch under the stare, which was something. Most folks got a little nervous when Louis started asking questions like he was sizing up a horse about to be put to pasture.

“You ever slept in a bunkhouse?” Louis asked, dragging the back of his hand across his brow.

Harry shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

“Well, you’re about to. Ain’t much more than four walls and a cot. No stove. No glass in the windows, just screens. Gets hotter than hell during the day, colder than you’d like at night. If it rains, the roof might drip.”

Harry didn’t blink. “I’ve slept under worse.”

Louis grunted. “There’s a bucket for washin’. Outhouse behind the main barn. If you’re expectin’ comfort, I’d suggest turnin’ your fancy horse around now.”

Harry looked back toward the shed where his wagon sat hitched. “He’s not fancy. Just clean.”

Louis didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched like maybe it wanted to. He shook his head and kept going.

“Mornings start early. I’m up before the sun, and you will be too. That fence you saw on the way in? Half of it’s busted. Coop door’s off again. The barn’s got a roof leanin’ more than it stands. Don’t ask for a list—you’ll find the work soon as you walk out your door.”

“I’m not afraid of work,” Harry said, straightening just slightly.

“I ain’t got time to babysit,” Louis added. “You break something, you fix it. You use it, you clean it. You see a job needs doin’, do it. Don’t wait for me to hold your hand.”

Harry nodded. “Understood.”

Louis eyed him again, slower this time. The sun caught the sweat just starting to form at Harry’s temples. His boots were real leather, but too new. No dirt in the laces. No wear on the heels. But he was standing straight, meeting Louis’ eyes without twitching, no sign he was about to make some excuse and head back the way he came.

“Food’s plain,” Louis said after a pause. “I don’t cook much, and I don’t clean after other people. You want more than bread, eggs, and beans, you better know how to use a knife and a skillet.”

Harry smiled softly. “I’m decent with a pan. Not much with seasoning, though.”

“Well,” Louis muttered, glancing toward the house. “You’ll fit right in, then.”

He exhaled slow and nodded toward the bunkhouse, a squat building a short walk from the back edge of the main garden, weathered gray with a lopsided door and a little stone stoop cracked clean through the middle. “That’s yours. If you’re still around tomorrow, we’ll see what kind of hand you are.”

Louis watched Harry cross the yard toward the bunkhouse, long strides steady, wagon creaking behind him as he led the horse toward the lean-to. The boy moved like he was used to fitting into new spaces—just not ones that looked like they were barely standing.

Louis wiped his palms on his jeans and was about to turn back toward the fence line when the front door opened with a groan of hinges. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. Maggie’s boots clicked once on the porch before she stepped into the light, eyes shaded under a wide-brimmed straw hat, mouth painted too red for this early in the day.

“There you are,” she called, voice too casual. “I was gonna tell you, David’s bringing by the seed orders tomorrow. Said he found better deals at the auction upstate.”

Louis didn’t answer right away. Just glanced at her over his shoulder with a look that said he’d rather she’d kept that news to herself. She caught it, but didn’t care. Then her gaze shifted past him. She straightened.

Harry was brushing dust from his sleeves, crouched to unhitch the wagon, sleeves rolled high, forearms taut from the strain. The sunlight caught on the soft sheen of sweat at his collarbone. When he looked up, cheeks flushed, curls a little damp, Maggie tilted her head just so.

“Well now,” she said under her breath, lips twitching. “Who’s this?”

Louis’ jaw ticked.

Harry looked up then, catching the movement, and stood upright.

“Oh, hello,” Harry said brightly, dusting off his palms as he walked up, all polite charm and absolutely unaware of the way Maggie was drinking him in. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not,” she said, voice lighter now, smile sharp. “Not at all.”

Louis stepped in, folding his arms again. “This is Harry. He’s answering the help ad.”

Maggie barely glanced at Louis, her focus still on the man in front of her. “You’re not from around here.”

“No, ma’am,” Harry said, smile widening. “Just passing through.”

She bit her lip like she might say something wicked, but Harry didn’t catch it. Didn’t even seem to notice. His eyes shifted back to Louis like he was looking for a cue.

“Well, welcome,” Maggie said, after a beat. “If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate.”

“I appreciate that,” Harry said easily. “Though I reckon I’ll be bothering Louis more than anyone.”

Louis grunted, watching Maggie out of the corner of his eye. Her expression flickered—just a breath of disappointment that Harry wasn’t playing along—and then she turned back toward the house with a little shrug of her shoulders.

“Seed delivery’s at five,” she said flatly, already walking off. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” Louis muttered.

The door shut harder than it needed to.

Harry looked after her, then back to Louis, brow slightly raised. “She your sister?”

Louis let out a short, humorless laugh. “No. That’s my wife.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis said, already turning back toward the fence. “Let’s see how you handle a post digger.”

They worked in silence for a long while. Louis handed Harry a pair of work gloves, then motioned toward the posthole digger leaning against the crate. No instruction beyond that. He wanted to see what the kid would do when left to figure it out. To his surprise, Harry didn’t ask questions. Just looked down at the tool for a second, adjusted his grip, and got to work.

He was clumsy at first—too much wrist, not enough weight—but he found rhythm quick. By the third hole, his sleeves were soaked through and his curls stuck to the back of his neck. He grunted with effort, muscles tight, jaw set. He didn’t complain once. Louis kept to his own stretch of fencing, watching from the corner of his eye.

The kid was softer than the ranch deserved, but there was something solid under all that. He didn’t fold. Didn’t whine. And when he hit a patch of root on the fifth hole, he didn’t call for help—just got on his knees and started hacking at it with a spade like it insulted his pride.

Louis appreciated that. Quiet, stubborn tenacity. It reminded him of someone he used to be.

The sun was dipping low, shadows growing long when Harry finally spoke again.

“This land’s old,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, not looking over.

Louis didn’t answer right away.

Harry stood up straighter, stretching his back with a soft groan. “You can feel it in the dirt. The way it breaks different under your boots. You plowed this whole property yourself?”

Louis nodded once. “Mostly.”

Harry toed the edge of the hole he’d just finished. “Soil’s better than I thought it’d be. Dry, yeah, but it holds. There’s depth here. Roots run long.”

Louis leaned against the fence post he’d just set, squinting at the horizon. “It’s been worked hard. Too long. Don’t give back what it used to.”

Harry crouched again, brushing dirt from his hands. “Still got life in it, though. Just tired. Like it’s waitin’ for someone to treat it right.”

Louis let the silence stretch another moment, gaze drifting over the tired stretch of land that wrapped around them. The wind had died down again, and all that was left was the creak of the old oak behind them and the sound of dirt shifting under boots.

Then, flat and low: “If you’re lookin’ to study plants, what the hell you doin’ here?”

Harry didn’t take offense. Just huffed a breath, half a laugh, and leaned back on his heels. “’Cause it’s dry and old,” he said. “That’s the point.”

Louis looked over, squinting.

Harry shrugged, wiping his palms on his thighs. “Back east, everything’s green. Too green, even. Rain’s too regular, ground’s too soft. You can throw a seed in the ground and it’ll grow outta guilt. But here?” He gestured toward the scrub hills and yellowed pasture. “Things don’t just grow because you want them to. They grow because they fight for it. Because the land’s stingy and stubborn, and the roots gotta earn their keep.”

Louis’ mouth twitched, just slightly. “You got a real poetic way of talkin’ about weeds and dry dirt.”

Harry chuckled, low in his chest. “Weeds tell you more than flowers ever do.”

Louis grunted, but it wasn’t disagreement. He stuck the posthole digger in the dirt again, twisted it down, pulled up a fresh scoop. Dust floated around them, settling on sweat-damp clothes and in the creases of their necks.

Harry watched for a beat, then grabbed the shovel and started clearing out the loose earth. “They say the West is where things end,” he said after a minute. “But to me, it always felt like it’s where things start if you can stand the wait.”

Louis kept digging, jaw tight, but something in his shoulders relaxed just slightly. “That some book-learned thing or just what you tell yourself when you’re alone on a trail?”

Harry smirked. “Little of both.”

The silence settled again, but it felt different this time. Not empty. Just quiet. Honest.

They worked like that for a while, passing tools back and forth, settling into a rhythm. The sun dipped lower, cutting gold through the trees, and Harry stopped now and then to sketch something quick in the little journal he kept tucked in his satchel. A plant here. A cracked seed pod there. Notes in looping, careful script.

Louis didn’t ask what he was writing. Didn’t need to.

By the time they called it for the day, six posts stood solid in the ground, lined clean, wire stretched between them. Louis stepped back from the last post, gave it a rough shake. It didn’t budge. He dropped the mallet with a soft grunt, then bent to pick up the coil of leftover wire, winding it slow as he looked toward the bunkhouse, then back to the house behind it. Windows still dark. Curtains still drawn. No sign of Maggie, which meant no telling what kind of evening it’d turn out to be.

“You’re welcome to wash up at the pump,” Louis said finally, nodding toward the side of the house. “Or inside, if you don’t mind the water takin’ its time to run warm.”

Harry looked up from where he’d been coiling rope. “Appreciate that.”

Louis shrugged, rolling his shoulder where the old ache was already flaring. “If it’s a good night, Maggie might cook somethin’ worth eating.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, catching the if.

Louis didn’t elaborate.

“And if it’s not a good night?” Harry asked.

Louis gave a quiet huff, more breath than laugh. “Then it’s beans or nothin’.”

He didn’t bother looking back to check Harry’s reaction. Just slung the wire coil over his shoulder and started up the slow path toward the house. Gravel crunched under his boots in a rhythm that felt older than him—walk the field, fix the fence, check the windows, guess the mood. Always the same damn pattern.

Behind him, he heard Harry’s lighter footsteps catching up, steady but quiet like he knew not to crowd too close.

As they neared the porch, Louis glanced at the kitchen window. No flicker of light. No clatter from inside. Just stillness.

Definitely not a good night.

He adjusted the wire on his shoulder and reached for the screen door. “You can rinse off inside,” he said. “Just don’t take long. Pipes groan like hell if they’re pushed.”

Harry gave a nod, respectful. “Thanks.”

Louis stepped into the house first, the air cooler but not comfortable. It still held onto the heat from earlier, thick and stale. He dropped the wire by the door with a soft clank and kicked off his boots.

The kitchen was dark. Empty. No supper smells. No clatter of plates. Maggie wasn’t there. Not even a note this time.

Louis’ jaw tensed, but he said nothing. He just turned to hang his hat on the hook and muttered, “I’ll dig out some bread.”

Harry hesitated in the doorway, unsure if he should follow further. Louis caught it.

“You want to eat, come in,” he said, already heading toward the pantry. “Ain’t got the manners for proper hostin’, but there’s butter somewhere if you don’t mind diggin’.”

Harry stepped inside, slow and quiet, like he didn’t want to disturb the house—like he could feel its tension just hanging in the walls. He glanced around once more before speaking, his voice light, thoughtful. “You’ve got a rough drawl,” he said. “Not just western. It’s… older.”

Louis glanced over from the pantry, hand closing around a half-stale loaf. “That right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, stepping farther in and setting his satchel down by the door. “Not sharp like the townsfolk I’ve passed. Yours sounds like it’s been weathered in. Like the land shaped it.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “You flirtin’ with my voice now?”

Harry smiled, not quite shy, but not bold either. “Not intentionally.”

Louis let the corner of his mouth tug upward before he looked back to the shelf. He pulled a tin of preserves down and set it beside the bread. “You study that too? Accents and all?”

“Not officially,” Harry said, leaning against the counter. “But I’ve always liked the way people sound when they belong somewhere. You sound like you were born with dust in your throat.”

Louis huffed, shaking his head. “Ain’t the most flattering thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry just smiled. “Didn’t mean it as an insult.”

Louis sat at the table and tore the bread in half, handing a piece over. “Didn’t take it as one.” He kept his eyes on the bread as he chewed, but his ears burned.

He wasn’t used to hearing anything nice, not about him, anyway. Not for a long time. Maggie used to flatter him, once, back when things were soft and new. But that’d dried up same time she did. These days, he was lucky if she said his name without biting it off halfway through.

So the fact that Harry had said something without agenda, without force, just plain and easy, it hit somewhere low in his chest he didn’t expect.

You sound like you were born with dust in your throat.

Hell, maybe he was.

He reached for the jar of preserves and busied his hands with the lid, like maybe that’d distract from the way his mouth suddenly felt dry. Like he hadn’t just tucked that compliment away where things rarely got in anymore. Harry sat across from him, easy posture, like he wasn’t even aware he’d said something that landed like that. He was already spreading jam on his bread, completely content with the silence.

Louis cleared his throat and passed the butter across the table, not looking up. “Folks usually say I sound tired,” he muttered.

Harry looked up briefly, a faint crease between his brows. “Well, maybe you are,” he said gently. “But tired is not the same as weak.”

Louis blinked. That one landed too. He didn’t know what to do with that either, so he just shoved a piece of bread in his mouth and chewed until the burn behind his eyes settled.

Harry wiped a bit of jam from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, eyes flicking once around the dim kitchen. His gaze lingered on the empty space by the stove, the untouched hooks where an apron should’ve been, the cold stovetop.

He didn’t mean to ask, not really, but it came out anyway—quiet, not prying. Just curious. “Will she not eat with us?” he said. “Your wife?”

Louis’ hand stilled on the rim of his plate. He didn’t answer at first. Just leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the window above the sink like maybe he could will the answer into the dark beyond it.

“She don’t much care to,” he said finally.

Harry waited, respectful, but didn’t pull the question back.

Louis didn’t like the way the word wife sounded out loud. Like it didn’t belong to him anymore. Like it never had.

“She goes off sometimes,” he added. “Doesn’t say where. Comes back when she wants to. Sometimes not till morning. Sometimes not at all.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, just slightly. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Louis’ jaw tensed, his thumb running slow along the edge of his plate. “Used to,” he said, voice tight. “But I stopped wastin’ energy on what ain’t mine to fix.”

The room went quiet again. This time heavier.

Harry looked down at his hands, then back at Louis. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to step where I shouldn’t.”

“You didn’t,” Louis said. “Better you know the kind of house you’re working under.”

Harry gave a small nod, thoughtful. “Not the kind of quiet I expected.”

Louis’ mouth twitched, dry. “Ain’t the kind of marriage I expected, either.”

That shut them both up for a while.

Louis stood first, collecting the plates and stacking them beside the basin. He didn’t wash them, just needed to move. Needed something to do with his hands. Harry didn’t offer to help, didn’t fill the space with words, just let it be what it was.

Which, for Louis, was maybe the kindest thing anyone had done for him in a long, long while.

Harry leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead for a moment before settling again, voice soft with a tired kind of ease. “I’ve slept in worse places than a bunkhouse,” he said. “Most nights I just pull a blanket over me in the back of the wagon. Wake up stiff and hungry and half-covered in dust.”

Louis didn’t look up. Just poured a bit of water into the basin and watched it pool over the cracked ceramic.

Harry went on, the edges of his voice smoothing out, like he was remembering it and telling it all at once. “Some towns, they see a stranger and offer you a place to rest, but it’s not hospitality. It’s a test. Like they want to see how quick you’ll make yourself small, how fast you’ll thank them for nothing.”

Louis gave a faint grunt. “Sounds about right.”

Harry’s lips pulled into a crooked smile. “You didn’t ask questions. Gave me work, a roof, a chair. That’s more than most.”

Louis finally looked over. “Didn’t say it was permanent.”

Harry met his eyes, steady. “Didn’t ask for that, either.”

The room held still after that, just the soft creak of the walls and the wind nosing around the corners of the house. Louis leaned against the sink, arms crossed, letting his gaze settle somewhere past Harry’s shoulder. The edges in him, sharp as rusted wire most days, weren’t as jagged tonight.

Harry shifted in his chair, brushing a few crumbs from his lap with lazy hands. “I’ll take a walk about tomorrow morning,” he said, voice soft but certain. “Have a proper look around, get to know the place. If that’s alright.”

Louis nodded. “Stick to the fence line. Stay clear of the southern ridge. Ground’s soft near the old creekbed.”

Harry lingered a moment before heading toward the door. “I meant what I said, by the way. About being grateful. This work gives me time to think. Let my boots stay in one place for a bit. That’s more than I’ve had lately.”

Louis gave a low hum. “Ain’t many men that admit to needin’ time to think.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder, smile small but sincere. “A lot of them do. Just don’t say it out loud.” He stepped outside into the dark, the door clicking shut behind him. A few minutes later, the lamp in the bunkhouse flickered to life, a soft glow across the yard.

Louis stayed at the sink a moment longer, listening to the quiet. And for the first time in longer than he could name, the house didn’t feel like it was swallowing him whole. Just holding still. Waiting.

Chapter Text

Louis woke just before sunrise, as he always did, out of habit, not intention. Sleep never stuck the way it used to. Not in this bed. Not with the weight of so many things left unsaid pressing against his spine.

The room was gray with early light, soft shadows spilling through the open window and painting the worn floorboards in thin strips of silver. He didn’t move at first. Just lay still, eyes half-lidded, jaw tight.

Across the house, nothing stirred. No creak of the spare room door. No footsteps. Just the wind curling in, dry and cool, carrying the scent of earth and fading smoke. He sat up slow, rubbing a hand over his face, the rasp of stubble under his palm reminding him how long it had been since he’d bothered with a razor. He glanced toward the corner where Maggie’s dresser used to be cluttered with brushes and ribbons and the perfume she only wore on Sundays. It was mostly empty now. Just a few old earrings left behind.

He stood, pulled on his shirt, and crossed to the window. Outside, the world was already moving. The sun, still low, had just started crawling over the ridge, bathing the fields in gold. The fence lines cast long, crooked shadows across the grass, and dust hung in the air like breath not yet exhaled.

He spotted Maggie near the clothesline, folding laundry into a basket with sharp, efficient movements. Her face was turned away from the house, hair twisted up tight, not a strand out of place. From up here, she looked like a woman playing house, checking off chores in a life she no longer wanted.

Louis watched her for a beat, his expression unreadable. Whatever softness she used to carry, it was long gone. And maybe he was to blame for that. Maybe she was. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

He didn’t love her. Not the way he was supposed to. Maybe not the way he ever had.

If he squinted, he could still see the girl she used to be. The one who laughed too loud and ran barefoot through the pasture, trailing wildflowers behind her. But it felt like trying to remember a dream after waking up. Distant. Blurry. Mostly gone.

His gaze shifted past her, drawn to the field behind the garden.

Harry was there, crouched low in the dirt, notebook balanced on one knee, curls pushed back from his face by a red bandana tied loose at the nape of his neck. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, forearms bare and already streaked with soil. He wasn’t just poking at the ground like someone playing at work, he was studying it. Fingertips pressed to the earth like he was listening for something.

There was focus in him. Stillness. A kind of quiet that didn’t ask for attention but held it anyway.

Louis couldn’t stop looking.

Harry brushed dirt off the edge of a stem and turned it gently in his fingers, eyes narrowing, then flipped to a new page in his notebook and started writing. His lips moved, silent, maybe mouthing notes to himself. The sun hit his cheek as he turned, and for a moment, it caught light glinting off the sweat on his skin, the softness of his mouth, the curve of his neck as he bent low again.

It shouldn’t have felt like anything. But it did.

There was a strange kind of peace in the sight of him. Harry, kneeling in the dirt, surrounded by things most people would overlook. He was out of place here, no question. But he looked like he belonged. Like he had the patience to learn the rhythm of the land, not just work it.

Louis’ hand tightened slightly on the windowsill.

He didn’t know what it was about the kid but something in his presence felt different. Like the silence between them the night before hadn’t been empty,  like it usually is with...well, everyone. And maybe that was the problem.

Because Louis knew the look in Maggie’s eyes when she saw him. And he’d seen something in Harry’s, too. Something softer.

He shook the thought off, jaw flexing. Nothing good ever came from thinking too long about things like that. Still, he didn’t look away just yet. Outside, Maggie carried the basket back toward the house, her figure passing between him and Harry, and for a moment, it was like watching the line between two lives.

Louis exhaled hard through his nose and turned from the window. He had work to do.

Louis made his way down the stairs, the old wood groaning beneath his weight, joints stiff from sleep and something deeper he couldn’t name. The kitchen was empty and the back door half-cracked to let the breeze in.

He didn’t bother with breakfast. Appetite came and went, mostly went these days. He pulled on his boots by the door, rough leather scraped and creased with years of wear. As he stood, he grabbed the work gloves off the hook, tucking them into his back pocket, and stepped out into the rising heat of the morning.

Down the steps, he moved with a slow certainty toward the fence line. It wasn’t quite a limp, but close. His shoulder twinged with each stride but he didn’t mind the ache. It gave him something solid to feel, something he could answer to.

He caught sight of Maggie rounding the corner of the house, empty laundry basket balanced on her hip. She moved like she’d been waiting for him, like she wanted him to see her. The way her chin tilted, the tight set of her mouth, it was all intentional. She wasn’t trying to talk, just be noticed.

He didn’t stop walking. Their eyes met briefly, just a flicker of shared air between them. She looked good, in the kind of way that felt rehearsed. Everything about her lately was too sharp, too polished, like she was dressing herself in distance.

“You didn’t take the trash out,” she said flatly, not even slowing her pace.

Louis didn’t answer. Didn’t so much as glance her way again.

He kept walking, boots steady across the packed dirt, the sun already warming the back of his neck through the thin fabric of his shirt. He wasn’t in the mood for sparring before he’d even picked up a hammer.

Maggie walked on, her steps clicking sharp against the stone path leading toward the shed. He could feel her eyes on his back, waiting for a reaction, some sign that she still had that kind of pull. But he gave her nothing. The wind picked up just enough to stir the loose edge of his shirt and rattle the nearby gate. Maggie disappeared around the side of the house without another word.

Louis reached the fence line and dropped to a crouch, pressing a palm to the base of another post that had started leaning. The wood was soft, split low near the soil, the rot already creeping up its spine. He swore under his breath and reached for the pry bar.

The rhythm came quick; dig, pull, reset. His breath settled into the work, shoulders aching in that dull, familiar way, sweat already beading at his temples. The sun climbed higher. The birds quieted. And the world narrowed down to postholes and splinters and the creak of old wire tightening under his grip.

Better this than anything else. Better the ache in his hands than the silence in the house. He kept working.

Harry’s footsteps approached soft against the dry earth. All light, careful, like he didn’t want to interrupt even though he already had. Louis didn’t look up right away. Just felt the shift in the air, the quiet presence that wasn’t demanding, just… there.

“Got that latch fixed on the chicken coop,” Harry said, voice a little breathless. “And cleared the nettles out by the back fence. Roots ran deep, damn near wrapped around the post. Took some convincing.”

Louis straightened with a grunt, wiping his palms against his jeans before glancing over.

Harry stood a few paces off, shirt damp at the collar, curls sticking to his forehead, streaks of dirt smudged across the backs of his hands and under his nails. He didn’t look out of place anymore. Not to Louis. The sweat, the soil, the quiet burn in his cheeks from the sun. It started to suit him.

There was something different in the way Harry stood. Open, loose-limbed. Like the land hadn’t worn him down yet.

“Mm,” Louis hummed, nodding once. “Coop’s been fallin’ apart for years.”

Harry smiled, small and sunlit. “I made a few notes in my book about the soil back there too. Near the nettles.” He scratched the back of his neck, then gestured vaguely behind him. “It’s odd...it’s more acidic than I expected, almost clay-heavy. Might be why the wild mint’s coming up in patches near the oak. Mint loves acidic ground. And the worms seem different, too. Smaller, paler. Could be the heat or...sorry.”

He stopped, laughing softly at himself, a flush rising in his cheeks.

Louis didn’t say anything for a second. Just watched him; the way his hands moved when he talked, how his eyes lit up like he was uncovering some quiet secret only he cared enough to notice. Maggie talked to fill silence. Harry spoke like silence was something sacred, and he only broke it when he had something worth saying.

“It’s alright,” Louis muttered, turning back to the post. “Ain’t used to anyone not complainin’ about the work.”

Harry stepped closer, crouching nearby, squinting at the fence. “It’s not the work that bothers most people,” he said softly. “It’s the way the land answers back. If you do not do it right, it lets you know.”

Louis glanced at him again, slower this time.

There was something in Harry’s voice. A calmness, sure, but more than that. Reverence. He spoke about dirt and weeds like they meant something. Like even broken things were worth paying attention to. It wasn’t loud or showy. Wasn’t trying to prove a point.

It was just… honest.

Louis hadn’t felt that kind of honesty in years. Not from Maggie. Not from much of anyone.

He looked back to the fence, but the image of Harry’s dirt-smudged smile lingered behind his eyes.

“Mint, huh?” he said after a beat, voice low.

Harry nodded, smiling wider. “Yeah. You ever tasted it fresh off the stem? It’s sharp at first, but sweet after.”

Louis didn’t answer, but something settled in his chest, something unfamiliar and a little too easy.

The wind shifted again, carrying the scent of sun-warmed soil and sweat and whatever it was Harry brought with him. Louis kept working. But he was listening.

Harry didn’t move right away, just stayed crouched beside the fence, like he was deciding whether to say more. Then, without asking, he reached for the spare posthole digger lying nearby and sank it into the dry ground.

Louis didn’t stop him. Just stepped aside enough to make room.

They worked in rhythm for a while with Harry breaking the ground, Louis clearing out the hole. No instructions, no fumbling. Harry watched and mirrored, picked up the pace without needing to be told.

“You can chew on the stems,” Harry said after a while, breath hitching slightly as he wrestled the digger from a stubborn patch of dirt. “Mint. If it’s fresh. Can clear your sinuses right out.”

Louis raised a curious eyebrow. “That so?”

“Mmhm.” Harry dropped the digger, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. “Used to grow it back home in little windowsill pots. Took over everything. My mum said it was a weed with an ego.”

Louis huffed out a soft sound, close to a laugh, closer than most things got out of him these days.

Harry grinned, emboldened. “It’s kind of a miracle plant, actually. Mint. You can use it for stomach aches, headaches, even keep mice away if you rub it around the edges of the floorboards. I read once it was used in ancient Greece to mask the smell of corpses.”

Louis blinked, looking up from the wire he’d been threading. “That so?”

“Romantic, right?” Harry smirked, brushing dirt from his palms.

Louis blinked again, slower this time. Harry’s voice hung in the air smooth, warm, just a little cheeky, and the smirk on his face twisted something low in Louis’ stomach.

Romantic, right?

He looked back down at the wire in his hands like it suddenly mattered more than anything, fingers fumbling with the tension where it wrapped around the post. His palms were sweating inside the gloves now.

Harry crouched beside him again, brushing dirt from his knee. He was still grinning, lips parted slightly as he caught his breath, hair damp and curling harder at the edges, sticking to his temple. Too close. Too easy.

Louis kept his eyes on the fence, heart thudding low and steady in his chest.

Harry was alive in a way Maggie hadn’t been in years. Curious, warm, always halfway between laughter and something softer. Like nothing about this place scared him off—not the work, not the quiet, not even Louis himself.

And that, whatever it was, hit Louis like a crack in the armor he’d been patching up for years.

His jaw tensed, and he cleared his throat, reaching for the hammer. Anything to break the stretch of silence he was suddenly too aware of. But before he could swing it, the sound of wagon wheels broke through the field.

Louis stilled.

Hooves kicking up dust. The low, uneven rattle of wood against gravel. A distant whistle. He looked toward the ridge, already knowing what he’d see.

Sure enough, David’s wagon crested the hill, pulled by that smug gray gelding of his, two sacks of seed balanced in the back and one elbow resting lazily on the reins like he had all the time in the world.

Harry followed Louis’ gaze, then looked back at him. “Friend of yours?”

Louis’ lips pressed into a line, the hammer still gripped in his hand. “No.”

David rolled in slow, like he knew people were watching. Like the world was some stage and he was the star of the damn show. His shirt was too clean, collar folded neat. He wasn’t dressed like a man who’d spent the morning hauling anything heavier than his own ego.

And Maggie—of course Maggie—appeared on the porch the moment the wagon got close enough to stir dust at the gate. She didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just stepped into the sun, arms crossed, waiting.

Louis felt the tension crawl up his spine and settle behind his eyes. He looked away before he could see whatever look passed between them. Before he could feel it.

Harry shifted beside him, glancing between the house and the wagon and then back to Louis. “You want me to keep going?” he asked, voice quiet now, grounded.

Louis didn’t look at him. Just raised the hammer and brought it down hard against the post bracket, the crack of metal against wood louder than it needed to be.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Keep going.”

The hammer hit harder than Louis meant it to, splintering the edge of the post with a sharp crack. He didn’t wince, didn’t stop. Just adjusted his grip and drove the next blow in quieter. Focused. Controlled. Like it was something he could still control.

The wagon rolled to a stop in front of the porch, dust settling around the wheels like smoke. David swung down with too much ease, one hand catching the reins like he needed to look capable. Like he didn’t plan every damn motion just for show.

“Morning, darlin’,” David drawled, loud enough to carry, even though he was already close enough to smell the lavender on Maggie’s wrists.

Louis didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. And then Maggie’s voice rang out across the yard.

“Harry,” she called sweetly, almost singing it. “You mind giving David a hand with the seed bags?”

Harry paused, halfway through bracing a fence post. His eyes flicked toward Louis, unsure. Waiting for a signal.

Louis didn’t give him one. He just stood, hands on his hips, eyes narrowing toward the porch.

“He’s got two hands,” Louis said, not bothering to hide the bite in his tone. “Surely he can lift a few bags without help.”

Maggie’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes sharpened like a blade catching light. “David’s doing us a favor, Louis. Least we can do is show a little hospitality.”

Louis stepped forward, slow and heavy, the heat prickling at the back of his neck. He looked at Maggie like he was seeing through her, like he was too tired to pretend anymore. “Pretty sure you’ve shown him enough,” he said, voice low and dry. “Don’t see why you need Harry for it.”

Harry stiffened beside him, and for a moment, the silence cracked wide enough to swallow the whole damn yard.

David let out a quiet snort, shifting the brim of his hat back with one finger, his grin curling smug at the edges. “Didn’t realize helpin’ with seed bags came with a damn custody hearing.”

Harry shifted, his voice quiet but steady. “I can help, if it’ll keep the peace.”

Louis didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to.

“No,” he said flatly, eyes still locked on Maggie. “Let ‘em sort their own mess. They’ve got plenty of business between them already.”

That landed. Not sharp, not loud, but heavy, final.

Maggie’s smile tightened, faltered for the first time.

David adjusted the sack on his shoulder and scoffed under his breath. “Suit yourself.”

Nobody said anything else.

The air hung thick with dust and heat and everything that wasn’t being said. Then, just like that, it broke. Maggie turned on her heel and walked back toward the porch, the hem of her dress catching on the grass. David followed, slower, tossing a smirk over his shoulder that Louis didn’t return.

Louis stayed still, jaw set, eyes on the horizon. Then he tipped his head toward the fence. “Let’s get back to it,” he said.

Harry didn’t argue. He just followed.

The sun had climbed higher by the time they moved on to the next chore, patching a corner of the irrigation trench where the last storm had carved a shallow canyon through the field. The soil was dry, breaking apart under the shovel, and the heat pressed down heavy, thick as wool.

Louis worked in silence, each movement sharper than the last. He dug too hard, struck the edge of a buried stone, and cursed under his breath when the jolt ran up his bad shoulder. He didn’t stop, just switched sides and kept digging like the earth had something to answer for.

Harry worked beside him, quieter than usual. He didn’t ramble this time. Didn’t talk about root systems or what the sky smelled like before it rained. He just dug.

They worked like that for a long while—two men, two shovels, one silence growing heavier by the minute.

Then Harry finally broke it, gentle and cautious. “Everything alright?”

Louis didn’t look up.

Harry cleared his throat. “Not trying to pry. Just… figured I’d ask.”

Louis stilled, one boot braced against the edge of the trench, shovel planted deep in the dirt. He let out a long breath through his nose, wiped his forearm across his brow.

For a second, he didn’t answer.

Then, without looking at Harry, he said, “It’s nothin’. Just tired.”

But it didn’t land right. Not even to his own ears.

Harry didn’t push, but he didn’t drop it either. He glanced over, eyes squinting a little against the sun. “Tired looks different,” he said softly. “This feels like something heavier.”

Louis gave a low huff, not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. “You get all that from how I dig a trench?”

“I get it from how you haven’t said more than ten words in the past hour,” Harry replied, not unkind. “And the fact that you’re damn near snapping your shoulder in half over a job that’s already done.”

Louis stared down at the blade of his shovel, at the way the dry dirt clung to it in uneven clumps. His grip tightened on the handle.

“It’s like I can’t stop waiting for the next hit,” he muttered. “Like if I keep moving, keep fixin’ things, maybe the rest’ll hold a little longer.”

Harry was quiet. Not shocked. Just listening.

Louis’ jaw worked. He set the shovel down slowly, rested his forearms against the handle.

“I look at her,” he said, resuming work like he wasn't just opening up to a near stranger, “and it’s like lookin’ at the past. Not even mine anymore. Just some life I got stuck in. Like the bones of it are still standin’ but everything inside’s gone hollow.”

Harry didn’t say anything right away. Just let the words hang there. Let Louis have the space to say them out loud for once.

Then: “You ever think about starting over?”

Louis looked at him, finally. Really looked. Harry wasn’t judging. Wasn’t pitying either. He just… asked. Like it was possible. Like it was something a man could do, even now.

Louis swallowed hard, his voice low. “Don’t know where I’d even start.”

Harry shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Somewhere with less fence to fix, maybe.”

Louis let out a quiet laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It cracked at the edges, dry like the dirt under their boots.

“Hell,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know why I’m tellin’ all this to someone I barely know.”

Harry didn’t flinch. Just offered that same soft, steady look he always seemed to carry, like nothing Louis said could scare him off.

“Maybe because I don't have a stake in it,” Harry said gently. “I’m not here to judge. Just here.”

Louis glanced at him again, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the strength. He stabbed the shovel back into the dirt, leaned into it with a slow exhale. The words came rough and reluctant, like they’d been sitting in his throat for weeks.

“She’s sleepin’ with David,” he said. “Has been. I don’t know how long. I don’t ask.”

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t offer some hollow Sorry, man or That’s rough. Just stayed quiet, eyes steady, grounded.

Louis looked down at the trench again, voice low. “I used to think we were just stuck in a rough patch. Thought maybe I’d failed her somehow. Didn’t try hard enough. Didn’t say the right things. But I think I just… disappeared somewhere along the way. And she noticed before I did.” He let the silence settle again before finishing, even softer now: “I’m so goddamn lonely, I forget what it’s like not to be.”

The wind shifted, stirring the dry stalks of grass along the edge of the field.

Harry’s voice came after a long pause, warm and careful. “That’s not a small thing to carry on your own.”

Louis didn’t respond. He couldn’t, not right away.

But he didn’t walk away either. Didn’t close the door. He stayed. Standing next to Harry in the sun. Letting himself be seen, maybe for the first time in years.

Harry shifted his weight, thumb running along the rim of the shovel handle, gaze fixed somewhere just past the field where the dry grass met the sky, and everything felt quiet enough to speak into.

“I had someone once,” he said finally, voice low, like he was still deciding whether the memory was worth sharing. “Back overseas. Thought it was the kind of thing that’d last.”

Louis didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need to. He was listening with his whole body, still, alert, and heavy in the way only someone who understood could be.

Harry gave a faint smile, small and almost bitter. “We lived out of a suitcase most days. Always moving, always counting down to goodbye. But there were mornings… mornings where it felt like we could outrun it all. Like if we didn’t say what it was, we wouldn’t have to lose it.”

He paused, squinting into the light. “Didn’t work, of course. Never does when you’re more ghost than man.”

Louis finally glanced over, something unreadable in his expression. “You leave, or did they?”

Harry exhaled through his nose. “Wasn’t really a clean break. Just… ended. Like we ran out of road.”

A beat passed. Then another. Louis nodded once. It wasn’t much, but it meant something.

“You miss ’em?”

Harry was quiet for a moment. “I think I miss being seen.” The words hung there, sharp in their softness. He turned then, met Louis’ eyes. “Not a lot of places you can be yourself. People say they want honesty, but they only mean the kind that’s easy to swallow.”

Louis’ throat worked around a swallow he didn’t take.

“Feels like you see more than you say,” Harry added, voice almost a whisper now. “That’s all right. I don’t mind quiet. I just don’t think people deserve to live in it alone.”

The wind stirred again, slow and warm.

And Louis, standing there under the weight of everything unsaid—realized for the first time in a long time that maybe he didn’t have to.

Laughter cracked through the still air, sudden and sharp, jarring against the quiet Louis and Harry had settled into.

Louis looked up.

By the house, Maggie leaned against the porch rail, head tipped back in a bright, open laugh. David stood too close beside her, hand resting on the post near her waist, his mouth twisted in that familiar, smug half-smile Louis had come to hate. They looked like a scene out of someone else’s life. Too clean, too cheerful, too loud for the kind of day Louis was having.

It turned his stomach. He dropped his eyes, jaw tightening. The clatter of their joy felt staged. Ugly. Like it was for show.

Harry followed his gaze and didn’t say anything at first. Just watched, expression unreadable. Then, gently: “You’ve got good land here.”

Louis blinked, surprised by the pivot.

Harry shrugged, shovel swinging loose in one hand. “Don’t always get that. Sometimes you can work and work and the ground won’t give you anything back. But this place, it feels like it’s still got something left to give.”

Louis let out a slow breath. Let his shoulders fall a fraction. “Wish the people were like that.” He pulled off his gloves, slapping them against his thigh to knock the dust free. “I need a drink,”

Harry didn’t argue.

Louis looked at him, squinting against the low sun. “You ever been into town proper?”

Harry shook his head. “Just rode through when I came in. Didn’t stop long.”

“There’s a bar,” Louis said. “Not much to look at, but they pour cheap, and the music still sounds decent.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, smiling just a little. “Is that an invitation?”

Louis looked away, his voice casual but a little too rough around the edges. “I’m headin’ in before sundown. If you wanna come.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Louis nodded once, quick and quiet. Then he turned back to the trench, back to the dirt, but his mind had already gone somewhere else.

The sun had dipped lower by the time Louis stepped into the barn, the light outside gone soft and gold, casting long shadows between the stalls. The air inside was cooler now, still carrying the familiar scent of hay and leather and worn-down wood. Crickets had started their slow hum in the fields, the kind of background noise Louis had stopped noticing years ago until tonight, when everything felt just a little too quiet.

Harry was already at the tack wall, adjusting the bridle straps, his sleeves rolled up and curls damp from where he’d washed off the day. His shirt clung slightly at the back, and his boots were cleaner than they’d been all week, like he’d made an effort. Nothing too showy. Just enough to notice.

Louis tried not to.

He tossed a saddle blanket over the back of Blue, tightening the girth with practiced hands. “Maggie’s gone,” he said without looking up.

Harry glanced over. “Figured. Saw her ride off earlier with David. Didn’t say where.”

Louis snorted softly. “Don’t think she’s hidin’ it anymore for the company.”

Harry didn’t answer. Just gave a short nod and went back to fastening the last strap.

Louis finished first and leaned against the stall door, arms crossed. “You don’t have to come, y’know.”

Harry looked up, brows lifted slightly. “You changing your mind?”

“No,” Louis said quickly, too quickly. “Just… you might’ve had a different idea of what tonight’d be. I'm not one for talkative social outings.”

Harry stepped closer, reins looped in one hand. His smile was easy, but his eyes were serious. “I’m not expecting anything. A break is nice.”

Louis looked at him for a long moment, then gave a quiet hum. “Alright, then.”

They led the horses out into the warm twilight, boots crunching over the packed dirt. The sky was streaked with orange and lavender, the kind of sunset that used to make Louis stop and stare before everything got too heavy to notice.

The house behind them was dark. No voices. No laughter. Just the creak of leather and the soft huff of the horses as they started off toward town.

The road into town stretched long and quiet ahead of them, the sky fading from bruised lavender to deeper blue with every hoofstep. The horses moved steady beneath them, hooves muffled by the dirt, the rhythm almost meditative. The air had cooled, brushing soft against their skin, carrying the faint smell of clover and dust.

Louis rode a half-step ahead, reins loose in his hand, shoulders set. He wasn’t tense, just quiet, like the road was part of him and he didn’t need words to move through it. His hat sat low, casting his face in shadow, but Harry could see the hard lines of his jaw working.

They didn’t speak for a while. Just the sound of leather creaking, the occasional soft snort from the horses, and the open space between them stretching wider, then easing again with each passing mile.

Then, finally, soft but clear, Harry asked, “Did you grow up here?”

Louis gave a short nod. “Born in that house. Worked the land with my dad ’til he passed. Took over after.”

Harry let that settle for a beat, then asked, “You ever leave? Even for a little while?”

Louis didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward a little, adjusted his grip on the reins. “Thought about it,” he said eventually. “Back when I was younger. Before Maggie. Before the farm was mine. But there’s somethin’ about this place. It gets in your blood. Hard to shake loose.”

Louis exhaled through his nose, long and quiet. The kind of breath that felt like it’d been sitting in his chest for years. “Lately,” he said, voice low, “I think about selling.”

Harry looked over, surprised but careful not to show it too much.

Louis kept his eyes forward, watching the road unfold ahead of them like it was some kind of escape route he hadn’t let himself name before. “Just… call it. Let the place go. Let her go once she's cleaned up enough. Hand it all over and disappear somewhere with no fields, no fences. No reminders.”

His fingers tightened slightly on the reins, the leather creaking under his grip.

“Let Maggie run off with David, if that’s what she wants so bad. They can have the goddamn house, the land, all of it.” The last words came a little sharper than he meant, rough-edged and raw.

Harry didn’t respond right away. He gave Louis that same steady, listening silence. Like he knew some things needed to echo a little before you talked over them. Then, quietly, he said, “And where would you go?”

Louis’ mouth pulled into something like a smile, but it didn’t last. “No clue. Somewhere simple. Quiet. Not a barn or a broken tractor in sight.”

Harry chuckled under his breath. “I fear you’d hate it after a week.”

Louis finally looked over at him, brow arched. “Would I?”

Harry nodded, half-grinning. “Yeah. You might get bored. Miss the ache. The fight in it.”

Louis considered that, gaze drifting back toward the horizon. The road was empty, stretching out ahead of them under a sky that felt just wide enough to carry the weight of maybe.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I just wanna know what it feels like to miss something I chose to walk away from… instead of somethin’ that left me first.”

And for a while after that, neither of them said a word.

The soft clip of hooves turned to silence as they tied the horses to the hitching post just off Main, lantern light from the bar spilling warm across the dust and gravel. It was louder than Louis expected for a Thursday; laughter curling through the open windows, boots stomping in time with the beat of a piano that sounded just out of tune enough to feel charming.

He glanced at Harry as they stepped up onto the boardwalk, the wood creaking beneath their weight. Harry looked lit from within by the glow spilling out the door, curls haloed by the porch light, his mouth tugging into a curious little smile as he peered inside.

“Busy night,” Harry murmured.

Louis gave a small shrug, pulling the door open. “It’s always busy when there’s nothing else to do.”

It smelled like spilled whiskey, sawdust, and years of smoke soaked into the walls. Familiar. Unchanging. The kind of place that kept its shape no matter who came or went. Louis led the way through the crowd, tipping his hat slightly at a few folks who nodded in vague recognition. No one stopped them. Most didn’t look twice.

They found an empty stretch of bar, the counter sticky under their palms as they leaned in.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, already reaching for a pair of glasses.

“Whiskey. Whatever’s cheap.” He glanced sideways. “You good with that?”

Harry nodded, eyes flicking across the room, taking everything in—the casual dancers, the piano man sweating through his collar, the clink of glasses, the thud of boots on wood.

The bartender slid their drinks across the worn counter, amber liquid catching the low light like fire trapped in glass. Louis wrapped his fingers around his glass, the cool weight of it grounding. He raised it slightly toward Harry.

“To bad choices and small towns,” he said.

Harry smirked, lifting his own. “To getting lost in both.”

The clink was soft, swallowed quickly by the hum of the room, and they both knocked back the whiskey in one sharp go. It burned hot and bitter down Louis’ throat—cheap stuff, just like he asked for—but it settled something in his chest. Took the edge off the kind of night that had too many edges to begin with.

Harry let out a small breath, tongue darting out to chase the taste. “Jesus. That’s got teeth.”

Louis chuckled. “Ain’t supposed to be pretty.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds, the music pressing in louder now, the piano rolling into something rowdy and fast. Somewhere behind them, boots slapped the floor as someone was spun off balance, laughter bubbling up like shaken beer.

Louis leaned his elbow on the bar, turning to face Harry just slightly. “So.”

Harry looked at him, eyebrows lifting in a slow, amused arc.

“So,” Louis repeated. “Where the hell’d you come from, Styles?”

Harry tilted his head, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That a serious question, or the start of some small-town interrogation?”

Louis shrugged. “Both.”

Harry tapped a finger on the rim of his empty glass. “Nowhere, mostly. Bounced around a lot. I was up north for a while, before this. Some seasonal jobs. Then further east. Some small farm stuff. Just me, a bag, and a list of places I never stayed long.”

Louis studied him. “That why you showed up outta nowhere with calluses and a mouth full of mint trivia?”

Harry laughed, soft and full, like the whiskey loosened it from somewhere deep. “Guess I figured if I was gonna be rootless, I might as well know what kind of dirt I’m standin’ on.”

Louis didn’t smile, not exactly, but his eyes warmed. “And now? You stayin’? Or just passin’ through?”

Harry’s gaze flicked toward the dance floor, then back to Louis. “Depends,” he said. “Is this the kind of place that lets people stay, or just makes it hard to leave?”

Louis’ throat worked around a swallow, but it wasn’t the whiskey this time. He looked away. Looked toward the piano and the twirling bodies, toward the kind of joy that felt just out of reach. “Guess we’ll find out,” he said.

And when he looked back at Harry, it was with a question he didn’t ask out loud. Not yet.

They ordered another round, the second pour going down easier than the first. The warmth settled in Louis’ limbs, dulling the edge of his shoulders. Beside him, Harry leaned more comfortably into the bar, forearm resting across the counter, fingers tracing the rim of his glass like he was trying to read it.

“So, England,” Louis said, tipping his glass in Harry’s direction. “You really from there or just puttin’ on the accent to sound interesting?”

Harry grinned, that dimple flashing like trouble. “Born and raised,” he said. “Tiny village outside London. You wouldn’t even find it on a map unless you were looking really hard.”

Louis nodded, letting the words roll over him. “What’s it like?”

Harry took a sip, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Wetter. Greener. Softer, in some ways. Everything’s older. Like the walls remember more than the people do. There’s hedgerows instead of fences. Pubs instead of bars. Less space, but more noise somehow.”

Louis smirked. “Sounds cozy.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Cozy if you fit. Not so much if you don’t.”

That quiet lingered a little longer than before, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was measured. Mutual. Like they were both peeling something back and figuring out what was underneath.

“What brought you all the way out here?” Louis asked, genuinely this time.

Harry turned his glass in a slow circle. “Curiosity, mostly. The kind that doesn’t go away no matter how far you travel. I wanted something slower. Realer. Somewhere I could breathe without everyone knowin’ what I was breathin’ in.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “And America fit that bill?”

Harry shrugged, a little sheepish. “Didn’t say it made sense.”

Louis gave a short laugh and took another sip. The buzz was warm now, loose in his chest. The kind that softened the edges of things without making them blurry.

“Farm life’s not exactly quiet, y’know,” he said. “It’ll chew you up.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, but it’s honest. It doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.”

Louis tilted his head, looking at him. “That why you stayin’? For the honesty?”

Harry held his gaze. “Maybe. Or maybe for the company.”

Louis looked away before he could let that settle too deep, fingers tightening briefly around his glass.

The drinks kept coming, slow and steady, the burn easing into something warm and heady. The kind of buzz that loosened the corners of Louis’ mind, made everything feel a little softer. The bar thinned out some, but the music never stopped, it just slowed to something bluesier, the piano man now playing with one hand and nursing a beer with the other.

Harry was laughing more freely now, shoulders relaxed, curls mussed from where he’d dragged a hand through them too many times. He told a story about a duck that used to follow him to school, then another about his mum catching him smoking behind the shed and making him smoke the whole pack. Louis couldn’t tell if it was true, but it didn’t matter. The way Harry told it, all bright eyes and expressive hands, was better than the truth.

Louis couldn’t remember the last time he laughed like that.

Then, without warning, Harry stood.

“Where the hell you goin’?” Louis asked, watching him set his glass down.

Harry just grinned, eyes sparkling as he nodded toward the waitress, a woman well into her sixties, all silver hair and a teasing smirk, wiping down a nearby table.

“She’s been tappin’ her toe all night,” Harry said. “Figured I’d give her a reason.”

Before Louis could respond, Harry was already walking over, murmuring something with a crooked smile. The woman rolled her eyes dramatically, but her grin was wide, and she let him take her hand. He led her out to the open floor, where the last few dancers swayed lazily to the music.

The piano played slow, something sweet and smoky, and Harry moved with ease, no bravado, no pretense. Just loose limbs and a sense of rhythm that came from not giving a damn who was watching. The woman laughed, tossing her head back, cheeks flushed with delight.

Louis watched, glass forgotten in his hand.

There was something about the scene that hooked deep in his chest. The way Harry twirled her gently, careful but playful. The way he leaned in to say something that made her laugh so hard she had to clutch his shoulder. The way he lit up like he belonged there, in that moment, like he’d carved out joy just for the sake of it.

Louis didn’t know what to do with the feeling that rose in him.

It wasn’t just the charm, or the laughter, or the ease with which Harry pulled the whole room toward him like gravity. It was the fact that none of it was for show. He wasn’t trying to be noticed. And yet, Louis couldn’t look away.

He sat back, elbows on the bar, lips tugged into a ghost of a smile, eyes never leaving the dance floor.

He’d never wanted to be on the other side of a moment so badly.

Louis nursed what was probably his fifth whiskey—maybe sixth, he wasn’t keeping count anymore. The ice had melted, watered it down just enough that it didn’t burn, just slid down easy and slow. Like time itself, stretching out around him, soft at the edges.

On the dance floor, Harry dipped the waitress with exaggerated flair, earning a round of claps from a nearby table. She whooped, blushing like a schoolgirl, and smacked him playfully on the arm when he righted her. He bowed, grinning, and they kept dancing.

Louis couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop… comparing.

It crept in slow, uninvited: the memory of a younger Maggie in that same bar, years back when everything was newer and they’d still had a reason to touch each other without flinching. She used to laugh like that, too, under the soft glow of these same lights. Used to lean in close on the dance floor, whisper things in his ear that made his face warm, his chest full.

But even now, thinking back, the memories felt like they belonged to someone else. The edges of them had gone brittle, soft where they should’ve been sharp. The warmth felt performative. Her laugh too deliberate. Her hand in his had always been a little stiff, like she needed to lead even when she didn’t know the steps.

And now, with Harry right there light on his feet, laughing with no weight on his back, his joy effortless, it cast a long shadow over everything that came before.

Louis’ fingers curled tighter around his glass. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen joy on Maggie’s face that wasn’t meant for someone else.

But Harry—Harry’s joy felt like a thing he could almost reach for.

Louis shook his head once, slow and quiet, almost amused at himself. The liquor made it easy to feel things he didn’t want to name. Easier still to pretend it was just the whiskey talking.

But it wasn’t.

Harry caught his eye just then—mid-spin, arm still looped with the waitress’s—and grinned like he’d been waiting for Louis to look. Like he saw him, right there, sitting alone at the bar with a half-full glass and something breaking slowly open inside him.

Louis didn’t look away.

He raised his glass instead, just barely.

And Harry, breathless and glowing, winked.

Harry made the rounds like he’d been born to them, one partner after another, drawn in by his charm and accent, his easy grin, the way he made space for everyone to shine. He danced with an older man in boots two sizes too big, then a girl barely out of high school who blushed through the whole song, and finally a red-faced rancher’s wife who pulled him into a two-step with a gleeful shriek.

The music picked up speed, boot heels hammering the floor as the piano man was joined by a fiddler who must’ve shown up sometime during Louis’ third drink. The room spun with heat and movement, laughter ricocheting off the rafters.

By the time Harry wove his way back to the bar, cheeks flushed, curls damp at the temples, shirt untucked at one side and hanging loose at his hip, he looked every bit like he’d lived a dozen lives and danced through all of them.

Louis raised an eyebrow, leaning back on his stool with his drink in hand, eyes dragging slowly from Harry’s scuffed boots to his sweat-slick collar.

“Well damn,” he drawled, eyes sharp with amusement. “That how y’all do it over in Europe? Dance the whole bar into a heatstroke?”

Harry grinned, breathless, planting his hands on the edge of the bar. “Depends on the night.”

Louis snorted into his glass. “And this counts?”

Harry shrugged, grinning like a boy with a secret. “Figured I might as well put on a show. Keep morale high.”

“You keep goin’ like that and they’re gonna start passin’ a tip jar.”

Harry laughed, tipping his head back. “Hell, I’d take it.”

Louis shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Can’t believe you’ve got the energy for all that after workin’ all day.”

Harry leaned in a little closer, elbows braced on the bar beside Louis’, still catching his breath. “Hard work’s easier to carry when you get to dance it off.”

Louis didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him. Really looked, like he was trying to memorize the way the lamplight caught on the curve of Harry’s jaw, the glint of mischief still dancing in his eyes, the way his lips parted like he was always one breath away from saying something that could knock the wind out of a man.

Then, softer: “You make it look easy.”

Harry blinked slow, a crooked smile pulling at his lips as he tipped his head just enough to close the space between them. His voice came low, warm like syrup and just a little teasing.

“Was that a compliment, Mr. Tomlinson?”

Louis didn’t move, just held his glass between them, his thumb circling the rim, eyes steady and unreadable.

“Maybe,” he said, tone even, but there was a spark behind it. “You fishin’ for one?”

Harry grinned, unabashed. “Depends. You holding out on me?”

Louis didn’t answer right away. The music carried on behind them, but the space between them felt quiet—carved out in the middle of all the noise. It buzzed, subtle and alive, like a wire pulled just tight enough to hum.

Harry tilted his head again, that damn dimple peeking out like it had a mind of its own. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you almost enjoyed watching me out there.”

Louis exhaled a soft laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Almost.”

That made Harry’s smile grow, slow and blooming, a flush still high on his cheeks from the dancing and the drink and maybe something else now, too.

The bar had hit its second wind.

Maybe it was the whiskey finally kicking in, or maybe it was Harry and the way he moved through a place, how people seemed to orbit around him without realizing they were doing it. Either way, the dance floor was alive again. Someone had dragged an old washboard out from God knows where, and now there was a stomp-clap rhythm rolling through the place, wild and messy and too full of joy to be anything but real.

Harry was leaning against the bar, flushed and a little breathless, curls damp with sweat and his shirt sticking at the collar. His glass was empty again; he’d been sipping more than drinking now, the kind of drunk that blurred the edges without tipping him over.

He nudged Louis with his shoulder, still grinning. “You know,” he drawled, slurring just enough to be charming, “I’m starting to think you’re all talk, Tomlinson.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, still sipping slow. “Am I now?”

Harry nodded, too enthusiastic, eyes bright. “Sat there all night like you had an opinion on every step people took in here, and yet—” he gestured dramatically toward the dance floor, “—there you are. Cemented to the stool. No moves to show for it.”

Louis huffed a laugh, resting his arm along the edge of the bar. “If I went out there, it’d bring the whole mood down. I'm not as...spry as you.”

“Bullshit,” Harry shot back, smiling like he’d already won. “I bet you were a menace out there once. Back when your knees didn’t crack and your marriage wasn’t held together with duct tape.”

That got Louis. He laughed, sudden and deep, shaking his head. “Christ, you’re a little shit when you drink.”

Harry bowed dramatically, hand over his chest. “Guilty.”

Then he leaned in, closer than he needed to be, just enough that Louis could smell the sweat and spice of him, the clinging sweetness of cheap liquor on his breath. His voice dropped, soft and coaxing. “C’moooon,” he murmured. “One dance. You don’t even gotta like the song.”

Louis glanced out at the crowd full of bodies too drunk to notice if he stepped wrong or froze up or made a damn fool of himself. The piano was pounding again, high and reeling, and the fiddle was screeching right alongside it. It was chaos. Chaos he used to love. And Harry—wide-eyed, flushed, and grinning like the devil in the middle of it—looked like the eye of the storm.

Louis drained the rest of his drink and set the glass down with a clink.

“Alright,” he said, voice rough. “One dance.”

Harry’s eyes lit up like a match. “Knew you had it in you.”

Louis stood, slow and steady, one boot at a time. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” Harry called over his shoulder, already dragging him toward the floor.

The moment Louis stepped onto the dance floor, the room seemed to tilt, just slightly, just enough to make him question every decision that led him to this exact square of sticky wood and stomping boots. The whiskey helped. Loosened his limbs, dulled the self-conscious edge of being a grown man in a bar full of strangers, about to two-step like he hadn’t sworn off dancing ten years ago.

There was a rough sort of line dance happening; half the room stomping in sync, half of them off-beat and laughing too hard to care. The kind of music that rattled your ribs and didn’t ask permission.

Harry slotted in beside him, elbow brushing his arm, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “Try not to break a hip.”

Louis elbowed him back, barely holding in a grin. “You keep flappin’ that mouth, Styles, and I’m dockin’ your pay.”

Harry whooped with laughter, already spinning in time with the beat. “Worth it!”

Louis shook his head, stepping into the rhythm. His boots slid across the wood with surprising ease—muscle memory, probably. Hell, maybe Harry was right. Maybe once upon a time, he really was a menace out here.

The steps were simple and he found his groove quicker than expected. The heat of the room curled against his neck, sweat sticking his shirt to his back, but he didn’t mind. Not tonight. Not with Harry beside him, lit up from the inside out.

“Look at you,” Harry hollered, barely winded. “Moving like you don't have a tractor graveyard waiting for you back home.”

They danced until the music wound down and the air turned thick with the smell of sweat and sawdust and something sweeter—whatever it was that Harry carried with him, like warmth left behind in a place too cold for too long.

The final song tapered off in a lazy drawl, just piano now, soft and slow. Louis clapped once, halfhearted, then ran a hand down his face, breathless and flushed. His shirt clung to his back and his thighs ached in a way he’d probably feel in the morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Harry stumbled back toward him, cheeks ruddy, curls sticking to his forehead. His shirt was half untucked, his boots scuffed to hell, and he was grinning like someone who hadn’t remembered pain in hours.

“That,” Harry said, pausing to catch his breath, “was possibly the greatest moment of my life.”

Louis laughed—really laughed. “You’re full of shit.”

Harry pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m full of whiskey and joy, thank you.”

Louis shook his head, still grinning. “Come on, lightweight. Let’s walk it off before you pass out tryin’ to mount up.”

They stepped out into the night, the air cooler now, sharp against their sweat-damp skin. The street was mostly quiet, lanterns flickering low. A few late stragglers murmured goodbyes behind them, boots echoing down the boardwalk.

Their horses waited just where they’d left them, heads low, tails flicking at invisible flies. Louis untied the reins and started walking, letting Blue fall into step beside him.

Harry followed suit, trailing just behind. He wasn’t weaving, not exactly, but there was a looseness to him now, like gravity didn’t quite know what to do with him.

They walked in silence for a while, the rhythm of their boots and hooves filling the space between them.

Louis glanced over once, found Harry watching the sky. “You alright?”

Harry looked at him, eyes a little glassy but bright. “Yeah. Just floatin’.”

Louis huffed softly, fond. “You always this much of a mess after three drinks?”

"Five." Harry smirked, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “And only when the company’s good.”

Louis looked back toward the road, jaw tightening just slightly. The words settled somewhere deep. Warm. They kept walking, slow and easy under the stars, the night wide and quiet around them.

Louis couldn’t remember the last time he’d had that much fun. Couldn’t remember the last time anything felt so simple. So easy. And beside him, Harry hummed something tuneless and soft, half to himself, like the night was singing him home.

They’d made it halfway out of town, the horses plodding patiently along beside them, when Louis broke the quiet again.

Harry was still humming under his breath, that same off-key little tune he’d started back at the bar, swaying slightly as he walked like the rhythm was still moving through him.

“Sleep in tomorrow,” Louis said, not looking at him. Just staring straight ahead at the dirt road, at the fields starting to darken at the horizon.

Harry blinked, slowed a little. “What?”

“You heard me,” Louis muttered. “No need to be up with the sun. You’ve earned a lie-in.”

Harry grinned, crooked and surprised. “You sure? Thought you’d have me out baling hay before I even open my eyes.”

Louis shot him a sideways glance, lip twitching. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll change my mind.”

Harry laughed, bright and unfiltered. “Alright, alright. I’ll take the win.”

Louis gave a short nod, adjusting the reins in his hand. “And I’ll get you your first pay tomorrow,” he added. “Figure it’s about time. You do well work.”

Harry blinked, as if he hadn’t even been thinking about the money. “Theres no rush—”

“I know,” Louis cut in, voice firm.

Harry quieted, that little smile still ghosting across his lips. “Thanks,” he said softly, sincere now. “I mean it.”

Louis just nodded again, eyes on the road, chest tight in a way that didn’t feel bad. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, not exactly. But for once, he didn’t feel like he was doing it alone.

They kept walking, the rhythm of hooves slow and steady behind them, the world wrapped in a hush that only came with late summer nights. The moon hung low and full over the fields, casting everything in a soft silver wash. Crickets buzzed somewhere in the grass, and Harry’s boots scuffed along the dirt like he’d forgotten how to lift his feet properly.

Louis glanced over just as Harry stumbled a bit over a rut in the road, catching himself with a laugh.

“You good?” Louis asked, the corner of his mouth quirking.

Harry nodded, but it was lazy and loose, all grin and no coordination. “Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out. “Yeah, just...Legs forgot how to be legs. But I’m good.”

Louis shook his head, amused. “Drunk as a skunk.”

“Drunk as a…  wildly charming, wonderful dancing skunk,” Harry corrected, slurring just a little, cheeks still flushed from the bar.

Louis huffed out a laugh. “That’s the whiskey talkin’.”

Harry shrugged, swaying a bit closer. “Might be. But it’s honest.”

They walked a few more paces in silence before Harry spoke again, voice quieter now but no less bold. “She’s a fool, y’know. Maggie.”

Louis didn’t respond. Not right away.

Harry kept going, words a little too loose to stop himself. “She looks right past you. Doesn’t see it. The way you carry it all. Like you were built to hold things steady.”

Louis stared ahead, his jaw tight, but he didn’t tell him to shut up.

“And David?” Harry snorted, kicking at a stone with the toe of his boot. “That man has the personality of a damp biscuit. Bet he shaves his chest and cries when the weather shifts.”

Louis barked a surprised laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus.”

“I’m serious!” Harry said, deadpan but grinning. “Bet he says things like ‘attaboy’ when he finishes.”

Louis snorted so hard he had to stop walking, hand bracing on the saddle to catch his breath. “Alright,” he said, laughing through it. “That’s enough outta you.”

Harry just smiled, leaning forward like he was whispering a secret to the dark. “You’re way too good for both of ’em. Maybe you should sell it. Go live in the woods.”

Louis didn’t answer.

But the words landed hard—too hard for the haze of whiskey to soften completely. They stuck, low and warm in his chest. And even though he said nothing, he walked a little closer after that. Close enough their shoulders brushed now and then as the road curved toward home.

By the time the farmhouse came into view, the moon had climbed higher, painting everything in pale light and long shadows. The front yard was quiet, still, but not empty. There was a flicker of movement behind one of the upstairs windows; soft, golden candlelight glowing faint through the thin curtains of Maggie’s room. Flickering in that uneven, unmistakable way that made Louis’ stomach twist.

She was still up. 

Louis slowed without thinking, his steps faltering, something bitter rising at the back of his throat. The night had worn soft around him until now, but that light cut through it like a blade.

Harry didn’t notice at first. He was walking beside Louis, head tipped back to look at the stars, swaying slightly as he led his horse. The drunken glow hadn’t left him, though his words had gone quiet since their last round of laughter.

Louis didn’t want the night to end here—not like this. He cleared his throat. “C’mon. I’ll walk you back.”

Harry looked over, brow furrowed slightly. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Louis said, already veering toward the path that led around the back pasture to the bunkhouse. “Still gonna.”

Harry didn’t argue.

The horses were tied in silence, reins looped and loose, left to rest in the cool stillness of the barn’s shadow. The sound of crickets picked up again, louder out here, as if the fields themselves were humming.

They walked the last bit side by side, boots sinking into soft dirt. A breeze carried the scent of cut grass and the faintest trace of honeysuckle from the fenceline.

Harry kept glancing over, like he wanted to say something but hadn’t found the words yet.

Louis stopped just outside the bunkhouse door, nodding toward it. “Go on. You need water and about ten hours of sleep.”

Harry turned to face him, blinking slow, a lazy smile creeping across his lips. “You sure you’re not the one who’s drunk? You’re being nice.”

Louis raised a brow. “Don’t get used to it.”

Harry lingered in the doorway, one hand on the frame. The candlelight from Maggie’s room was out of sight now, blocked by the barn and the dark. The night was theirs again, if only for a little longer.

“Thanks for tonight,” Harry said, softer this time. "Feels good to be welcome somewhere."

Louis hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah.” He stepped back, hands in his pockets. “Get some sleep.”

Harry smiled, but it was tired now. Honest. “Night, Louis.”

Louis nodded again, then turned, heading back toward the house.

He didn’t look up at the window this time.

Didn’t want to see if the light was still burning.

Louis peeled off his shirt slow, the fabric sticking a little at the back from sweat and the leftover heat of the night. The house was dark when he stepped inside and quiet in that way it always was when Maggie didn’t care if he came home or not.

His boots hit the floor with a soft thud. Then his belt, jeans, shirt; layer by layer until it was just him in the dark, bare-chested, tired, but still wired. Still warm from the whiskey and the way the night had wrapped itself around him like it didn’t want to let go.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. Let out a slow breath. It should’ve felt lonelier.

But all he could think about was the way Harry had laughed. Head thrown back, curls wild, that look on his face like he’d carved joy out of thin air and handed Louis a piece of it just because he could.

He thought about the way Harry danced, loose and unafraid, with arms too long and a grin too wide, like he didn’t care how he looked, only how it felt. Like he wanted other people to feel good too.

He thought about Harry’s hand on the bunkhouse doorframe.
The way his voice dipped when he said thanks.
The way he looked at him like he didn’t have to explain anything.
Like Louis didn’t have to hide.

He dragged a hand down his face, palm rough against the stubble on his jaw, and exhaled slow.

It wasn’t like he was...pining, exactly. He wasn’t fifteen, scribbling hearts in a notebook. But there was something about Harry that stuck in Louis’ chest like a splinter he didn’t want to dig out.

Maybe it wasn’t attraction. Maybe it was just the way Harry filled a space without taking it over. Maybe it was the way he saw things—small things, quiet things—like they mattered. Like Louis mattered. Like he wasn’t just some tired man with dirt under his nails and too many bad days behind him.

Louis leaned back on the bed, one arm slung over his eyes. The room stayed dark, but Harry’s smile kept playing behind his lids like an old reel.

He didn’t know what he was feeling. Not really.

It had to be loneliness. That was all. Just the ache of not having someone to talk to who didn’t look at him like a disappointment. Just the quiet that filled the house after Maggie stopped laughing at his jokes, stopped looking at him like she used to.

Harry was kind. Easy to be around. Funny without trying. He listened. And hell, maybe Louis had just forgotten what it felt like to be listened to not just tolerated. Not dismissed.

It didn’t have to mean anything else. He was just out of practice. At friendship. At connection. At sharing air with someone who didn’t already have a foot out the door. Louis shifted under the sheets, his body heavy and too warm, eyes still stubbornly closed.

It wasn’t attraction. It was just new. Just a soft spot carved out by accident.

It’d pass.

Chapter Text

The first thing he felt was heat.

Not the kind that settled from a summer sun or the ache of long work, but something deeper. Softer. The kind of heat that started beneath the skin and spread slow, like a fire that didn’t want to be put out.

Harry was beneath him. His hands curled around Louis’ waist, fingers flexing against bare skin, like he didn’t know whether to hold tight or pull closer. His mouth moved with purpose, slow and languid, tasting Louis like he’d been starving for him.

Louis exhaled through his nose, low and broken, his hands pressed to the mattress on either side of Harry’s head. The sheets were twisted around their hips, half-damp with sweat.

Harry’s thighs framed Louis’ hips, warm and taut and trembling just slightly. His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips pink from kissing.

“You’re killin’ me,” Louis murmured against his mouth, voice rough and cracked.

Harry smiled, lazy and flushed, the curve of it brushing against Louis’ cheek. “Better than being ignored.”

Louis grunted, dipping back in, kissing him deeper this time. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission, just took. The kind that tasted like days of restraint breaking down in slow motion.

His hand found Harry’s jaw, thumb sliding along the soft curve, grounding himself in the feeling of it. Harry arched into him, mouth parting with a quiet sigh, and it hit Louis low, sharp in the belly, the kind of ache that made him press harder, chase more.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” Louis said, breath ghosting hot against Harry’s neck. “Ain’t no one around to hear.”

Harry’s hand dragged up his back, nails just shy of scratching. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, love.”

Louis rolled his hips just once, slow and deliberate. Harry gasped. “Think I do,” Louis muttered.

The air between them pulsed. Harry’s legs tightened around him. Their bodies moved together like they’d done this before, like they knew the rhythm by heart. It felt good. Too good. Too easy.

Harry’s breath hitched, his fingers slipping into the sweat-damp hair at the back of Louis’ neck, tugging just enough to ground them. His mouth was close, lips brushing against Louis’ jaw as he spoke, voice small and cracking with something deeper than arousal.

“Stay.”

Louis blinked. His body stilled, breath caught in his chest.

Harry clutched at him tighter, voice thinner now. “Please don’t go.”

Louis pulled back just enough to look at him, to search his face. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Harry’s eyes were wet. Not with tears, not exactly, but with something trembling behind the edges. His hand pressed flat against Louis’ chest, over his heart. “You’ll leave. Don’t say you'll stay if you don’t mean it.”

Louis stared at him, heat draining from his limbs. “Harry, I’m right here, I’ll stay.”

But Harry shook his head like he didn’t believe it, like he couldn’t. “Not for long.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Louis said, his voice sharper now, more desperate. “Why would I—"

But the room was fading. The sheets unraveled beneath him like smoke. The mattress gave way. Harry’s fingers slipped from his skin. And the  warm glow that had wrapped them up like it was theirs dimmed, gone cold at the edges.

Louis reached, grabbed for his wrist, for anything. “Harry—”

He sat up in bed, gasping. The air in his lungs was stale. The bedroom was silent. No sweat-slick bodies tangled in his sheets. No fingers in his hair. No breathless pleading. Just his own room. Dark. Empty.

He ran a hand down his face, heart pounding like it had somewhere to be. His chest ached in that hollow, bruised way that dreams leave behind. The kind you don’t want to shake, even if it guts you.

He looked at his hand like maybe he could still feel the press of Harry’s jaw beneath it. But all he found was cold skin.

Louis dragged himself out of bed slow. His legs were stiff. His mouth was dry. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Didn’t remember dreaming, either. But he remembered Harry’s voice.

Please don’t go.

Louis swallowed. Pressed the heel of his palm against his chest like he could push the echo down, make it stop reverberating in the hollowness he’d carried around for years. He looked toward the window. The light was starting to change. And somewhere out there, Harry was probably still asleep in the bunkhouse, curled under an old wool blanket, breathing easy. He was real. Alive.

But Louis still felt like he’d lost something. And for the life of him, he didn’t know why.

The house was still wrapped in the hush of early morning. Louis moved slow. His limbs dragged like someone twice his age, each joint popping softly as he dressed. The dream clung to him like humidity, sticking to the skin beneath his shirt, making his collar feel too tight and his jeans too stiff. He didn’t bother shaving. Didn’t bother checking the clock.

The only sound was the floor groaning under his weight as he walked down the hall. In the kitchen, a weak sliver of sun crept across the counter. The kettle on the stove hadn’t moved since yesterday. Maggie hadn’t bothered to make coffee in days, not for him, at least.

Louis filled a tin cup with water from the pump, drank half of it, then poured the rest over his hands. He wiped them on his jeans, set the cup down too hard on the table, and stepped out the back door without thinking. The screen slapped shut behind him.

Outside, the light was stronger. Warm and gold and a little too pretty for the kind of day he felt settling into his chest. The breeze carried the scent of dry earth and clover, and somewhere off toward the field, a cow lowed once, halfhearted.

He spotted Maggie first. She was by the chicken coop, arms crossed, lips pursed, her wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her eyes like she was shielding herself from the truth. She wasn’t moving. Just standing there, watching something. Or someone.

Louis followed her line of sight and found Harry kneeling in the grass, crouched low beside the coop’s side gate, his hands buried in the soil as he tugged up something with fine roots. His back was to them, curls tousled, shirt untucked, the hem riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin at his waist.

Maggie tilted her head. Louis couldn’t see her eyes from here, but he knew the look. He used to be on the receiving end of it. That slow burn of interest, curiosity, amusement. The kind of gaze she saved for people she thought were worth her time. She used to give it to him when he fixed her saddle or made her laugh or showed up with a jar of honey from the next farm over like it meant something.

But now, she was looking at Harry like he was some puzzle she wanted to take apart. Louis leaned against the porch post and watched.

Harry was saying something to himself. They couldn’t hear it from this distance, but his hands moved as he talked, one finger pointing toward the base of the coop where wild mint had started to grow in clusters.

Maggie didn’t answer. Just stood there. Louis rubbed the back of his neck, his palm rough against the stubble he hadn’t shaved. He knew that kind of stillness, too. It wasn’t admiration. It was measuring.

Harry shifted back on his heels, then stood, brushing dirt off his knees. He turned, finally noticing Maggie’s presence, and smiled bright, easy, and unbothered.

That was the thing about Harry. He always smiled like he meant it.

Louis watched them from the porch, his stomach turning slow and sour. Maggie stepped forward, saying something. Her hand reached out, brushing something off Harry’s shirt, right near his shoulder. It was a casual touch. Light. But too familiar.

Louis didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched. He knew Maggie. She didn’t touch unless she wanted something. And he didn’t think she gave a damn about mint.

Harry laughed at something she said, then took a step back, polite distance reestablished. He wiped his palms on his jeans, said something else, then gestured toward the tool shed like he had somewhere to be.

Maggie’s smile flickered. Then disappeared. She turned and walked back toward the house, her boots crunching against the dirt path in short, clipped steps. Her mouth was tight. Controlled. Louis didn’t move until she passed him on the steps. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say a word. Just went inside, letting the screen door creak open, then slam behind her.

Louis stayed on the porch. Eyes on the coop. Harry was gone from view now, behind the shed. But the air still buzzed with something left unsaid.

Louis wasn’t jealous. Not exactly. He just didn’t like watching something he couldn’t name shift right in front of him. Didn’t like watching Maggie try to take something light and real and press her fingerprints all over it like she had a right. Didn’t like that Harry hadn’t looked his way once yet. Louis took a breath. Let it out slow. Then stepped down from the porch and headed for the shed. He had work to do. And maybe something else, too.

--

It had been three weeks since Harry showed up with dust on his boots and that stupid easy smile that made things feel softer than they should. Three weeks of hot mornings, quiet dinners, and long silences stretched between them like taut wire; never snapping, but never relaxed either.

Louis hadn’t dreamed of him again. Not like that first one at least. But it hadn’t mattered. The first one stuck. It lived in the corners of his memory now, tucked behind every glance, every touch that lasted a second too long. Harry’s laugh would echo down the barn rafters and Louis would feel it like a bruise.

He tried not to show it. Tried to be normal. Tried to act like nothing had changed. But it had. They moved different around each other now. Not careful, exactly—Louis wasn’t sure either of them knew how to be careful—but there was a quiet understanding in their rhythm. Like they were dancing to music nobody else could hear.

Harry had taken to lingering.

He’d hang around the kitchen after dinner, drying dishes while Louis washed. He’d lean against the doorframe in the morning, coffee in hand, waiting for Louis to finish tying his boots before walking out with him like it was planned. He’d start things he didn’t finish—conversations, repairs, stories—just to keep them going. Louis didn’t ask why. He just let it happen.

And Maggie…Maggie had noticed. She’d tried, in her way, to turn Harry’s attention. The first time, it was a bottle of cold beer handed off at sundown, her hand lingering on his when he took it. Louis had watched from across the yard, chewing on a toothpick like it was the only thing keeping him from saying something stupid.

The second time, she’d worn that red plaid shirt, the one she only pulled out when she wanted someone to look. It was tied at the waist, sleeves rolled high, collar open just enough. She’d asked Harry to help her with a fence post near the creek, even though she could handle it herself. Louis hadn’t followed them. He’d split wood until his palms blistered instead.

By the time Harry came back, he looked a little winded, a little flushed, but not shaken. And he still sat next to Louis at dinner like nothing had happened. Their elbows brushed. Neither of them moved.

Louis didn’t ask what she’d said. Harry didn’t offer. The third time, Maggie got bolder. It was a Sunday. Warm. Lazy. She’d brought out lemonade in mason jars and sat with them on the porch, legs crossed, eyes hidden behind the brim of her hat. She talked more than usual, and laughed a little louder, and at one point, reached out and plucked a piece of straw from Harry’s curls.

Louis had seen red. Harry had gone still. Not in an obvious way, but just enough. Like he didn’t want the contact, didn’t know how to shut it down without making a thing out of it. Louis had stood up. Said he had chores. Harry had followed five minutes later. They didn’t talk about it. They never did.

It was the start of the fourth week of Harry's stay. The sun was brutal overhead, a dry kind of heat that stuck in your throat and made the air shimmer off the tin roof like it was angry. Louis wiped the sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve and stepped back to look at the porch railing they’d been replacing. Half of it was still detached, the new slats lined up neatly along the wall, ready to be hammered in.

Harry crouched low beside him, squinting at the wood in his hand like it had insulted him. “This one’s warped,” he said, holding it up and tilting his head. “Could use it, but I fear the line will look off.”

Louis glanced at him, then back at the plank. “Toss it.”

Harry tossed it. Over his shoulder. No hesitation.

Louis huffed a quiet laugh and bent to pick up the next board. “You know, most people would lean it against the wall, not just chuck it into the dirt like a damn outlaw.”

Harry grinned, wide and unapologetic. “You said toss it.”

And there it was again, that feeling. That curl of something warm and wrong and familiar rising up in Louis’ chest. The dream hadn't faded like dreams were supposed to. It had dug in, clung on, rewired the way his brain reacted to every look, every brush of fingers, every goddamn smile.

Especially the ones like that. Especially when Harry looked at him like he knew.

Louis swallowed and turned back to the woodpile. He needed something to do with his hands before he did something stupid with them.

Harry, apparently unfazed, stood and stretched, arms high above his head, shirt rising just enough to show the edge of his stomach, a trail of soft hair disappearing under his waistband. Louis looked away fast. Too fast.

“You alright?” Harry asked, still facing him, still watching.

“Fine.” Too sharp. He heard it in his own voice.

Harry tilted his head, just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe him but he didn’t press. Just walked over to grab the hammer and returned to Louis’ side like nothing was weird. Like they weren’t both tiptoeing around something thick in the air.

A creak came from the front door. Maggie leaned against the frame, one hip cocked, apron dusted with flour, a glass of sweet tea in her hand. “You two planning on building a whole new house out here, or just trying to melt yourselves before lunch?”

Louis didn’t turn. Just kept his focus on the next slat, lining it up and pretending his pulse wasn’t still skipping from the way Harry had looked at him thirty seconds ago. “Just about done,” he said.

Harry glanced up, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, then gave her a polite, easy smile. “Wouldn’t say no to a pitcher of that.”

Maggie smirked. “You get your ass inside, you’ll have some.” She didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and let the door swing shut behind her.

Louis nailed the last board into place with a couple solid hits and stepped back to admire the line. It wasn’t perfect, nothing ever was out here, but it was straight enough, clean enough.

“Not bad,” Harry said, leaning next to him, eyes following the length of the new railing. “Could almost pass for craftsmanship.”

Louis snorted. “You think you're clever.”

“I am clever.” Harry turned to look at him, smile crooked. “Just not always appreciated in my time.”

It was like this with him lately. Everything was a little sideways, a little private. Jokes that didn’t land the same when someone else was listening. Comments he only made when it was just the two of them. That subtle shift, like the space between them had narrowed without either of them naming it.

Louis didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but he kept letting it happen. And Harry kept showing up. Staying out after dinner to help with odd jobs that didn’t need two people, riding alongside him when he didn’t need to, even once pretending to fall asleep on the porch just so Louis wouldn’t go back inside right away.

It was stupid.

But it felt like something.

Louis pulled off his gloves, flexed his fingers, and turned toward the steps. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Harry said, already a step behind him.

They crossed the porch together, boots loud against the planks they’d just secured. Louis reached for the door, but before he could push it open, Harry reached over and tugged lightly at the brim of his hat, just enough to knock it down over his eyes.

Louis blinked as the brim of his hat slipped down over his eyes.

“It was crooked,” Harry said lightly as he walked past him and into the house.

The screen door creaked and slapped shut again, leaving Louis standing alone on the porch, hat askew, heart thudding like someone had just lit a fire under his ribs. He adjusted the damn thing, slower than necessary, trying to pull himself back together.

It was nothing. Just a joke. Just Harry being Harry. But Louis could feel the heat from his grin like it had been pressed right into his skin. He blew out a breath, gave himself exactly three seconds to get over it, then stepped inside.

The house was cooler, shadows stretching across the floorboards, the smell of butter and something baking filling the air. Maggie was at the counter slicing bread, her back to them, but Louis barely clocked her. His eyes were on Harry, who was already pulling two chairs out at the table, moving like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged.

Louis sat down slowly, pulse still a little too quick. If this kept going the way it was going, he was going to have to do something about it.

Maggie moved around the kitchen like she always did. She brought over a plate stacked with thick-cut bread, then a bowl of roast vegetables, the scent of rosemary and garlic curling into the room. A cast iron pan followed, holding something sizzling hot, steak or pork, Louis couldn’t tell, too distracted by the way she hovered.

She set Harry’s plate down first.

“Best eat before it goes cold,” she said, smoothing a hand down her apron. Her voice was light, almost teasing.

Harry looked up at her, smiling with that easy charm he pulled out for everyone. “Thanks, Maggie.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder. Just for a second. Fingertips light, like she was steadying herself. Or reminding him she was there.

Louis' jaw locked. It wasn’t the touch itself. It wasn’t the smallness of it, the casualness. It wasn’t even that she was still wearing her wedding ring and doing things like this, like it didn’t matter.

It was him. It was the fact that it was Harry she was touching. And that something inside Louis recoiled from it.

She moved away without comment, setting his plate down next. He muttered a quiet thanks, keeping his eyes on the food, but he wasn’t really seeing it. His ears were hot. His stomach twisted, appetite flickering.

She’d done things like this before; flirted, hovered, touched. None of it new. None of it unexpected. But this was the first time it had made Louis feel something close to anger. Not jealousy, exactly. Not about her. It wasn’t his wife touching another man. That should’ve been what stung. But it wasn’t.

It was Harry.

Harry, who he’d been telling himself was just a friend. Harry, who he kept trying to pretend wasn’t quietly rewriting the way Louis moved through the world. Harry, who he’d dreamed of touching in ways no friend should ever touch another man.

He’d told himself it didn’t mean anything. Just his brain playing tricks. Loneliness. Long days. Too many quiet nights in a house that didn’t feel like his anymore. But every time Harry smiled, or stood a little too close, or said something just for Louis, low and amused under his breath...Louis felt that dream again. Not the details, but the weight of it. The way it had felt to want.

He shifted in his chair, chewing hard, swallowing like it might push the thought back down. Across the table, Harry was talking about some story from home, from back in England, about someone accidentally shearing the wrong sheep and pretending it was a new breed. Maggie laughed. Louis almost did, too.

But the way she looked at Harry, the way she leaned in just slightly, like she was waiting for something that hadn’t been offered? It made Louis feel sick.

It wasn’t about her. Not anymore. It was about him.

Harry took a bite of bread and leaned back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against his glass of tea, his eyes scanning the room like he was memorizing it. Then he looked at Louis. Not for long. Just a flick of his gaze, casual and fleeting. But Louis felt it land all the same.

“I was thinking about that wild mint near the coop,” Harry said, turning back to Maggie. “It’s coming in strong. Might be able to dry some, hang it in the kitchen if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Maggie blinked, a little caught off guard. “Suppose I wouldn’t mind. Never thought much on it.”

Harry shrugged, smiling softly. “My mum always kept herbs in the window. Mint, thyme, sometimes lavender. The smell made the whole house feel less… grey.” He paused, then added, “Feels good, having my hands in the dirt again. I’ve learned more here in three weeks than I did in a year at home.”

Louis didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He was chewing again but he was listening.

“Didn’t expect to like it this much,” Harry went on. “Didn’t expect to feel like-” He stopped himself with a little laugh, ducking his head. “Anyway. Just glad you both have let me stay this long.”

Maggie tilted her head, smiling now, softer than before. “You’ve been a big help around here. Not many would’ve stuck around this long.”

Harry looked down at his plate, smile still in place, but smaller. “Well. Sometimes it’s nice not being expected to leave.”

Louis swallowed hard, food sitting like a stone in his gut.

He watched Harry’s fingers toy with the edge of his napkin. Watched the way his shoulders tensed slightly, like he wasn’t sure how much to say. Watched Maggie reach for the pitcher to top off Harry’s glass like she was offering more than sweet tea.

Louis hated it. Hated how much it mattered. Hated that he could still feel the shape of that dream every time Harry said something honest. Hated that he couldn’t stop thinking about how Harry looked when he stretched, how he sounded when he laughed at one of Louis’ dry comments like it was the only thing that mattered.

Harry hadn’t just shown up with a wagon and a smile. He’d settled in. He’d made himself part of this place without asking permission. And Louis had let him. And now he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he liked that he did.

He stared down at his plate and said nothing. Not because he didn’t want to speak. But because he didn’t trust what would come out of his mouth if he did.

They ate in a rhythm that had started to feel familiar. Maggie fussed less when Harry was around, which Louis noted but never commented on. The clink of cutlery against ceramic filled the silence between small talk. Harry told another story, this one about nearly mistaking a patch of nettles for wild chives during a school trip, and Maggie laughed like she meant it. Maybe she did.

Louis picked at the rest of his food, then pushed his plate away. Appetite was long gone, replaced by something tighter in his chest. He wiped his hands on his napkin and sat back, gaze flicking to the clock above the sink. He knew he should get back outside. There were tools to clean, the shed to lock up, more work that didn’t need doing but could fill time.

But if he left, it would be them at the table. Just them. And suddenly, that sat all wrong with him.

He didn’t want to name what he was feeling. Didn’t want to call it possessiveness, or jealousy, or the quiet ache of something that looked too much like want. But he knew this much: if he stood up, if he walked out, he’d look back through the window and see Maggie leaning in again. See her trying, still, to touch something that wasn’t hers.

Louis shifted, hands braced on his thighs, already halfway to standing.

Then Harry moved.

Pushed his plate forward, wiped his hands quick, and stood with a soft groan like his knees had started to complain. “Right, that was excellent,” he said, smiling at Maggie. “Thanks for that. Really.” Then, to Louis, a glance. “Back to it?”

Like he’d been waiting. Like he hadn’t even considered staying behind. Louis blinked, slow. A flicker of something ridiculous lit in his chest before he shoved it down. He stood, grabbed their plates and walked them over to the sink. Maggie was still sitting, one eyebrow raised like she saw more than he wanted her to.

“You don’t have to clean up,” she said mildly, not looking at either of them.

Louis gave a short shrug. “Not a problem.”

He didn’t look back at Harry, but he could hear the boots moving across the floor, then the soft creak of the screen door swinging open. No pause. No lingering. Harry was already stepping back outside. Louis followed, hands still damp from the dish towel, heart thudding like he’d just outrun something instead of eating lunch.

The door closed behind him with a snap. And somehow, it felt like a choice had been made. Even if no one said a word.

The afternoon heat had settled like a weight on their shoulders, heavy and still. The sun had started to dip just enough to cast long shadows over the porch, but it was still hot enough to stick shirts to backs and make the air hum with the threat of a storm that never came.

They were working on the trim along the side of the house now, a slow, thankless job that required more patience than skill. Louis crouched low, lining up a piece of wood, while Harry held it steady at the other end. His knee brushed against Louis’ for a second too long, but neither of them mentioned it.

They worked in sync, quiet and focused, until Harry spoke. “She’s nice,” he said, casually, like he was commenting on the weather. “Your wife.”

Louis didn’t look up. “She can be.”

Harry was quiet for a beat. Then: “But, I think she’s... I dunno. Being a bit forward with me?”

Louis froze. Not obviously. Just a slight pause in his motion. A hesitation, like his body caught up to the words before his brain did. He straightened, wiped his hands on his jeans, and finally looked at Harry. “You think?”

Harry didn’t smile, didn’t joke. He was watching Louis closely, like he wasn’t sure how this would land. “I’m not trying to make it into something,” he said, voice low and even. “It’s just... she touches my arm sometimes, or hangs around when I’m not really saying anything worth sticking around for. And earlier-” He trailed off. “It’s not a big deal. Just… wanted to say it. Out loud. See if it sounded as crazy as I thought it might.”

Louis stared at him. Jaw tight. “You’re not imagining it,” he said finally.

Harry nodded once. “Okay.”

They stood there, not looking at each other, both staring at the wall like it might offer a way out of the conversation.

Then Harry added, quieter this time, “I didn’t do anything to invite it.”

Louis looked at him, sweat at his temples, curls sticking to his forehead, hands covered in dust and glue. And underneath it all, that same steady calm Harry always carried, like nothing could shake him unless he let it.

“I know you didn’t,” Louis said. “She does that.”

Harry nodded again, thoughtful. “You still alright with me being here?”

It hit harder than Louis expected. He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I want you here.”

Harry didn’t smile. But his eyes softened, just a bit. “Alright then,” he said. “Just making sure.”

And with that, he crouched back down to finish the trim. Like they hadn’t just danced around something raw and real. Like it hadn’t just shifted the ground between them again. Louis stayed standing a moment longer, watching him work. Then he knelt beside him and picked up the next piece of wood.

They worked in silence again for a while, the steady rhythm of nails tapping and wood settling into place filling the space between them. The heat had softened just enough to make it bearable, the sun slanting low through the trees, dust hanging in the air like smoke.

Louis passed Harry a nail, their fingers brushing.

Harry glanced up, barely. Just enough. Then, almost offhanded, he said, “Don’t reckon she’s my type anyway.”

Louis' hand stalled mid-motion. “No?”

Harry kept his eyes on the trim, tapping a nail into place with casual precision. “Not really. Bit too... sure of herself.”

Louis huffed. “That usually works on her victims.”

Harry shrugged. “I like quiet company better. Someone who doesn’t fill the air just to prove they’re still in it.”

He looked up then, eyes catching Louis' for just a second too long.

Louis’ mouth went dry.

He looked back down at the board between them, palms a little too slick, chest a little too tight. It would be so easy to brush it off, make a joke, steer them back into safe territory. But he didn’t.

Instead, he kept his eyes on the wood and said, careful and slow, “You think I’m quiet company?”

Harry smiled. Just a flicker, crooked and knowing. “Sometimes. Depends on the hour.”

Louis swallowed. “And that’s your type, is it?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He picked up another nail, thumb brushing over the flat end, then met Louis' gaze again, steady this time. “Lately, yeah. Think it is.”

The air shifted. Subtle, but undeniable. Louis felt like his ribs were too tight around his lungs. They didn’t speak after that. Not about it. They finished the trim. Put the tools away. Brushed the dust off their hands and didn’t touch again.

But something had cracked open. Not wide. Not enough to change anything. Not out loud. But enough for Louis to feel it.

It lived in the space between words now. In the way Harry stood a little closer. In the way Louis let him.

And it terrified him. Because this wasn’t a place made for that kind of want. Not this land, not this town, not the people in it. There were rules here that were unspoken, carved into bone. Men like Louis weren’t supposed to feel anything but grit and work and duty.

And men like Harry…They weren’t supposed to look at him like that.

Louis spent the evening hauling buckets from the well just to keep his hands busy. Just to sweat it out. He didn’t look toward the porch where Harry sat stringing up fresh mint to dry.

The buckets were heavier than they needed to be. Louis filled them too high on purpose, water sloshing over the rims as he carried them to the trough one by one, arms burning with the effort. His shirt clung to his back. His fingers ached. He welcomed it. Anything to stay out of his head.

Behind him, the porch creaked every now and then, the sound of quiet motion. He didn’t look. Couldn’t. He already knew Harry was there, barefoot probably, shirt loose, curls damp at the edges from the heat. Sitting with that damn calm of his, threading twine through bunches of mint like he wasn’t the reason Louis couldn’t think straight anymore.

Louis dunked the last bucket in the well, pulled it up with a grunt, water dripping down his arm. The sun was a bruised smudge on the horizon now, light bending gold and pink across the dirt. He let the bucket sit at his feet for a second, catching his breath, shoulders slumped.

He hadn’t even done anything. They hadn’t touched. Hadn’t said anything someone else could hold against them. But it still felt like a line had been crossed. And part of him didn’t want to go back.

Harry’s voice came quiet and low, like he knew exactly how much space he was taking up just by speaking. “You alright?”

Louis nodded once. Didn’t look. “Fine.”

Silence again. Then: “Mint’s drying up nice.”

Louis huffed, not quite a laugh. “You planning on opening a tea shop I don’t know about?”

Harry stepped off the porch and came closer. Not too close. Just enough. “Nah,” he said. “Just figured if I’m gonna stay, might as well make myself useful in all areas.”

Louis looked at him then. Finally. Harry was backlit by the last of the sun, jaw shadowed, sleeves rolled high, a smear of green on his wrist from where he must’ve crushed a leaf. He looked like he belonged there. Like he fit.

Louis' throat felt thick. “You are.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly. “Am what?”

“Useful,” Louis said, voice rough. “You are.”

They stood there for a long moment. The heat had broken, but the air still felt heavy. Charged.

Harry looked at him, searching for something in his face. Something Louis wasn’t sure he wanted found. Louis dropped his eyes again, suddenly aware of how stupid he probably sounded. Like he couldn’t string together a normal sentence if his life depended on it.

"You are." What the hell kind of thing was that to say? Like he was a kid fumbling through his first conversation with someone he liked. He shifted his weight, wiped a hand down the back of his neck like that might cool something down inside him. It didn’t.

“I mean,” he added quickly, quieter now, “it’s good havin’ someone around who… knows what they’re doing and works hard. That’s all.”

His voice felt clumsy in his mouth. Unfamiliar. Like he didn’t quite know how to make it sound normal anymore. He hadn’t really talked to anyone like this in years. Not in any way that mattered. Not since Maggie, and even that had grown so silent it barely counted.

And now here he was sounding raw and off-balance over something as simple as Harry helping with herbs and fence posts. He didn’t know how to be around someone who saw him. Who stood still in the quiet and didn’t need to fill it, didn’t run from it. And he felt transparent. Too obvious. Like anyone walking by could take one look at him and know exactly what was tangled up under his skin.

Harry didn’t say anything right away. He just watched him, eyes unreadable in the low light. Then he stepped back. Not far, just enough to give Louis a little breathing room, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I like working with you,” Harry said, like it was the most ordinary truth in the world. No weight. No heat. Just honesty.

Louis nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah. Me too.”

A pause.

Then Harry’s voice came again, gentler now. “You don’t have to say much, you know.”

Louis frowned. “What?”

Harry half-smiled. “You don’t have to explain it. Whatever you’re trying to say, I hear it.”

Louis looked at him then, startled. Not because he didn’t believe it, but because a part of him did. And that scared him even more.

Harry gave him a small nod, like that was enough, then turned and headed back to the porch barefoot, just like Louis thought. He moved easy, like he always did, like none of this rattled him at all. Louis stood there for a long time after, the last of the light fading around him, water soaking into the dirt at his feet.

—

The night had settled heavy and slow, the kind that clung to your skin and made even the stars feel far away. Crickets murmured in the tall grass. A distant owl called once, then fell quiet.

Louis sat on the porch, shoulders hunched, a half-smoked cigar clutched between two fingers. The smoke curled slow through the humid air, sweet and sharp on his tongue. It didn’t help. It never did. But he needed something in his mouth, something to do with his hands that wasn’t wringing them in his lap like a man coming undone.

He watched the bunkhouse. Or more specifically he watched the shadow that moved behind the bunkhouse window.

Harry.

The shape of him was blurred from candlelight low and easy, probably changing clothes or laying out his bedroll. Louis couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to think too hard about it. But he couldn’t stop watching either. That soft, amber lamplight spilling out around him. That stillness in the way he moved. The quiet routine of a man who’d settled in and didn’t seem like he planned on leaving anytime soon.

Louis took another drag, exhaled through his nose. The cherry at the end of the cigar flared red. His mouth was dry. His stomach was tighter than it should’ve been.

He told himself he was just keeping an eye on things. That it was just habit. That it had nothing to do with the way his heart had started to trip over itself every time Harry looked at him too long or said something low and easy just for him.

But he was a shit liar, even in his own head.

He jumped at the sound of the porch boards creaking behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know it was her.

“Didn’t think you smoked anymore,” Maggie said softly, arms folded, voice barely louder than the bugs in the grass.

Louis tensed, the cigar pausing halfway to his lips. “Don’t. Not really.”

She stepped closer, leaned against the railing across from him. Moonlight caught the edge of her profile, the lines around her mouth, the smudge of flour she hadn’t washed off from dinner. He didn’t look at her. Not directly. Not with Harry’s light still glowing like a second sun.

“Trouble sleeping?” she asked.

Louis shrugged. “Just...hot.”

She hummed like she didn’t believe him. Like maybe she could see right through him. And God, that was the worst of it. He couldn’t help but think she might. Because she’d looked at him different lately. Not angry. Not soft either. Just sharp. Like a woman who’d started doing the math.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, not accusing, just noting it.

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

Louis took another long drag, let the smoke settle on his tongue, then breathed it out slow. His gaze drifted back to the window across the yard. The shadow had moved. No more motion, just a dim shape now. Still.

Maggie followed his gaze across the yard, eyes narrowing slightly when she caught where it landed. The bunkhouse. The glow of Harry’s lamp. The unmoving shadow behind the thin curtain.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, arms crossed over her chest, the porch light catching on her wedding ring like it meant something. Then, dry as bone, she said, “You’ve been spending more time with that ranch hand than your own wife.”

Louis didn’t even flinch. But his hand tightened around the cigar, the end flaring again with a sharp inhale. He didn’t mean to speak. Not really. It came out low and hot, like something that’d been boiling under his tongue for too long.

“Yeah?” he muttered. “Least I ain’t tryin’ to climb in his lap.”

Maggie’s head jerked slightly, like the words had slapped her. But she recovered fast. That flat calm she always wore when she was cornered settled over her face.

“Well,” she said, biting the edge of her lip, “can’t say I wouldn’t understand the appeal.”

Louis turned sharply, eyes narrowed. “You wanna go there?”

She held his gaze, chin lifting. “You already did.”

The air went still. Crickets hushed for a moment. A breeze moved the trees but didn’t cool anything.

Louis looked away first, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He brought the cigar back to his lips but didn’t drag. Just held it there, like maybe the burn would remind him how to feel human again.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he said finally, voice low. “I didn’t ask him to stay.”

“No,” Maggie said, quieter now. “But you didn’t ask him to leave, either.”

Louis didn’t answer. Because she was right. And they both knew it.

She sighed, the fight bleeding out of her shoulders. “Just don’t forget what you got right here, Louis. Even if it ain’t what it used to be.”

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t watch her leave. But he heard the door click shut behind her. And when he looked back at the bunkhouse, the light was still on. Still warm. Still waiting.

The house was quiet when Louis finally came inside. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, either. The kind that pressed in around the edges. Tight. Watching.

He peeled off his shirt, hands rough with dirt and sweat, and dropped it at the foot of the bed without bothering to fold it. The sheets were cool when he climbed in, but he knew it wouldn’t last. His skin was already humming under the weight of the day, and somewhere in the pit of him was a tension that refused to be wrung out.

He lay flat, eyes on the ceiling, trying to think of nothing. But the second he closed his eyes…Harry was there.

Not in the yard. Not on the porch. Not with tools or fences between them.

This time, it was just skin. Just them.

The dream came on thick. Heavy and disorienting, but real. Too real. He could feel Harry’s breath against his neck, could hear the quiet, broken sound he made when Louis pressed him down into the mattress. The cotton clung to their bodies, damp and clumsy, until it was tossed aside, forgotten.

Harry’s hands were on him warm and sure, like they’d always belonged there. No hesitation. No distance. Just touch. Louis gripped his waist, pulled him closer, felt the tremble in Harry’s thighs as their mouths met again and again, slow and greedy.

It was breathless. Wordless. Like something that had been waiting too long to break free.

Harry looked up at him with flushed cheeks, curls damp and clinging to his forehead, lips parted like he was about to say something but couldn’t remember how to speak. Louis leaned in anyway, kissed the words off him. Took what he couldn’t ask for in the daylight. And Harry let him.

Worse, he wanted him.

Every movement was desperate and slow, like they both knew it would end, but refused to stop. Harry’s legs wrapped around him, and Louis swore low and breathy into the side of his neck. The sound Harry made in response buried itself in Louis’ chest and stayed there.

Harry’s fingers curled tight at the base of Louis’ spine, nails digging in just enough to make him feel owned. Grounded. His voice was wrecked when he finally spoke, all breath and hunger, like it was being dragged out of him.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” Harry whispered, desperate, his lips brushing Louis’ ear. “Been thinking about this every night. Every goddamn night since I got here.”

Louis shuddered, the words slicing straight through him. Harry didn’t stop. He couldn’t seem to.

“You gonna pretend you haven’t?” he asked, voice low and filthy, but true. “Gonna act like you don’t lie awake wanting me just like this?”

Louis’ hand fisted in the sheet beside Harry’s head, breath shaking.

“Say it,” Harry murmured, grinding up into him, teeth grazing the curve of his jaw. “Say you want me.”

Louis groaned raw, broken, and for a second, he nearly said it.

I do. I want you. I want this.

But the dream was already slipping.

The heat, the weight, the way Harry had felt under him, it all started to unspool, dissolve. And then he woke.

2:03 a.m.

Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Sweat clinging to his skin like shame. Louis sat bolt upright, gasping, like he’d surfaced from deep water. The silence around him was deafening. He dragged a hand down his face, over his lips, and tried not to let the words echo. But they did. Over and over.

Say you want me.

He sat there for a long time. Back hunched. Sheets tangled around his legs. Still breathing like he’d run a mile through thick mud. His hands trembled.

It wasn’t just the dream, though that alone would’ve been enough to shake him loose. It was the want that lingered after. The ache of it. The way Harry had sounded in his ear. Like he’d meant it. Like he’d been waiting just as long.

Say you want me.

Louis gritted his teeth. Dragged a hand over his face, then down, over the sweat-soaked cotton clinging to his stomach. He should’ve gotten up. Washed his face. Poured a drink. Anything to chase the heat off his skin.

But he didn’t. He let his head fall back, let his legs stretch out, and closed his eyes again. And when he slid his hand lower, slow and unsure, it wasn’t Maggie’s name that burned behind his teeth. It wasn’t her hands he imagined.

It was Harry.

It was Harry’s mouth he imagined. Harry’s hands rough from work, sure in their grip ghosting over his skin. The pressure of his body, the way he’d looked in the dream: flushed, wrecked, whispering things Louis had never dared to hear from anyone before.

Louis pressed his palm lower, breath catching in his throat. He let his eyes fall shut again, let his body chase the heat curling low in his belly. It wasn’t frantic, not rushed. It was slow and drawn out like the tension that had been building for weeks.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to stay quiet as his hand moved beneath the sheet. The cotton stuck to his stomach, damp with sweat and shame, but it didn’t stop him.

He imagined Harry whispering again, right into the hollow of his throat: God, you feel so fucking good.

Louis’ hips shifted, chasing the friction in his hand. Needing it. The fantasy of it. His breath hitched, sharp in the quiet. The room felt too small, the air too thick. Every nerve in his body had narrowed to a single point of focus, his hand, his skin, and the ghost of a voice that didn’t belong to anyone but Harry.

The fantasy pressed harder, took shape. Harry’s weight on top of him, warm and solid. His breath against Louis’ neck, hot and ragged. Fingers digging into his shoulders like he couldn’t get close enough.

Louis’ palm moved slower over himself now, savoring it. Every touch layered with imagined heat, imagined teeth, imagined want.

His spine arched off the mattress just slightly, breath coming in shallow pulls, chest rising and falling like he’d been running. He was close, the edge of it sharp now, steep and undeniable, and it wasn’t just the physical release pulling him under, it was everything he wasn’t allowed to feel.

It was the longing. The quiet ache. The ache that had a name and a face and a mouth that said things Louis had never let himself believe he could want.

He came with his teeth clenched, Harry’s name echoing silently in his chest. Not spoken. Just known. Afterward, he lay still. Hand slack. Heart pounding. Shame curling in his stomach like smoke. He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the towel on the hook. Didn’t try to clean himself up. Just stared at the ceiling.

He should feel better. Should feel spent. But instead, he felt hollow. Because nothing had changed. And everything had. The wanting was real now. Too real. And there was no walking that back.

Not after that.

Not after him.

Not after Harry.

Chapter Text

The sun was barely up when the sound of wagon wheels cracked through the quiet. Louis stepped out onto the porch, squinting against the glare, the weight of the night still heavy on his shoulders. He hadn’t slept. Just drifted in and out of something that didn’t feel like rest, haunted by warmth that wasn’t his to hold.

The taste of it still clung to his mouth. The guilt too.

David was already halfway across the yard by then, reins slack in one hand, the other raised in a lazy wave. His wagon groaned under the weight of the usual: burlap sacks, a few crates, the sharp scent of turned earth and split wood wafting in the breeze. Soybean seed, just like always.

Same trade. Same face. Same man Maggie used to slip out of the house for when Louis was too tired to ask why she needed to “walk.” Louis didn’t wave back. Just stepped down off the porch and moved toward the barn to meet him.

Maggie was already out front, apron still tied, hair pinned but loose around her face like she wanted to look like she hadn’t tried. She hadn’t even said good morning to Louis but she smiled at David, soft and quiet, her fingers brushing a hair from her cheek in that way she used to do back when she cared about being looked at.

Louis kept walking.

“Morning,” came a familiar voice behind him.

Harry.

Louis stopped short. He didn’t turn right away, jaw flexing once. “Morning,” he said, quieter than he meant to.

Harry came up beside him, steps easy like he hadn’t been the star of Louis’ damn dreams for two nights running. “Didn’t sleep much,” Harry said casually, glancing toward the wagon. “That his usual lot?”

Louis nodded once. 

There was a beat. Then, softly, Harry asked, “You alright?”

It wasn’t an idle question.

Louis didn’t answer at first. Just watched Maggie smile at David like they were in on something Louis didn’t want to know. His stomach turned. He didn’t look at Harry when he said it.

“I did something last night I shouldn’t’ve.”

Harry was quiet for a second, but Louis could feel him there. Still. Present. He didn’t ask what.

“…You didn’t hurt anyone, did you?” Harry asked, half a joke, but not really.

Louis shook his head once. “No.”

Harry nodded. “Alright.” Another pause. Then, quieter, “You want to talk about it, or just punish yourself for it?”

Louis didn’t know what to say to that. His mouth opened once, then closed. He glanced at Harry for the briefest second. Enough to catch the concern, the knowing, the flicker of something softer. But it was too much. Too soon. Too raw.

“Not now,” he muttered.

Harry didn’t push. Just reached into his pocket for a tin of mints he kept on him for no reason Louis could figure, popped one in his mouth, and said, “Alright then. Let me know if you want help with the offloading.”

And with that, he walked off toward the barn, leaving Louis standing there, full of regret, and staring at a woman who used to be his whole life, laughing with a man she never stopped wanting. And behind it all was the man Louis couldn’t stop thinking about. The one he’d dreamed of. The one he’d touched himself to in the dark and now couldn’t look in the eye.

David had one foot propped on the wagon rail, talking with that same crooked charm he’d always worn like a badge. Maggie laughed again and Louis felt something cold and sour twist in his chest. It wasn’t jealousy. Not in the way it used to be. He’d already grieved what Maggie took from him. Long before Harry ever showed up, long before the house started to feel like four walls and a history too tired to fight through.

No, this wasn’t about her.

It was about what she reminded him of. About who he used to be. About who he was trying not to be with someone else. He looked away, jaw set, and headed for the wagon without a word.

“Still keepin’ it dry in that old grain shed?” David asked as Louis reached the back.

“Yeah,” Louis muttered.

David hopped down. “Got a few extra sacks, if you’re interested. Traded a bushel for ‘em last week, didn’t need the surplus.”

Louis shrugged. “If we’ve got room.”

David glanced toward the barn, squinting. “That your new hand?”

Louis didn’t follow his gaze. “Yeah.”

David chuckled under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. He pulled a sack forward, then looked back over his shoulder toward the barn. “Seems like a queer fellow,” he said. Not cruel. Not loud. Just… casual. Thoughtless. Like he was stating a fact about the weather. “Bit soft for the land, isn’t he?”

Louis froze. His spine went rigid, one hand tightening on the burlap like it might split open in his grip.

He didn’t look at David. Didn’t trust himself to. “He works hard,” Louis said flatly.

David shrugged, like it didn’t matter either way. “Sure. Just not what I’d expect, is all. Pretty thing like that’s more suited to a shop counter than a fence line.”

Louis’ jaw ticked. His fingers curled tighter. He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell him to shut the hell up, to get back on his wagon and ride that smug grin out of their lives. But that would be a story. One David would tell around town, in barns and backrooms, over drinks with other men who talked just like him. Louis couldn’t afford a story like that. Neither could Harry.

So he said nothing.

Just lifted the next sack, threw it over his shoulder with more force than necessary, and walked it to the shed without another word.

Behind him, David kept talking. Something about the next harvest. The price of feed. Maggie’s biscuits. Louis didn’t hear a word of it.

Maggie appeared at David’s side as Louis dropped the sack with a heavy thud onto the shed floor. She had a smile on her face and a dishrag still looped in her fingers like she hadn’t decided whether she was finished in the kitchen or just didn’t want to look idle.

“You want some coffee?” she asked David, already turning toward the house.

He didn’t pretend to refuse. “Wouldn’t say no.”

She pushed open the screen door without looking at Louis. David followed like he’d been invited into this house a hundred times, and maybe in some ways, he had. The door clattered shut behind them, sealing Louis outside in the thick, stale heat. The porch creaked once, then settled quiet.

He stood thee a moment, letting the silence fill the space they’d left. His fists clenched once, then loosened. His skin felt tight. His ears rang. He wanted to pace, punch something, dig a hole deep enough to bury his own anger. But instead, he turned back toward the barn. And found Harry stepping out from behind the stalls, a coil of rope in one hand, a lazy kind of grin on his face. His hair was mussed like he’d just run a hand through it and stuck in the curls above his temple was a bright green leaf, caught perfectly in place like it’d been painted on.

Louis blinked.

It was stupid, probably. The leaf. The grin. The way Harry’s whole face seemed lit from the inside out, like he’d just come from something good. Something simple. But it stopped Louis in his tracks.

“You got somethin’…” Louis said, lifting a hand vaguely toward his own temple.

Harry frowned in mock confusion and patted his hair once, twice, then plucked the leaf free and held it up between two fingers like it had personally offended him. “Ah. Sabotage from the tree. Again.” He flicked it away, grinning. “That damn branch has it out for me.”

Louis shook his head, biting back a smile, the tension in his jaw softening just a little. “Should cut the whole thing down, then.”

Harry leaned one shoulder against the barn door, letting the rope coil dangle from his hand. “Tempting. But then where would the sparrows sit and judge me every time I miss a nail?”

The quiet between them settled easy for a second. A rare thing.

Then Harry’s head tipped back slightly, eyes scanning the sky. “Feel that?”

Louis hadn’t. But now he did. That faint coolness, barely there, hidden under the heat like a promise. The kind of air that only shows up before a storm.

Harry smiled, slow and certain. “Rain’s coming.”

Louis followed his gaze. Clouds had thickened on the horizon. Low, heavy things crawling toward them with that unmistakable tension. The kind of clouds that knew how to break open.

Harry looked back down, his voice softer. “Gonna be good for the soil. That back field’s been bone-dry.”

Louis nodded. “Could use a rinse.”

“Mm.” Harry nudged a bit of dirt with his boot. “You ever notice how fast the green comes back after? Like it’s just been waiting on permission.”

Louis glanced at him. The way he stood; shirt rumpled, rope slung loose over one shoulder, curls damp at the tips. It wasn’t right, how at-home he looked here. Like he belonged in the middle of all this sun and sweat and soil. Like he belonged with Louis. It was too easy to imagine the rest. Too easy to picture him staying. Not just through the rain. Not just for the harvest. But longer.

Waking up in that bunkhouse every morning. Sitting across the table with coffee and half a smile. Stepping into Louis’ space like he didn’t need to ask permission anymore. That was the dangerous part.

The imagining.

Louis turned back toward the shed, eyes fixed on the last of the sacks they hadn’t moved yet. “Should finish storing that before it gets wet,” he muttered.

Harry didn’t argue. He followed, quiet, the rope still swinging at his side.

They worked without speaking. Louis lifted, Harry stacked, and they moved in rhythm like they always did now. The clouds crept in while they worked. Wind picking up in short gusts, teasing dust off the ground and rattling the tin roof of the grain shed. By the time they were done, the light had gone odd and silver, and the smell of petrichor was thick in the air.

Louis wiped his hands on his jeans and stood at the shed door, staring out at the land like he could outrun what was crawling under his skin. Like the horizon might offer some kind of answer.

Harry came up beside him, close but not too close. “You alright?” he asked, quiet again.

Louis didn’t answer right away. He stood with his shoulder brushing the frame of the shed door, hands braced on either side of the opening like he needed it to hold him upright. The land stretched out ahead of them in shades of green and brown and gold, all of it waiting. All of it breathing. And still Louis felt like he couldn’t.

He cleared his throat, rough. “You ever-” Stopped. Shifted his weight. Tried again. “You ever think about love?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the sky. “What it’s supposed to feel like.”

Harry didn’t respond at first. Not with a joke. Not with one of those clever little comments he always had tucked in his back pocket. Then, finally: “Sometimes.”

Louis let the silence hang a little longer. His voice was low when he said, “I don’t think I ever really knew. Not properly.” He didn’t mean it to sound like a confession. But maybe it was.

Harry shifted beside him. “What do you mean?”

Louis shrugged, a stiff twitch of the shoulder. “Thought I did. Back then. With her. But it was all wrapped up in the rules, y’know? What I was supposed to want. What I was supposed to do.” He shook his head, bitter. “I didn’t know it was supposed to feel like anything.”

Harry was still. Listening.

“I look at her now,” Louis went on, “and I don’t see love. I see history. I see mistakes and habits and… debt.” He exhaled through his nose, steady but worn. “But then I think maybe I just wasn’t made for it. Maybe I’m one of those men who was built for work and silence and long days and longer nights. Not feelin’ things that don’t make sense on paper.”

Harry’s voice was soft. “You don’t believe that.”

Louis turned then. Finally looked at him. Harry’s face was calm, open, steady. Not judging. Just there. Like always.

“I didn’t,” Louis said. “Not until lately.”

A gust of wind pushed through the trees then, ruffling Harry’s curls and sending a rush of dust across the porch. He smiled small, a little sad. “What changed?”

Louis didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. He just looked at him. And Harry’s smile faded, not with disappointment, but understanding. Something passed between them then. Wordless. Heavy. Real.

Then Louis looked away again, eyes back on the field. The rain hadn’t started yet.

But it was close.

Louis slid the last tool into place on the pegboard, each clang of metal against wood louder than it needed to be. His hands moved out of habit—wiping down the hammer, coiling the rope, latching the shed door shut. Routine was safe. Routine didn’t ask questions. But something pulled at the edge of his attention, tugging him sideways.

He turned, and there was Harry by the clothesline, pulling sun-dried shirts from the line one by one. The light had softened into a dusky gold, painting everything warm and quiet. Harry’s sleeves were rolled, forearms bare and freckled, his fingers careful as he unclipped each piece of fabric and folded it over his arm.

It shouldn’t have been much. Just a man doing a chore. But somehow, Louis couldn’t look away. There was something about it. The simplicity. The softness.

Harry leaned into the breeze a little, squinting at a stubborn peg, curls shifting across his forehead. One of his shirts caught the wind and fluttered against his chest like it wanted to stay. He laughed, just a breath to himself and that did something to Louis he wasn’t prepared for.

He swallowed hard.

It wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t just the aftershock of a dream he hadn’t been able to shake. It was something else. Something slower. Deeper.

He watched Harry tug a pair of worn linen trousers from the line, shake them out once, fold them over his arm. His body moved with an ease that didn’t feel taught, it was just his, a rhythm all its own.

Louis didn’t realize he’d stopped mid-step until he caught himself still standing by the shed door, arms hanging limp at his sides, eyes locked on the figure across the yard. He looked away fast, jaw tightening.

Shame rose hot in his throat. Not because of what he felt—he was getting too tired to keep being ashamed of that—but because it had snuck up on him again. Because this was the moment that caught him. Not a kiss. Not a look. Not even a dream. Just Harry, folding shirts in the light.

The wind shifted, sharper now, tinged with panic.

Louis heard it before he saw it. Hooves tearing through dry earth. A high, shrill voice cutting across the fields like a blade.

“Help!”

The sound cracked through the quiet, through the gold-tinted calm like a gunshot. Louis’ head snapped up, eyes already scanning the path that curved in from the main road.

Dust kicked up in thick clouds as a woman on horseback came tearing toward the ranch.

It was June Holloway, the wife of one of the neighboring ranchers James Holloway, who bred cattle three miles east. She rode bareback, no saddle, hair wild, dress hitched up around her knees, one hand clutching the reins and the other waving in the air like she couldn’t decide whether to steer or scream.

Louis didn’t wait. He was halfway to the front yard before his brain caught up to his body, feet moving fast across the dirt.

“Maggie!” he bellowed toward the house, voice sharp and slicing. “Get inside. Now.” He didn’t even look to see if she listened. He didn’t need to. His eyes were already back on June as she pulled the horse hard, bringing it to a messy, stumbling stop just shy of the porch. The animal reared once, hooves slamming into the ground, and June practically fell from its side, boots catching dirt, hands shaking.

June’s knees hit the dirt hard, and Louis was there just in time to catch her before she collapsed. Her skin was flushed and slick with sweat, blood trickling from a cut at her hairline, and her eyes were wild with fear.

“James-” she gasped, gripping the front of Louis’ shirt like it might keep her upright. “They-they came outta nowhere. Three of ‘em, maybe four-I don’t know-faces covered 'n guns-”

Louis eased her down to sit against the porch post, glancing over her quickly; scrapes, bruises, a shallow gash on her arm, but nothing that looked fatal. Still, her hands were trembling hard enough to rattle the boards beneath her.

David was suddenly there, crouching beside her with a canteen already in hand, dabbing at her temple with his sleeve.

“She’s in shock,” he muttered. “Maggie, get towels. Whiskey, too.”

Louis didn’t move. His voice came steady, low, almost too calm. “Where?"

June looked up, eyes glassy. “South side. Back past the wheat line. Near the ridge. He was checkin’ the fence. I went to bring lunch and I saw them take him. Just-god, knocked him cold and dragged him off like he was nothing.”

Louis’ jaw tightened. He turned on his heel, already headed for the barn. And Harry was right behind him.

“I’ll saddle my horse,” Harry said, jogging a few steps ahead.

“You’re not comin’,” Louis snapped, striding past.

Harry didn’t slow. He threw open the barn doors and crossed to the tack wall like he belonged there. like this wasn’t the kind of thing that could get a man killed. “My father taught me to shoot when I was ten,” he said, yanking down a bridle, looping it over his shoulder. 

Louis grabbed a saddlebag and stalked toward the feed room, hands already working on packing supplies; dried meat, hard bread, flint, matches, a second canteen. “This isn’t about rabbits in the woods,” he snapped.

“I know that.” Harry’s voice didn’t rise. He cinched the first saddle strap with practiced ease. “But I’m still coming.”

“You don’t know what it’s like out there,” Louis said, turning sharply. “You think just because you’ve been here a few weeks, helped fix some fences, you understand the kind of men who do this?”

“No,” Harry said. “I don’t. But I do know what it means to not let someone ride into it alone.”

Louis froze.

Harry stepped closer, his eyes steady, his voice low. “You go by yourself, you’ll be outnumbered, maybe outgunned. That’s the truth. You know it.”

Louis exhaled hard, something sharp flashing behind his eyes.

“How far’s the ridge?” Harry asked.

Louis didn’t answer right away. He buckled the saddlebag shut with tight, jerking motions.

“Ten miles. Maybe twelve,” he muttered. “If we don’t find a trail, we’ll have to sweep the edge.”

Harry nodded. “Then we should leave before the light dies.”

Louis looked at him. Dust in his hair. Rope burn on one hand. Shoulders squared like he didn’t even feel the weight of what he was offering. And dammit if he didn’t want to tell him no again. Push him back toward the porch. Toward safety.

But what he wanted more—what he needed—was someone he could trust to watch his six if bullets started flying.

“Rifles,” Louis said. “Two of ‘em. And enough rounds to light up hell.”

Harry was already reaching for the gun rack.

The barn filled with motion and the thud of urgency; leather cinching, gear clattering, saddles hitting backs with dull weight. Louis moved like a man on instinct. Quick hands, sharp eyes. Everything packed tight, every choice made fast. The sky above had started to thicken, clouds dragging low with the kind of promise that soaked everything to the bone.

"Storm’s gonna break before we hit the ridge,” Louis muttered, strapping down the last bedroll.

Harry jogged past him, boots thudding on the packed dirt, headed for the bunkhouse with a purposeful kind of stride.

“I’ll grab my oilskin,” he called over his shoulder. “And the compass. Might be hell seeing anything out there after nightfall.”

Louis nodded, barely glancing up. He checked the rifle slings again, then tested the cinch strap on his horse, hands rough from habit. He needed this to be perfect. Clean. No room for error. No room for—He looked toward the porch.

David was kneeling beside June now, wrapping a makeshift bandage around her forearm. Blood soaked the rag beneath, but she was sitting up straighter, breathing steadier. Maggie knelt at her side, one hand on June’s shoulder, whispering something Louis couldn’t hear.

Then Maggie looked up. Her eyes met his. And she didn’t look angry. She didn’t look scared. Just… puzzled.

“You’re not really going,” she said, voice flat, rising barely above the wind. “You’d ride into that? Over him?”

Louis stared at her.

Not him as in James. But Harry. She didn’t say it, but he heard it all the same. And she wasn’t asking out of concern. Not really. Just disbelief. Like she couldn’t fathom the version of Louis that cared enough to risk something for someone else.

Someone who wasn’t her.

His mouth twisted. “Man’s been taken,” he said simply. “You expect me to stay home and set the table?”

Maggie didn’t flinch. She just stared back like she was trying to read something under his skin.

“You’re not that reckless, Louis.”

He looked away from her, toward the barn, just as Harry came striding back into view. His coat was tied to his pack, rifle over his shoulder, hair flattened a bit by the breeze picking up. He looked ready. Calm. Like the kind of man you’d want beside you in a fight, not behind you.

Louis’ chest tightened. Because when it came down to staying here, standing next to Maggie while she watched other men bleed, or riding out into the hills beside someone who saw him?

He’d rather ride with Harry. Every time.

Louis turned, grabbed the reins, and led the horse out into the wind without looking back.

Harry appeared at Louis’ side just as the last strap was buckled. He led his gelding up with a steady hand, eyes scanning the horizon like he was already mapping the route in his head. The wind caught the edge of his coat, made his curls dance around his forehead. But his grip on the reins was solid. Sure.

“You ready?” he asked, low.

Louis looked at him. The storm behind them. The road ahead. And Harry, standing right in the middle of it, not blinking once. “Yeah,” Louis said. “Let’s go.”

They mounted up in one motion, like they’d done it together a hundred times. Louis settled into the saddle with a practiced ease, the weight of the rifle behind his leg grounding him. His horse pawed at the dirt, sensing the tension in the air. Harry adjusted his grip, gave a quiet click of his tongue, and his horse stepped forward to line up beside Louis’.

Behind them, the screen door banged open.

“Louis!” Maggie’s voice rang out, carried sharp on the wind. “Be careful!”

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer. But his hand twitched once on the reins.

Harry looked over at him. Then Louis gave a nod, and together they kicked off, hooves pounding the dry earth, dirt flung in wide arcs behind them as they thundered down the ridge road, into the storm. Neither of them looked back.

The rain came in light at first, just mist on the wind, cool against their overheated skin. By the time they hit the tree line, it had thickened to a steady curtain, soaking through cotton and wool, flattening curls against foreheads and dripping down saddles like the sky meant to drown the whole damn valley.

They didn’t slow. Their horses moved hard and fast, hooves cutting through slick dirt, manes flecked with mud. Thunder rolled somewhere off to the east, low and lazy. It hadn’t broken fully yet. But it would.

Louis kept his eyes ahead, jaw tight, shoulders hunched against the rain. But he felt Harry beside him close and steady. Always just a few paces off his flank like he didn’t trust Louis to lead alone. And he didn’t mind it.

Harry had to raise his voice to be heard over the storm. “Who is he?”

Louis blinked rain from his lashes. “James Holloway.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Neighbor?”

“More’n that.”

They rode on a few beats, water splashing up around their stirrups. Louis didn’t usually talk when he rode. Not like this. But the question hung there, simple and patient. And he figured if they were riding into whatever the hell this was, Harry had a right to know the kind of man they were risking their necks for.

“Back when my dad passed,” Louis said, voice tight with wind, “James was the one who helped me keep the place upright. Showed up without askin’. Fixed fences. Taught me how to rotate the back field proper. Even loaned me a bull one spring when mine dropped dead. Never asked for nothin’ in return.”

Harry nodded, rain dripping down his chin. “Sounds like a good man.”

“He is.”

More silence, save for the thunder and the horses breathing hard beneath them.

Louis glanced over. “Helped me with Maggie, too. When things started goin’ south. Never took a side, just listened. Kept me from doin’ somethin’ stupid more times than I can count.”

Harry’s expression softened, his hands adjusting on the reins. “So you owe him.”

Louis didn’t answer right away. He looked forward again, the ridge just coming into view through the rain. “I owe him more than just this,” he said finally. “But this is what I can give.”

Harry didn’t speak. Just rode on, shoulder to shoulder. But Louis felt the weight of it.

The trail narrowed as they rode, slick with mud now, rain falling steadier, thick drops pounding the leaves overhead, turning the world into a hush of gray-green and water. Louis kept his head low, one hand on the reins, the other brushing his rifle strap to make sure it hadn’t shifted. Each hoofbeat echoed in his chest.

Harry rode beside him, close enough their knees bumped sometimes. His shoulders were tense but his posture sure. He didn’t look afraid. Just alert. Focused.

Young.

Too damn young.

Louis turned his head, stealing a glance.

The rain had flattened Harry’s curls against his brow, water dripping from his jaw, soaking through the collar of his shirt. His cheeks were flushed from the ride, mouth parted just slightly as he breathed through it. And for a moment Louis saw himself. Not now, not weathered and worn and trying to do right. But years ago. Riding hard with blood on his knuckles, too proud to care who he hurt or what he lost. Young and furious and sure he’d never get old.

Harry wasn’t like that. He wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t cruel. But he had that same fire burning just under the skin. And it made something twist in Louis’ chest, something deep and protective and hard to name.

So he said it. Not loud. Not over the top. Just enough to cut through the wind. “You deserve better than this,” Louis said, voice low but firm. “Better than some muddy trail and a borrowed fight that ain’t yours.”

Harry turned, a little breathless from the ride, rain streaking across his cheeks. “Don’t believe I care what I deserve,” he said. “I care who I ride with.”

The words landed like a jolt. Louis looked away first, eyes scanning the trees ahead. But his throat was thick now, and something hot churned behind his ribs. He wanted to tell Harry to go back. That this wasn’t his problem. That it wasn’t too late to turn around. But he didn’t. Because Harry had already chosen.

And maybe Louis was starting to realize so had he.

The rain didn’t let up. If anything, it deepened, soaking through their shirts, making the leather creak beneath their legs. The trail was almost a river, slick with runoff and lined with thick grass bent under the weight of water. But they didn’t stop.

Louis rode with his shoulders squared and his jaw tight, eyes scanning ahead like the trees might part and show him the way. He’d ridden this stretch before, but never with this weight in his gut. Never with someone beside him who made him want to come back in one piece.

Harry kept pace without complaint. Even through the worst of it; when the trail narrowed to nothing more than a rut between rocks, when the wind picked up sharp enough to sting. He rode quiet, reins sure, gaze forward. There was something about the way he moved in the saddle that made Louis think he wasn’t bluffing when he said he was taught young.

They crested a ridge as the storm rolled louder above them, thunder echoing far off, low and mean.

Louis glanced at him again because he couldn’t help it.

Harry looked back this time. Wet curls in his eyes. Mouth pink from wind. One hand loose on the reins, the other braced on his thigh.

“You alright?” Louis asked, voice carrying just enough.

Harry gave him a look, all quiet grit. “Still here, aren’t I?”

Louis huffed, barely a smile. “Yeah. You are.”

They rode a little longer like that. Side by side, soaked and cold, horses puffing clouds with every breath. The woods thinned a bit, just enough to see open land ahead. Sloped hills. The edge of where the Holloway property ran long and narrow out past the wheat line.

Lightning licked across the sky then, far off but bright enough to cast a brief, silver sheen over the valley. It lit the wet curve of Harry’s cheekbone, the dark line of trees beyond. The kind of light that didn’t last, but left a mark all the same.

Louis squinted into it. The land ahead was familiar. The kind of place where memories lived in the mud. He hadn’t ridden this far south since he left that part of himself behind. Now here he was, soaked to the bone, riding straight back into the mouth of it.

He pulled his horse to a slower gait as the hill descended, scanning the tall grass below.

Harry did the same, his voice quieter now, like the storm had taught him reverence. “This where it happened?”

Louis nodded. “Just past that fence line.” He pointed to a stretch of wire, half-fallen, swallowed by rain-heavy grass.

“Fence is split,” Harry observed, narrowing his eyes. “Looks like someone forced it.”

Louis dismounted in one smooth motion, boots landing with a splash. He crouched near the mud, fingers brushing a broken patch of tall grass.

“Dragged,” he muttered. “Someone was dragged through here.”

Harry joined him, crouching beside. “Fresh?”

Louis nodded once. “Before the rain got thick.”

Harry studied the trail, the way the grass parted and the dirt had been gouged in a crooked, erratic line. “They didn’t take care to cover their tracks.”

“No,” Louis said, standing again, “but they weren’t worried about being followed. Which means they don’t think anyone will.”

Harry stepped closer, water dripping from his sleeves. “They didn’t count on you.”

Louis looked at him.

Something in Harry’s face hit him square in the chest. That same unspoken thing between them rising up like steam from the ground. The fact that Harry hadn’t had to come, but did. That he hadn’t asked for anything, but gave anyway.

Louis glanced toward the tree line again, shoulders stiff with thought, mind ticking like a clock he didn’t know how to fix.

“She got to us around two,” he muttered, thinking it out loud. “They took him mid-morning, she said. That’s... four, five hours lead, depending how hard they were moving.”

Harry shifted beside him, arms crossed now, the wet fabric of his shirt clinging to him like a second skin. “Dragging a grown man that far, over terrain like this? They won’t keep pace forever.”

Louis nodded. “They’d need to rest. Even if they’ve got horses, that kind of weight slows you down.”

“Then they’re not far,” Harry said, voice low. “If we keep on, we could spot where they stop. If they camp, we get the advantage. Catch ’em cold.”

Louis looked at him again, rainwater streaming off the brim of his hat. There was something about the way Harry said it, not just the strategy, but the certainty. Like he knew what it meant to bide your time, to hold until the moment cracked open and gave you a clean shot.

“You reckon you can move quiet?” Louis asked, arching a brow.

Harry met his gaze, mouth twitching at the corner. “I’ve been moving quiet around you for weeks, haven’t I?”

Louis gave a short breath of something between a laugh and a scoff, shaking his head as he turned back to the trail. “That right?”

Harry stepped past him, boots sinking into the wet ground without so much as a squelch. “You didn’t even notice when I fixed the hinge on the barn door. Twice.”

Louis followed, reins in hand, glancing sideways. “Didn’t ask you to fix it.”

“Didn’t ask to hear you snore during your nap in the shed either, but we’ve both had to make peace with things.”

That got a real breath out of Louis. Not quite a laugh, but close.

Louis pushed through a patch of tall grass, scanning the ground ahead for more signs, a scuffed bootprint, a broken stalk. Something to say we’re close.

“Keep your eyes sharp,” he said quietly. “If they stop before dark, we’ll see smoke. Even a low fire’s got a glow.”

Harry nodded. “And if we don’t see anything?”

Louis didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted the rifle on his shoulder. “Then we wait,” he said finally. “We wait and hope to hell they’re tired.”

They kept riding, the trees thinning in places, the land sloping into a low valley ahead. Harry moved just behind now, eyes scanning the ridge to the west, where the last threads of gray light tried to filter through the storm clouds.

Louis didn’t say it out loud, but he felt an edge. The one that came before something broke open. A storm behind the eyes, not overhead.

He didn’t just want to find James. He needed to. For the man’s sake. And for his own. Because if this day ended with Harry getting hurt for no reason...He didn’t know if he’d forgive himself.

They rode the valley slow for what felt like hours, rain hushing the world into a kind of eerie stillness. The hooves of their horses were soft in the mud, barely making sound. Louis kept scanning the ridgelines, the clusters of trees, the low gullies where a fire might be hidden from plain view. Dusk was creeping in now, the gray of the storm folding into the natural dark. It was getting harder to see. But they couldn’t risk stopping yet.

Harry shifted in the saddle behind him, voice low. “There.”

Louis followed his line of sight and saw it. A thin, faint thread of smoke rising just above the trees, barely visible against the storm-dark sky.

Low fire. Small. Hidden on purpose. Louis drew his horse to a halt.

“Could be them,” Harry said, already dismounting quietly, hands steady on his gear.

Louis followed suit, tying the reins loosely around a low branch. “No one else out here’d be stupid enough to light up in this rain.”

They crouched low together behind a thick stand of trees, eyes fixed on the distant flicker of light.

Louis checked the rifle strapped to his back, then nodded toward a path that led along the side of the ridge. “We go high. Circle wide. Come down quiet.”

Harry turned toward the path without hesitation, already moving in a low crouch through the brush. But Louis reached out, instinct more than thought, and caught his shoulder.

Harry stopped, blinking at the sudden grip, startled but still. The wind whispered through the trees around them, carrying the scent of wet pine and woodsmoke, the storm holding its breath above them.

Louis didn’t speak right away. His hand stayed firm, fingers curled into the damp fabric of Harry’s shirt.  He looked too young for this. Too bright for the kind of dark they were about to walk into.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Louis said, voice low but fierce. “You hear me?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “I wasn’t planning on-”

“I mean it.” Louis’ grip tightened, just a fraction. His eyes didn’t leave Harry’s. “You stay close. You don’t run ahead. You move when I move. And if anything goes wrong you get the hell out. Understand?”

Harry held his gaze, something flickering behind his eyes. Confusion, maybe, or something more fragile than that. “Louis-”

“I’m not losing you,” Louis said, barely above a whisper. Like it hurt to say it. Like it cost something.

For a beat, neither of them moved. The rain pattered soft around them, catching in their hair, sliding down their cheeks. The fire below still flickered but for just that moment, it felt far away.

Harry’s voice came quiet, steady. “Alright.”

Louis let go. And the world rushed back in. They didn’t speak again. Just turned toward the ridge, and started moving.

Louis led the way, every step measured, rifle strapped tight across his back. His boots sank into the wet earth without a sound, the brush parting in slow silence as they climbed higher. Harry followed close; too close, maybe, but Louis didn’t mind. He could feel him there, steady and quiet.

They crested the ridge and dropped low. The camp below flickered faint in the clearing; a tarp strung up between trees, a slouched figure by the fire, two more just beyond the light, shadowed shapes moving lazy with the kind of confidence that came from thinking no one was watching.

Louis reached into his coat, pulled out a pair of rusted field glasses, lifted them to his eyes. He counted quickly.

Three men. Two awake. One sleeping or passed out by the fire. And just behind them, near a tied-down canvas pack… another figure.

James.

Alive, or close enough.

Louis dropped the glasses and looked to Harry.

Their eyes met, and Louis gave a small nod, one he’d used a hundred times before in a younger, dirtier life. The kind that meant ready?

Harry nodded back, jaw set. All that youth and softness in his face, but his hands didn’t shake. Not once.

They split wide, just like they’d planned. Louis looped left along the slope, circling behind the tarp. Harry slipped right, crawling low through the brush. Rain kept falling. Soft now. Almost gentle.

Louis waited until he saw Harry take position behind a tree just outside the fire’s glow. Then, with breath held and rifle drawn, he stepped out of the trees—quiet, sure, and aiming for the one man standing sentry near the fire.

The moment stretched tight. Just one second more.

And then it snapped.

The first shot didn’t make a sound.

Or maybe it did, but Louis couldn’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. The man by the fire dropped hard, knees buckling before his body slammed into the mud, deadweight and silence.

The second man shouted and reached for his gun, but Louis was already moving, boots tearing through the underbrush as he closed the distance. The rifle cracked like thunder now, echoing off the ridge, loud enough to startle the birds from the trees.

Missed.

The second shot hit bark, not bone, and the man dove behind a fallen log, returning fire fast and wild. Sparks bit the trees around Louis, one round slicing past his cheek, hot and sharp. He dropped low, rolling behind a stump, loading the next shot by feel.

The clearing was chaos now.

The third man, bigger than the others, mean-looking even from a distance, had burst from their makeshift tent at the first shot, dragging a pistol from his belt and yelling something that didn’t matter.

Louis fired again, and this one hit. The man behind the log jerked back, screaming as the bullet caught him in the thigh. But he didn’t stop. Just crawled toward the tarp, blood trailing him, spitting threats and pain into the dirt.

And then there was Harry.

He moved fast.

Louis didn’t see him come out of the trees, just saw the blur of him tackle the last man from the side, both of them going down in a mess of limbs and mud and teeth. The gun went off once in the scramble, missing everything but air, and then it was fists.

No room for anything else.

Louis wanted to go to him, wanted to pull him off or pull him back, but he couldn’t leave his line. Not yet.

The wounded man had picked up his weapon again, crawling one-handed toward where James still lay slumped and motionless in the mud.

Louis didn’t think. He sprinted. Gun raised, eyes locked on the target, he fired from the hip once. The bullet slammed into the man’s chest and dropped him flat.

Three down.

Not over.

He spun toward Harry just as the last man slammed Harry’s back into the trunk of a tree. Louis shouted—something wordless, pure instinct—and ran.

Harry twisted hard, elbowing the man in the throat, but it only staggered him. He brought a knife out from his belt close-range and slashed. Caught Harry across the shoulder.

Harry hissed but didn’t go down. He punched, hard and low, and the man doubled slightly. Louis was on them a second later.

He hit the man like a battering ram, shoulder-first, the force of it knocking them both to the ground. The knife flew from his hand. Louis pinned him there, mud slick beneath them, teeth gritted as he drove a fist into the man's jaw.

Again. And again.

Until the man stopped moving. Until his body sagged. Until it was done.

Louis stayed there a moment longer. Breathing hard, chest heaving, knuckles stinging with blood that wasn’t all his. The man beneath him didn’t move. Didn’t groan. Didn’t breathe. Only then did Louis pull back, knees sliding in the mud, rain soaking through to the bone.

The world around him was too quiet again except for the rain and his pulse, roaring in his ears like the thunder had moved inside him. He turned fast.

Harry was still on his feet, hunched forward slightly, one hand clutched over the bleeding slash at his shoulder. His face was pale under the dirt and water, but he was upright. He was there.

Louis scrambled to him, grabbed his arms, not rough, not panicked, but sure. “You with me?”

Harry nodded, barely. His jaw clenched. “Bit of a scratch.”

Louis barked a laugh that didn’t sound like one at all. “You idiot.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. Just a little, just enough. “Takes one to know one.”

Louis didn’t let go. His hands lingered on Harry’s arms, grounding them both. He should’ve let go. Should’ve checked the perimeter. Should’ve moved on to the next necessary thing. But he didn’t. Not yet.

The sound of the rain had softened now, turning to a steady mist that clung to their skin, to their lashes, to the ruin of the clearing. Around them, the smoke from the fire hung low, curling through the trees like a warning that had come too late.

Louis finally pulled back, eyes flicking down to the slice across Harry’s shoulder. It was still bleeding, though slower now. “You’ll need that stitched.”

Harry looked down at it like he’d forgotten it was there. “S’pose I will.”

“Idiot,” Louis muttered again, but softer this time. Not angry. Just… shaken.

Something quiet passed between them in the space of a breath. Not relief. Not yet. But recognition. Something that had teeth and weight and history already behind it.

“You’re bleeding, too,” Harry said, nodding toward Louis’ cheek.

Louis touched the line of blood with his fingertips. “Only grazed.”

“Still,” Harry said, lips twitching faintly again, “doesn’t suit you.”

Louis huffed, a tired sound. “What?”

Harry didn’t answer that. Just glanced down at Louis’ hands that were bloodied, scraped, bruised. And said, “Come on. Let’s get him up.”

Louis nodded, throat tight. They turned together then, toward the mud-slick figure of James still slumped against the tree. Still breathing. Still waiting.

James was a deadweight mess of bruises and blood, half-conscious but mumbling enough that Louis could tell he was still there under it all. His lip was split, one eye nearly swollen shut, shirt torn and soaked through. But he was alive.

That was the only thing that mattered right now.

Louis crouched beside him, gently tapping his face. “James. Hey. You with us?”

James groaned. One eye blinked open. “Shit… You’re ugly,” he rasped.

Louis huffed out something close to a laugh, shaky and low. “You’re welcome.”

Harry leaned over next, offering a canteen. “Drink what you can.”

James sipped, coughed, sipped again, and then muttered, “They thought I had money. Bastards.”

Louis shook his head, already looping James' arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Between the two of them, they hauled James up. He swayed once, then steadied with a grunt. Louis wrapped an arm tight around his waist and took most of the weight.

Harry moved ahead to the campfire and started checking the bodies, methodical and unsentimental. He found a half-full satchel of ammunition, a decent blade, and a stash of jerky and hard bread tucked in a waterproof roll. He didn’t hesitate, just took what they could use and left the rest for the crows.

Louis noticed him pocket something small, maybe a coin, maybe a charm, hard to tell in the dim light, but didn’t ask.

When Harry rejoined them, he slung the extra satchel over his shoulder, met Louis’ eye, and nodded toward the tree line. “Let’s get him to the horses.”

Louis adjusted his grip on James and started the slow trek back.

The mud sucked at their boots. Every step was a fight. The storm had settled into a fine, steady mist, and the trees dripped with it, every branch bowing low. It felt like walking through ghosts. But the horses were still there. Still waiting. Ears perked when they approached, snorting softly.

Louis helped James up onto his saddle, then tied him in with care, anchoring his knees and bracing him to ride behind him.

“You good to ride?” Louis asked Harry, who was already wiping his palms clean on the wet grass.

Harry straightened up slowly, wincing just slightly as he rolled his shoulder to test the edge of the pain. It still bled, but not as bad as it had. The adrenaline was long gone now, leaving only stiffness and that kind of dull ache that settled into bone.

“I’m good,” he said, voice low. “I can make it.”

Louis didn’t press. Just nodded once, tight and short, then turned to double-check the knot securing James to the saddle. The man had already gone half-slack again, head lolling forward, breath rattling—but he was alive. They’d done what they came to do.

Now they just had to get him home.

Louis swung up onto his own horse and took the reins, making sure James was secure behind him. “We head straight for Holloway’s.”

Harry’s horse shifted under him as he adjusted in the saddle, mud caked along his boots, rainwater still trailing from his hair. He gave a small nod and fell into step behind Louis without question, their horses side by side again as they turned toward the open pasture.

The storm had eased, but the land was still soaked. Fields glinting silver with water, fences warped and sagging from the weight of the rain. The air had that fresh-cut scent of churned earth and wet grass, the kind that came only after something violent had passed through.

Louis kept his eyes forward, one hand steady on the reins, the other resting instinctively near his holster even though the threat was long behind them. His body hadn’t caught up to the quiet yet. His nerves were still wound tight.

Harry said nothing for the first few minutes of the ride. Just kept close, matching pace, keeping his posture upright despite the stiffness creeping into his limbs.

After a while, he exhaled sharply through his nose, as if breaking the silence was more a release than a thought. “Do you think they were waiting? For someone like him?”

Louis shook his head. “No. Too sloppy. They were desperate for cheap coin, not smart.”

Harry nodded once. “That’s worse.”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “It is.”

They fell silent again. But this time it wasn’t tense. It was tired. Earnest. The kind of silence that followed men who had done what needed doing and now had nothing left but ache and breath and the long way home.

The Holloway ranch came into view just as the sky started shifting to deep black softening to the blue of nearly-morning. That uncertain in-between hour, when the world is too quiet, like it’s still deciding whether to wake up or fall back asleep.

The main house was lit. Not fully. Just a single oil lamp burning in the front window. Like someone was keeping watch.

By the time they reached the front yard, both horses were dragging their hooves, soaked and bone-tired. James' head had slumped against his back hours ago, though his breath still came steady, and Louis could feel each slow rise and fall.

The porch creaked before either of them dismounted.

June stood there barefoot, hair in a loose braid, shawl thrown over her nightgown. Her face was pale in the lamplight, hands clutched at her chest like prayer and fear were warring in her ribs. The second she saw James, she moved.

She didn’t cry out. Didn’t scream or run. Just came down the steps like her legs had a will of their own, eyes locked on the slumped figure in the saddle.

Louis dismounted and caught her gently by the arms before she could try to pull him down herself. “He’s alright,” he said softly, voice rough with fatigue. “He needs rest. And stitches. But he’s alive.”

June’s eyes welled with tears, her mouth trembling as she reached up to brush James' dirt-crusted cheek.

Harry slipped down off his horse with a grunt, one hand pressing again to his shoulder. He stayed a few paces back, quiet, letting the moment belong to her.

“Thank you,” June whispered, not taking her eyes off her husband. “I didn’t think-”

“You don’t have to,” Louis cut in gently. “We’ve got him back. That’s enough.”

She nodded, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Louis helped her down with James, moving slow, careful. Between the three of them, they carried him inside.

The house smelled of lavender and woodsmoke, the faint scent of broth long gone cold. A cot had been laid out near the hearth, fresh linens folded at the edge. June had been ready. Just in case.

As they eased him down, Harry finally stepped forward, swaying a little on his feet. June noticed the blood on his shirt then, his shoulder soaked through, collar clinging to his skin.

“Lord, you’re hurt,” she said, eyes wide.

Harry offered her a tired smile. “Takes more than a blade to knock me over.”

Louis was already pulling off his coat, rolling up his sleeves. “You got thread? Needle?”

June nodded, rushing off toward the back room without another word.

Louis turned to Harry. “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sit, Harry.”

Harry did. And as he slumped into the nearest chair, rain still dripping from his curls, shoulders trembling from cold and blood loss, Louis moved toward him, jaw tight with something unspoken.

Outside, the sky had begun to pale. Morning was coming.

Harry sat with his good hand braced on his thigh, the other limp at his side as blood seeped slow and steady into the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch, didn’t complain. Just watched Louis the way a man watches a storm roll over the plains; bracing for what comes next.

Louis knelt beside him, brow furrowed as he reached for the buttons of Harry’s shirt. His fingers were stiff with cold and caked mud, but he didn’t ask for help. He just worked each button open with care until the fabric peeled back from the wound.

It wasn’t deep. Not enough to cripple. But it had bled plenty. The slash was angry, red, already puffing at the edges. Rain and sweat had made it worse.

“Should’ve let me take the big one,” Louis muttered, eyes on the cut.

Harry let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You did take him.”

Louis’ mouth twitched. “Only after you softened him up.”

Harry didn’t answer. His eyes had drifted shut now, not from weakness, just from the stillness. From the weight of the night settling in.

Louis heard June moving in the next room, rummaging for a needle, for thread. But here, in this moment, it was just the two of them.

Louis tore a strip from his undershirt, soaked it in the water bowl by the hearth, and began cleaning the blood away.

Harry hissed low, shoulder twitching under Louis’ hand.

“Sorry,” Louis murmured, not quite meeting his eyes.

Harry opened them anyway. Looked at him like he was trying to read something in his face that Louis wasn’t sure he wanted seen. “You’ve done this before,” Harry said softly.

Louis nodded. “Too many times.”

June stepped back into the room like she’d never left it, already unrolling the bandages over one arm.

She set a chipped basin of hot water down by Louis’ knee, along with a needle, thread, a small bottle of clear liquor, and a roll of clean linen that looked like it had been tucked away for something more domestic than battlefield triage. But this wasn’t a domestic life. Not out here.

Without a word, she crouched beside Louis and uncorked the liquor. The sharp scent of it bit the air, cleaner than blood, but not by much.

“Strong enough to burn,” she said, offering it first to Harry.

He waved it off with a grimace. “Don’t need the drink.”

June arched a brow. “It ain’t for drinkin’.”

And before he could object, she poured a long stream of it directly over the wound. Harry flinched, breath hitching sharp through his nose, eyes clamped shut. But he didn’t curse. Didn’t pull away.

Louis reached out instinctively, one hand firm at Harry’s knee, grounding him through it.

“Good lad,” June muttered, inspecting the slice. “Clean cut, but deep enough. You’ll scar, but I reckon you already knew that.”

Louis took the needle when she handed it to him, already threaded. June’s hands were steady, practiced, but she stepped back this time and gave them space. Maybe she sensed it. Maybe she just knew what it meant when a man like Louis chose to do the stitching himself.

He wiped the needle once more in alcohol, then met Harry’s eyes. “You ready?”

Harry swallowed. Nodded once.

The first stitch went in clean, but slow. Louis worked carefully, keeping his hand light even when his grip wanted to tremble. He’d done this a hundred times before—on himself, on others—but never like this. Never with someone looking back at him like Harry did. Not just in pain. But with trust.

It hollowed something out inside him.

By the time he knotted the last stitch, the sky outside was shifting, the sun creeping toward the hills like it wasn’t sure it wanted to show its face.

Louis sat back on his heels, breath tight in his throat, and wiped his hands against his thighs.

Harry exhaled slow, looked down at the work. “Not bad for an old rancher.”

Louis smirked faintly. “Don’t let the others know. They’ll expect me to start mendin’ shirts too.”

June handed him the bandages, and he wrapped them clean around Harry’s shoulder, snug but not too tight.

Louis tied the last knot in the bandage, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. The linen looked stark against Harry’s skin. Too clean, too white, like it didn’t belong on a body bruised and bloodied by the night they’d just come through.

He sat back again, letting his hands fall to his lap, palms open and raw.

Harry leaned back, his breathing evening out now, lashes dark and wet where the rain hadn’t fully dried. His curls were still plastered to his forehead. His lips parted like he might speak but didn’t.

Louis looked at him. And guilt knotted low in his chest, sour and thick.

What the hell was he doing bringing someone like this out into it? Into the mud and gunfire and the worst of what men could be? Harry had offered, sure. Had stood tall and brave and stubborn. But that didn’t make it right.

He was too young for this.

Too new to this land that took more than it gave, that chewed through people like meat and left nothing behind but scars and silence. Harry should’ve been stringing mint on the porch. Laughing in the kitchen. Leaning lazy against a doorway with sunlight at his back. Not bleeding in a stranger’s chair with hands that had learned to shoot quicker than they’d ever learned to rest.

Louis swallowed hard and looked away, jaw tight.

“Didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this,” he said, voice low, rough like gravel. “You shouldn’t’ve had to-”

“Don’t,” Harry interrupted, quiet but firm.

Louis looked back.

Harry’s eyes were tired, but steady. “Don’t do that thing where you act like I didn’t choose it.”

Louis said nothing.

“I came because I wanted to,” Harry added, voice softer now. “Not because you made me. And I’d do it again.”

Louis blinked hard. His throat burned in a way that had nothing to do with smoke or cold. He looked down at his hands again, blood still under his fingernails. His knuckles were still split, caked with blood and grit that hadn’t washed off. They looked like the hands of a man who didn’t deserve softness, who’d already had his chance at gentleness and let it rot in the sun.

But then he felt it.

Warm fingers brushing against his.

Louis’ breath caught, slow and silent. He looked up and Harry was already watching him.

One of Harry’s hands had reached out, soft and sure, his fingertips resting lightly atop Louis’ palm like he knew exactly what he was doing and was willing to do it anyway.

“Hey,” Harry whispered, voice low enough to be just for him.

Louis’ chest tightened.

Harry’s thumb traced a small line across the ridge of Louis’ knuckle, barely a touch, more memory than motion, like he was trying to remind Louis that this, too, could exist. That a hand used for violence didn’t have to stay that way forever.

Louis swallowed hard. His jaw worked, like he was chewing through words that didn’t want to form. His eyes dropped to their hands, to the quiet way Harry had folded his fingers in his. Not demanding, not asking. Just there.

Harry's voice came so soft it barely rose above the sound of the wind tapping at the window.

“Thank you,” he said, fingers tightening just slightly in Louis’. “For not leaving me behind.”

Louis’ gaze flicked up, startled by how bare the words sounded. Not desperate. Not dramatic. Just… true. The way a man says thank you when it’s bigger than what the words can hold.

Harry went on, quieter still. “For trusting me. For coming back in one piece.”

Louis didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His throat was thick with something he didn’t know how to name. But Harry wasn’t finished. His thumb brushed again, slow and steady, grounding.

“You could’ve told me to stay home. Could’ve left me out of it. But you didn’t. And I know you think I got hurt because of that, but…” He paused. Took a slow breath. “I’d rather be here than sitting safe, wondering if you’d come back at all.”

Louis’ shoulders sank, just a little. Like the words reached something inside him he’d been holding tight for too long. He didn’t say he was sorry. He didn’t say thank you.

He just let Harry keep holding his hand.

Harry didn’t rush him. Didn’t fill the silence with anything more. He just stayed there, his hand wrapped around Louis’, thumb tracing slow, invisible circles against the bruises and scrapes, like he could smooth out something deeper beneath the skin.

The storm outside had passed. All that was left now was the hush that follows, the quiet breath the earth takes when it’s done breaking.

Inside, the fire had burned low. June had long since stepped away, tending to James in the next room. The house creaked now and then in the way old houses do, like it was bearing witness to something it wouldn’t dare speak aloud.

Louis exhaled, slow and heavy.

“I was scared,” he said, barely above a whisper. “When I saw him cut you.”

Harry’s brow furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let go.

Louis looked at the way Harry's hair curled now that it was dry. The cut of his jaw, marred by bruising but still so goddamn steady. The eyes that never wavered, even when everything else did. Harry gave the smallest shake of his head, not in disagreement, just quiet disbelief. Like he couldn’t quite believe Louis had admitted it out loud.

“I was scared too,” he whispered. “Not for me. For you.”

Louis blinked. His thumb moved now, slow against Harry’s wrist, the pulse there soft and alive.

They sat like that for a long while. Not saying much, not needing to. Just their hands between them. Rough and calloused, too used to work and war, but folded together now like they’d always known how.

Louis’ eyes dropped to Harry’s mouth once.

Just once.

It was instinct more than anything. Not hunger. Not even want, not fully. Just... a pull. The quiet ache that comes from having something right there and knowing it would wreck you in the best and worst way if you reached for it.

Harry must have seen it. Or felt it. Because his lips parted slightly, breath catching like he might speak or might lean in.

Louis leaned forward just a fraction.

And then...The door creaked open behind them.

June stepped in, arms full of blankets, voice warm and practical, like she hadn’t just interrupted something fragile.

“All right,” she said, nodding toward the hearth. “You both need sleep. You’re no good to anybody half-dead and upright.”

Louis jerked back just slightly. His hand slipped from Harry’s. Not fast. Not guilty. Just resigned.

June moved around them like a storm, unaware of the silence she’d broken. She laid one of the blankets across the battered sofa, then folded another neatly on the rug near the fire. The room filled with the soft sounds of cloth and kindling, and the crackle of flame that suddenly felt far too loud.

Louis cleared his throat and stood, rough movements masking the way his chest still ached. He needed something to do so he reached for the pot of water warming by the coals and refilled the basin without being asked.

Harry stayed seated, watching him with quiet eyes, his body wrapped in stillness like a bruise not yet touched.

June didn’t linger. She gave Harry a once-over, her gaze lingering just long enough to be sure the bleeding hadn’t returned, then nodded at Louis on her way out. “Wake me if he spikes a fever. Or if he so much as looks like he’ll pass out again.”

“I will,” Louis said, voice low, steady.

Then the door shut behind her, and it was just them again.

Only now the silence wasn’t soft.

Louis didn’t sit right away. He poured a mug of water and handed it to Harry, who took it with a soft, “Thanks,” before sipping.

They didn’t touch again. Didn’t try to reclaim whatever that almost-moment had been. Instead, Louis settled down near the hearth, back against the wall, legs stretched toward the fire. His bones ached. His heart more.

Harry laid back gently on the makeshift bed June had set out, exhaling like he’d been holding something in for hours. Maybe he had.

The light from the fire danced across his face, casting soft gold into the hollows of his cheeks, the cut of his jaw. He blinked once. Then again. And then closed his eyes.

Louis didn’t stop watching him. Not for a long time. Because maybe the moment had broken. But the pull hadn’t gone anywhere.

It was still there. Quiet, waiting, steady as a pulse under the skin.

Chapter Text

The fire had burned down to embers sometime before dawn. Just the occasional pop of settling ash and the soft glow of dying light kept the dark from swallowing the room whole.

Louis hadn’t slept.

Not really.

He’d dozed in fits, chin resting in his palm, legs cramped beneath him, but his eyes kept flicking open every time Harry shifted or breathed too deep or sighed like something ached worse than he’d admit.

And God help him, Louis kept watching.

He told himself it was because of the injury. Because it was smart to be sure the wound didn’t swell, or bleed, or turn. That’s what he’d tell June if she asked. That’s what he’d tell Harry, too.

But the truth was simpler than that.

Louis just hadn’t been able to look away.

Not when Harry’s brow furrowed in sleep. Not when the blanket slipped off his shoulder and Louis had to tuck it back with fingers that hovered too long. Not when the light caught on the line of his throat, casting shadows Louis had no business memorizing.

He sat there all night, stiff-backed and tired-eyed, listening to Harry breathe.

The rhythm of it became the only thing that mattered.

Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten to thin gray behind the curtains, the promise of morning stretching into the bones of the house. Wind moved gently through the walls now, less storm and more hush. Even the earth seemed to be catching its breath.

Harry stirred again as the light crept in, lashes fluttering before he blinked slowly awake. His eyes soft with sleep, lips parted like he hadn’t quite remembered where he was yet.

Louis didn’t move. He just watched as Harry turned toward the sound of the morning wind, gaze catching on the dim light through the curtain, then landing on Louis still perched there like he hadn’t breathed since the night before.

“…Morning?” Harry asked, voice rough and quiet.

“Just about,” Louis murmured.

Harry tried to sit up a little, winced, and let out a hiss through his teeth. His hand went straight to his shoulder.

Louis was already shifting forward. “Easy,” he said, gently reaching to steady him. “Don’t tear what we stitched.”

Harry gave him a tired smirk, sharp and crooked. “Wouldn’t want your hard work going to waste.”

Louis huffed, the sound too fond. “Damn right.”

Harry settled back against the pillow with a slow breath, letting the pain ease out of his face inch by inch. The morning light reached for him through the window, like it was hesitant to touch him too soon. His curls had dried into loose, unruly waves sometime in the night, and there was a shadow of sleep still clinging to his lashes, to the corner of his mouth.

He looked young again. Too young for gunfights and blood-soaked shirts and whispered thank-yous in the middle of someone else’s home.

Louis couldn’t look at him without feeling it all over again. The weight of it. The fear. He rubbed a hand down his face, clearing his throat like it could scatter the thoughts trying to pile up inside.

“You cold?” he asked, voice gruff.

Harry blinked at him. “No. You?”

Louis shook his head, then stood, stretching out a stiffness that had sunk too deep in his back. He crossed the room without another word and stoked the hearth just enough to coax a few more licks of flame from the embers.

The warmth would reach them soon.

Behind him, Harry’s voice came again quiet.

“You didn’t sleep at all, did you.”

Louis didn’t turn. “Didn’t want to miss anything.”

“Miss me snoring?” Harry teased, though his voice was still slow with sleep.

“Miss you not breathing,” Louis said before he could stop himself.

Silence stretched then. When Louis turned around, Harry was watching him again with no smirk this time. Just quiet eyes.

Louis cleared his throat again, more out of habit than need, and crossed back to sit in the chair beside the makeshift cot.

Harry didn’t say anything else. Just kept looking at him in that way he did, like he already knew what Louis wasn’t saying and wasn’t going to push him to say it.

Louis sat forward a bit in the chair, forearms braced on his knees, hands clasped tight like he could hold the night in his palms and wring it out. The fire behind him cracked low, filling the room with slow warmth. The kind that settled into bones if you let it.

He didn’t let it. Didn’t know how to.

Harry shifted a little, sucking in a breath as the movement pulled at his stitches. Louis flinched just barely.

“Should’ve made you stay home,” he muttered, not looking up.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Harry said instantly, and there was no tease in it this time. “Don’t say that.”

Louis shook his head, jaw tight. “You could’ve died.”

“So could you.”

That landed heavier than Harry probably meant it to.

Louis dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the knots at the back of his neck. His voice was lower now, quieter. “That’d be different.”

“How?”

Louis looked at him, really looked. At the bruising blooming purple along his jaw. The bandage tucked under the collar of his shirt. The way his body had been forced to rest even when his eyes still sparked like he was ready to move, to fight again if he had to.

Louis exhaled sharp through his nose, then leaned back in the chair like he couldn’t hold himself forward anymore. His eyes fell to the floor, to the lines worn into the boards from boots and years and storms gone by.

“You’re just a kid, Harry,” he said, voice gruff. Like the words scraped their way up his throat. “You came here to work a little land. Mend some fences. Earn a roof and a wage. That’s it.”

Harry didn’t interrupt, but Louis could feel the stare and the way it stayed steady, unwavering.

“You didn’t sign up for guns at your back and blood on your hands,” Louis went on. “You didn’t come here to be dragged into the kind of life I been trying to outrun.”

The fire popped behind him, a single ember cracking loose and tumbling into silence.

Louis dragged a hand down his face. “Hell, maybe you don’t even know what you’ve walked into yet. You’ve been here…what, a month? Nearly two? And already you’ve got scars for it.”

Finally, he looked up again. And there was Harry. Still watching him. Still quiet. But not small, not shaken. He didn’t look like a kid. Not in that moment.

But Louis couldn’t stop seeing him that way. Not because of his age. Not even because of the softness he still carried. But because something in Louis had twisted the second Harry took a blade for him. And now, the idea that he’d brought someone that young, that decent, into the worst of who he used to be?

It sat in him like guilt with a pulse.

Harry shifted beneath the blankets and then slowly began to sit up, grimacing as his muscles pulled against the stitched wound. Louis was on his feet before he even realized he’d moved, steadying him with both hands; one at his elbow, the other light at his back.

“Easy,” Louis muttered, half-scold, half-concern.

“I’m fine,” Harry breathed, but didn’t shake him off.

The way he leaned into the touch told Louis he wasn’t pushing through pride. He trusted him. Let him help.

Louis guided him upright, careful not to jostle the bandages, and watched him settle onto the edge of the cot. Harry sat there for a second, catching his breath, then looked up at Louis with something calm and steady in his eyes.

“I know you think this wasn’t supposed to happen,” Harry said softly. “That I should’ve stayed back. That I don’t belong in it.”

Louis didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. It was written all over his face.

Harry’s hands were braced on his knees, his posture tense from the pain, but his eyes stayed clear and quiet and full of something Louis didn’t know how to carry. He was bracing for it, maybe. The blow. The truth. Whatever Harry was about to say.

“I see it,” Harry said softly. “You act like you’re built for this place. Like it’s all you’ve got left. But I’ve seen the way it pulls at you, Louis. The land, the house. Her.”

Louis stiffened, shoulders rising like a wall going up. Harry didn’t back off.

“I’ve watched you try to hold all of it up like it won’t crush you. But it is. Slowly. You’re bleeding under it.”

Louis opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, but Harry kept going.

“And I don’t say that to make you feel weak. I say it ‘cause you don’t have to keep pretending you’re fine. And I can’t sit back and watch a man bleed.”

Louis looked away, jaw tightening.

“You think I stayed just for work?” Harry asked, a thread of something sharper in his voice now. “You think I stayed because the pay was decent and the bunkhouse was dry?”

Louis didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Harry exhaled, a tired, honest sound. “I stayed because of you. Because I saw something in you that needed looking after. Even if you’d rather push me away than admit it.”

Louis’ heart hammered hard behind his ribs, not from fear exactly, just from the sheer force of being seen. And not just seen. Understood in a way he tried to force down for a long time.

Harry’s voice softened again. “I care for you, Louis. Don’t know how not to. I have a soft spot for you I didn’t ask for, but it’s there all the same.”

Louis looked at him, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere in his throat.

There was panic in him, yes. The old kind. The kind that came with every moment that cracked something open inside him. But there was something else too.

Relief.

A deep, painful kind of gratitude.
Louis didn’t speak for a long moment. He couldn’t. His throat had gone tight, the way it did when grief crept in, but this wasn’t grief, not really. It was something quieter. Rough-edged but good. Like finally taking a breath after being underwater too long.

He watched the way Harry sat there, hurt and worn thin, yet still steady, still here. Something in Louis bent under the weight of it. Not broke. Just… gave. In that aching, necessary way that people do when they’ve been holding too much for too long.

“You’re not supposed to care,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “Not about me. Not like this.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “Too late.”

“I’ve done things, Harry,” he said, quieter now. “Things I don’t talk about. Things I ain’t proud of. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know enough,” Harry said, steady. “I know the kind of man you are now. And I know you didn’t get there easy.”

Louis shook his head, not in argument, just in disbelief that someone like Harry could sit there, broken open and bruised under his watch, and still speak like that. Still look at him like he was worth something.

And maybe that was the worst part. That a part of Louis wanted to believe it.

Louis stared at their hands for a beat, his own scarred, dirt-stained fingers resting loose in front of him, just inches from Harry’s.

It would’ve been easier not to move. Easier to stay guarded, to let the moment pass like all the others he’d let slip through his calloused grip.

But something in him shifted. Quiet, but solid.

Brave, maybe. Just this once.

He reached out.

Carefully.

Let his fingers brush against Harry’s, tentative at first. Then he slid them between, threading slow like he was still giving Harry the chance to pull away. But Harry didn’t move. So Louis kept going.

His thumb moved along the back of Harry’s hand, one gentle stroke, then another. Not thinking, not planning. Just… doing. Like his hands had always known how to hold someone like this, and had just been waiting for permission.

He rubbed small circles into the knuckles, like it would help him speak. Like the motion might settle the words trying to come out.

And in all of it Harry watched him, patient and quiet.

Louis swallowed hard, throat working.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Louis admitted, voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind outside. “I don’t know how to be… cared for. Not out loud. Not like you do.”

Harry didn’t let go. He didn’t even shift. Just sat there with his fingers twined in Louis’, letting the quiet stretch between them without rushing it.

Louis swallowed. His eyes finally lifted and met Harry’s. Rain-soft, full of something he didn’t have a name for yet.

“You really do, don’t you?” Louis asked. “Want to know me, I mean.”

Harry’s mouth curled at the corner. “I wouldn’t still be tilling your land if I didn’t.”

A long moment passed.

Harry glanced away, not like he was trying to hide, but like he needed a second to gather the shape of the story before it left his mouth.

The early morning light caught the edge of his cheek, soft and pale, and his grip on Louis’ hand never loosened. If anything, it seemed to steady him.

“I never told you why I left,” he said, eyes tracing the old wood grain of the floor like it might keep him anchored.

Louis didn’t press. He didn’t speak. Just stayed quiet, Harry’s hands in his, heart thudding low and sure behind his ribs.

Harry inhaled, slow.

“I had a…lover. Back home. Thought I did, anyway. And…He was older. Had money, power, friends in places I didn’t.”

A pause. Not long. Just enough to gather breath.

“He wanted what he wanted. Didn’t much care how I felt about it. And when I got tired of being kept in the dark, when I said no, he made sure people found out. All the wrong people.”

His voice stayed calm, but there was a tightness in it now. Like he was walking over glass to get the words out.

“They came to my mother’s home. Broke the windows. I got jumped outside a pub I used to go to. No one stepped in. Not ieven the ones I thought might.”

Louis’ jaw tensed, a flicker of something sharp beneath his ribs, but he didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

Harry swallowed, blinked hard.

“So I ran. Took what I had, left everything else. Didn’t even tell my mum where I was going, not right away. Just booked a ship west and figured if I landed somewhere no one knew my name, I could start again.”

He looked at Louis now, and there was something raw in his eyes. Something brave.

“This place… your ranch… it’s the first place I’ve felt safe since.”

The words settled between them like truth too long unspoken.

Louis didn’t know what to say, not at first. All he could do was at the boy who had crossed an ocean for silence. For peace. And somehow found this instead.

Louis’ thumb moved over his knuckles again, a reflex more than a thought.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it down to the bone.

Harry shook his head.

“Don’t be. I’m not.” He leaned just a little closer, voice steady now. “‘Cause I wouldn’t have found you if I had stayed.”

Louis felt the words sink deep like rain into dry earth, slow and seeping and impossible to undo.

He stared at Harry, this boy—no, man, but still so damn young—who’d laid himself bare without flinching. Who held pain like it was just part of breathing, like it hadn’t broken him even though it had come close. Who’d spoken truth like it didn’t scare him.

And maybe that’s what undid Louis most of all.

Because he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this kind of tenderness. This kind of belief. Maggie had known him most of his years and still managed to look through him most days. But Harry? 

Harry had been here weeks.

Weeks.

And somehow he saw him. Not just the worn-out shell of a man who fixed fences and buried grudges in the dirt, but the part Louis had long ago stopped believing anyone might notice. The part that had nothing to do with guns or duty or being the last one to lock the barn door at night.

The part that wanted to be seen, to be cared for.

To be loved.

And Harry didn’t flinch from that, either.

Louis looked down at their hands, still joined and steady, and the ache in his chest swelled in a way that scared him. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. Because it felt good.

And that scared him. Because Louis didn’t know what to do with good. Didn’t know how to hold it without crushing it between calloused hands. He’d spent so long surviving, enduring, fixing what broke and burying what didn’t, that the thought of something soft staying… it rattled him.

But Harry’s hand was still there. Still warm. Still real.

He glanced up, just to make sure it wasn’t some spell of the morning light or a fever-dream his guilt had conjured. But no. Harry was still watching him, eyes soft but lit from within, like he was patient enough to wait as long as it took for Louis to catch up.

And God, Louis wanted to catch up. He wanted to try.

Louis let the silence breathe for a moment longer. Let it settle between them like the hush after a storm; thick with meaning, but no longer threatening.

Then he gave Harry’s hand the gentlest squeeze. A quiet confirmation. A “thank you” he couldn’t say out loud just yet.

His other hand lifted, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to startle the fragile thing forming between them. He brushed his knuckles across Harry’s cheek, wiping away a faint smudge of dried mud. His touch lingered there a beat too long, thumb barely grazing the edge of a bruise.

“You scare the hell outta me,” Louis said, voice hoarse with the weight of it.

Harry’s brow creased, just slightly.

“But I’m thankful,” Louis added, softer now, almost like it hurt to admit. “For you. For you showin’ up. For stayin’. For not lettin’ me scare you off.”

Harry’s lips parted, breath catching like he was about to say something important, maybe, something that would shift the weight of the moment into something solid. His eyes were wide and soft, holding so much Louis wasn’t sure he could survive hearing it out loud.

But the words never made it out.

The front door creaked open. Boots thudded against the floorboards. And just like that, the world came crashing back in.

June’s voice, brisk and full of morning purpose, cut through the stillness. “Morning boys.”

June carried through the room like a splash of cold water. Harmless, but jarring after the quiet they'd built. The spell broke, just like that. The soft hush between Louis and Harry was gone, pulled apart by footsteps and the scent of morning coffee.

James followed her in, walking stiffly but upright now, the bruises along his jaw catching the early light. His eyes swept the room with the slow caution of a man who’d been close to death and was still counting the steps back to life.

He gave them both a nod, quiet but grateful. “Didn’t think I’d be waking up under my own roof,” he muttered.

Louis stood up a little straighter, stepping back from Harry instinctively, even though he didn’t drop his hand fast enough to avoid the way June’s eyes flicked between them for half a second too long. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything. Just set down a folded blanket and a tin of biscuits on the edge of the table.

Louis cleared his throat, that automatic reflex he did when he wasn’t sure what else to say. His hands hovered by his belt now, itching for something to hold or fix or carry.

“You need anything?” he asked James, voice a little rough. “Fence mended, gear packed? I can take a look.”

James gave a tired smile. “We’ll manage. You already did more than enough.”

Louis shifted, not satisfied with that. “Doesn’t mean I can’t do more.”

But June, already offering packed food, urged, “You oughta get back to your wife, Louis. Sun’s been up a while now.”

Her tone wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even pointed. Just practical. Like any other woman keeping track of the world’s loose threads. Like she hadn’t just walked in on something delicate.

Still, the words landed like a stone in the room.

Louis’ spine went stiff.

And beside him, Harry’s whole body shrank in on itself. His shoulders curved inward, eyes dropping, hands pulling into his lap. Like he’d suddenly remembered exactly where he stood.

Or didn’t.

Louis looked at him sat there like he was an afterthought.

Louis hated it.

But all he said was, “Yeah. Guess I should.”

His voice didn’t sound like his own.

Harry cleared his throat softly, forcing a small smile as he reached for the mug of water on the side table, wincing a bit when his shoulder reminded him of the night before.

“Thank you,” he said to June, not quite looking up. “For letting us stay and rest for the night.”

June waved a hand as if to brush it off, but her gaze softened. “You’re welcome, love. Just rest that shoulder. You’ve earned it. Both of you have.”

James, already easing himself into one of the chairs by the fire, gave Harry a long, appraising look. There was something in his eyes; not pity, not curiosity, but respect.

“You’ve got some grit,” he said, nodding once. “Sharp, too. Fast on your feet. Louis is lucky to have you at his side.”

Harry’s eyes flicked toward Louis, just for a second.

Louis didn’t hesitate. “I know I am.”

It came out low, solid, without flourish. Honest in a way that settled something heavy in the air.

Louis was already moving, gathering his coat from the back of the chair and dusting it off like it hadn’t spent the night drying beside the hearth. He helped Harry up carefully, hands instinctively guiding even before Harry needed them, and together they stepped out onto the porch, the boards creaking beneath their boots.

Their horses waited in the wet morning light, breath misting in the crisp air, saddle leather still damp from the storm.

Louis didn’t speak while they saddled up. Didn’t know how to. His chest was tight, full of things he wasn’t ready to name. But his eyes kept drifting to Harry and the way he moved slower now, guarding his shoulder, but still straight-backed. Still proud.

Louis had no right to feel proud of him. But he did.

When they were finally mounted up, side by side again, Louis took one last glance at the house behind them.

It had held so much more than a rescue. And now they had to ride away like it hadn’t cracked something open.

He gave a short nod. “You ready?”

Harry looked at him. “As I’ll ever be.”

The ride home started quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward but heavy. Full. Like the sound of hooves in the wet grass and creaking leather and the distant call of birds were all trying to speak for the things neither of them knew how to say just yet.

The sun was higher now, brushing the tops of the trees with a soft, golden light. The storm had rinsed the land clean, but the air still smelled like mud and pine, like gunpowder that hadn’t quite faded.

Louis rode just ahead, reins loose in one hand, eyes scanning the path like habit but his mind wasn’t on the trail.

It was on the boy behind him.

No. Not boy. Man. Even after everything, it was still hard not to think of him as young, especially now, after the night they’d just lived through. But Harry had earned more than that. More than anyone seemed to know.

The silence held until they reached a slow bend in the road where the trees opened wide, letting the sun fall fully over them.

That’s when Harry spoke.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said, voice low but clear. “For listening to me.”

Louis glanced at him, jaw tight. He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once.

Harry kept going. “Never told that story before. Not the whole thing at least. Felt like if I did… it’d change something.”

Louis’ grip on the reins tightened just slightly. He felt that.

“I get that,” he said after a beat. “Some stories… you don’t say ‘em out loud unless you’re ready to see yourself different.”

Harry looked at him. “You ever do that?”

Louis was quiet for a long stretch of trail.

The kind of silence that had weight, like he was sorting through what parts of himself were safe enough to share or what pieces he hadn’t buried too deep.

Their horses moved slow through the rutted path, hooves squelching in soft earth, and Louis kept his eyes ahead. But eventually, his voice came low. “Yeah,” he said.

Harry didn’t press. Just let the air stay open between them, like he knew the story was coming when Louis was ready.

And then it did.

“There was a man. Years ago,” Louis said, gaze still on the horizon. “Name was Tuck. We rode together. Ran cons and rustled cattle and crossed a few lines no decent man’s supposed to cross.”

He paused, shifting in the saddle, the leather groaning under his weight.

“We were…close. Closer than I’d ever been with someone. Not just in the way folks whisper about, but… in all the ways that matter. I trusted him.”

Harry was still, not a word or movement to interrupt. Just watching, listening.

“He set me up,” Louis said simply. “Worked with a rival crew. Lured me into a trap. Took the cash and left me bleeding outside a church in Dawson Hollow.”

The silence that followed was different now. Not heavy but reverent.

“Should’ve died that night,” Louis went on. “Didn’t. Don’t know if that was luck or punishment.”

Harry’s voice came quiet. “That’s why you took the farm?”

Louis nodded. “It was the end of that life. I crawled out, patched myself up, and figured… if I couldn’t be a good man, maybe I could at least stop being a bad one.”

Harry looked at him for a long while. “And you think that’s all you are now? Just… not bad?”

Louis huffed, almost smiled. “I think I’m still learning.”

Harry gave a faint nod. Thoughtful. Then said, “Well, for what it’s worth… I think you’re a man who saved someone’s life this week. Mine included.”

Louis looked at him then. It felt honest. Like maybe, just maybe, neither of them had to carry all that weight alone anymore.

They rode a little longer, the trail winding through a stretch of tall grass and wind-swept silence. The sun had now dried most of the storm’s aftermath, and the air had taken on that golden warmth that made the world feel softer than it was.

Harry adjusted in his saddle, careful with his shoulder, then looked over at Louis. He was quiet for a moment like he was gauging the ground ahead before stepping onto it.

Then he said, voice low but edged with a kind of curious boldness, “When you said you and Tuck were close...”

Louis’ jaw ticked. His eyes stayed on the trail, but his hand tightened slightly on the reins.

Harry didn’t backpedal. If anything, his tone got lighter. “You meant... like…close close?”

Louis exhaled slowly through his nose, not annoyed, just thoughtful.

He didn’t answer right away. Let the rhythm of the horses fill the space while he decided how honest he was willing to be.

Then, with a small shrug, he said, “We were two men out on the road. Days at a time. Nights longer than they had any right to be.”

Harry turned a little more in the saddle, watching him.

Louis kept going, voice measured. “Didn’t take much for one thing to lead to another. You get cold, you share heat. You get bored, you pass the time. Wasn’t anything tender, not really. Just… mutual enjoyment. It’s normal.”

His tone wasn’t defensive, but there was a weight to it. Like he was drawing a line that didn’t need to be drawn, but he was drawing it anyway. Maybe for Harry. Maybe for himself.

Harry didn’t speak right away, but Louis could feel the shift in his gaze. Less curiosity now. More consideration.

After a moment, Harry smiled. “Guess I should’ve figured. You’ve got that look.”

Louis arched a brow. “What look?”

Harry gave him a sidelong glance, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “The kind that says you’ve known your way around all kinds of trouble.”

Louis let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. “You always this nosy?”

Harry grinned. “Only when I’m interested.”

Louis didn’t respond to that, just gave a slight shake of his head and looked away, but the corner of his mouth tugged, just a little. And they kept riding.

The sun climbed higher, casting gold over the plains, the silence between them shifting, less weighted now, more companionable. Like something had eased between their ribs.

Louis didn’t say anything for a while. Just rode with that flicker of a grin still playing at the corner of his mouth, like it wasn’t ready to leave just yet.

But the quiet felt different now. Warmer.

Harry, for all his bruises and stiffness, still sat proud in the saddle. And he didn’t push again. Didn’t needle. Just let the road unfold beneath them, the sound of hooves and birdsong carrying whatever hadn’t been said yet.

Louis thought about what he’d told him. About Tuck. About the difference between comfort and care. And then he thought about Harry.

About the way he’d held his hand.

About how he hadn’t just stayed for the pay, or the roof, or the promise of a job in a place too far from the sea to run anymore.

He’d stayed for something else.

Someone else.

Louis felt that same ache rise up again slow and steady, like water behind a dam. Not dangerous. Not yet. But enough to remind him he wasn’t made of stone.

And maybe he didn’t want to be.

He glanced over at Harry once more, just a brief pass of his eyes. And Harry met it, still smiling, just faintly. Like he knew exactly what was being thought but wasn’t about to say it first.

Louis looked away.

But that little smile stayed. Both of theirs.

The trees thinned out as the trail curved up the last rise, the road smoothing into packed dirt and low golden scrub. Just ahead, the fence lines came into view, bent here and there from the storm, but still standing. The ranch sat just beyond, quiet in the morning light, smoke curling from the chimney, roof shining damp with sun.

Harry let out a breath beside him, like seeing it made something settle in his chest. His posture eased a little in the saddle, like the ache in his shoulder had finally dulled.

Louis glanced over, just to check.

That’s when Harry said it—casual as anything, but with a glint in his eye.

“Well,” he said, voice low and drawling, “if you ever find yourself cold and bored again... you know where to find me.”

Louis blinked. The reins slipped in his hands just slightly.

Harry smirked. “Could even still call it mutual enjoyment, if you want to keep it technical.”

Louis made a noise in his throat—something halfway between a scoff and a laugh—and fixed his eyes dead ahead, pretending like the flush climbing his neck wasn’t real. “Christ, you’re bold for a man who can’t lift his damn arm.”

Harry’s grin widened, smug in that effortless, infuriating way he had. “Doesn’t take much strength to share a bed.”

Louis shot him a look, half-scandalized, half-admiring. “You always like this?”

Harry lifted one brow, pretending to think. “Think it’s just a thing with men who stitch me up and save my life.”

Louis rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him tugged up into the kind of smile he usually kept locked away for private mornings and long-forgotten memories.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he said, voice low and dry, “Maggie’s gonna put salt in your coffee.”

Harry laughed, easy and light, and the sound of it rolled down the hill like wind in the tall grass.

The horses clopped softly into the yard, hooves muffled by the wet dirt, the smell of hay and woodsmoke settling around them like the last breath of night. The ranch was calm—too calm, maybe—but Louis didn’t say that out loud. He just slid down from the saddle in one practiced motion, boots landing in the damp earth with a soft thud.

Harry moved slower, careful with his shoulder, wincing as his boot caught the stirrup.

“Hold on,” Louis said, stepping close before Harry could protest. “Don’t be stubborn now.”

He reached up, one hand at Harry’s waist, the other at the edge of his thigh. It wasn’t dramatic, not some sweeping gesture, but it was warm, necessary. Louis guided him down like he was something worth keeping whole.

Harry landed with a soft grunt, boots just shy of Louis’, their bodies too close in that way that demanded nothing but still made the air shift.

“You alright?” Louis asked, gaze flicking up, voice quieter now.

Harry nodded, but didn’t let go of his hand. Didn’t even try.

Their fingers stayed curled together between them, warm from the ride, worn from everything else. Just a quiet, open thing that made Louis feel like the ground under his boots was about to give.

Louis stared at him. His thumb brushed against Harry’s, once. And for a second, he leaned in, just a breath’s width, barely a move at all.

But then-

Crash.

A sharp sound split the quiet from the main house. Ceramic, maybe. Something falling. Louis flinched, head snapping toward it like instinct still ruled him.

Harry blinked, startled, but didn’t move.

Louis sighed, stepping back reluctantly. “Probably just Maggie dropping a dish.”

Harry gave him a look, but didn’t argue.

“You should go settle in,” Louis said, voice softer now. “Back in the bunkhouse. Get off your feet. I’ll bring you some food in a bit… and look at your shoulder again.”

Harry hesitated. “You sure?”

Louis gave him a tight nod. “Yeah. Go on.”

Harry lingered one more beat, then turned to go his hand slipping out of Louis’  like it had been waiting to be held just a moment longer.

Louis watched him cross the yard, then turned toward the house with a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He stepped up onto the porch, shoulders stiff beneath the sweat-dried fabric of his shirt. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, shaking loose the dust of the road. His boots were caked in drying mud—he kicked them off by the door with a quiet thud and stepped inside.

The kitchen was empty.

That was the first thing that sat wrong with him.

The fire in the stove was out, the coffee untouched. No clatter of pans, no scent of breakfast. Just quiet and too much of it. The kind that crawled up the back of your neck and made you feel like maybe you’d walked in on a conversation that had already ended.

“Mags?” he called, voice soft, wary.

No answer.

Louis took a few steps in. The broken dish wasn’t in the kitchen. Nothing was out of place. He frowned.

Then he heard it.

Upstairs.

Muffled, but unmistakable, the rhythmic creak of the floorboards above him. Paired with soft, sharp sounds. Familiar ones. Unmistakable.

He froze.

Not like he’d been hit. Not like in a fight. No, this was quieter than that. Slower. Like his body just… stopped. Like it already knew what was waiting for him before his mind could catch up.

He didn’t move. Not at first.

Just stood there, eyes fixed on nothing, listening to the sounds he couldn’t pretend away anymore. His body registered the truth before his mind allowed it, a slow, cold settling in his gut like a winter wind creeping through the floorboards.

It had been David. He’d known that much, deep down.

The way Maggie said his name too soft sometimes. The way David lingered after dinners longer than anyone asked him to. The kind of silence that passed between them when they thought no one noticed.

Louis noticed.

But he’d buried it. Like he buried everything that didn’t fit neatly into the world he tried so hard to hold together.

Now it was loud. Real. Echoing through the house he built with his own hands. In the room where he used to lay beside her and pretend there was still something between them worth fixing.

He clenched his jaw. Not out of anger. At least, not the kind that burned. This was different. This was colder. He felt hollow, like the wind could blow right through him if he opened his mouth to speak.

Louis stood there for another long secon, one heartbeat, maybe two, before something inside him finally moved.

Not rage. Not panic. Just resolve. Heavy and slow, like dragging a stone across dry earth.

His hand landed on the banister, fingers white-knuckled without him realizing. He climbed the stairs with the quiet calm of a man who had nothing left to lose, each creaking step loud in his ears over the muffled sounds of skin and breath and betrayal.

The door was cracked open.

He pushed it wider.

Maggie gasped and pulled a sheet over herself with the kind of reflex that came too late to mean anything. David froze like a deer on a rifle’s end, bare-chested, hair mussed, face pale with a kind of shame that was too new to be honest.

Louis just looked.

Didn’t shout. Didn’t flinch. He only needed to see it. Once. To let the truth set in like a splinter to the bone.

There it was.

What he'd been refusing to name for months. What his gut had warned him about, night after night, when Maggie came home smelling like someone else’s smoke and didn’t kiss him goodnight.

He stood in the doorway, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Maggie opened her mouth about to say something pitiful or practiced, he wasn’t sure which but he beat her to it.

“Get out.”

His voice was low. Steady. Dead calm.

David blinked. “Louis-”

“I said get out.”

Maggie tried to sit up straighter, words spilling too fast. “It’s not-it just happened I promise-”

Louis’ gaze snapped to her, and she stopped talking.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t make it worse than it already is.”

She looked like she wanted to cry. He wished she would. At least it’d be honest.

David stood, pulling on his shirt with clumsy hands. “Look, I-”

Louis stepped forward, slow and sure, until he was right in front of him.

“If you don’t walk out of this house right now, David,” Louis said, voice like steel wrapped in something colder, “I will put you through that goddamn window.”

David went pale again. Didn’t test him.

He grabbed his boots and backed away, not saying another word. Not brave enough. Not stupid enough. Just quiet and shaken, eyes darting to Maggie once, as if hoping she might say something that would make it all disappear.

She didn’t.

Louis didn’t watch him leave. Didn’t need to. He could hear the awkward thud of boots scrambling down the stairs, the front door opening and closing with a hollow sound that felt too small for how big it all was.

The bedroom was still.

Maggie sat frozen, the sheet pulled high, like it could shield her from what she’d already done.

Louis looked at her for the first time in a long time. And saw nothing left.

Maybe that was the worst part.

The emptiness.

“You knew what this’d do,” he said, quieter now, voice sanded down to something raw. “And you did it anyway.”

Maggie’s lip trembled just enough to look believable. Her voice cracked when she finally found it, all breath and false softness. “Louis, I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He stared at her. One long, unmoved second.

“But you did.”

She clutched the sheet tighter, like it might hold her together. “I didn’t plan it. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

Louis let out a quiet, disbelieving sound, something closer to a scoff than a laugh, dry and bitter.

“You planned it every time you looked him in the eye and didn’t walk away,” he said. “You planned it every time you told me you were workin’ late or feelin’ tired or just needed air.”

Maggie’s eyes shimmered. “I’ve been lonely.”

Louis’ jaw clenched. “We’ve both been lonely.”

She opened her mouth again, something else lined up—another excuse, another soft edge to throw between them—but he held up a hand. Not angry. Just done.

“I came home thinkin’ I might not make it through the night,” he said. “Blood on my hands, smoke in my throat. I thought maybe I’d die out there tryin’ to save a man who once saved me.”

His voice broke but he didn’t flinch.

“And you were here,” he continued, eyes locking with hers, “warm and dry, lyin’ in our bed with David like I was already buried.”

Maggie flinched like he’d struck her.

But Louis didn’t back down. He stepped closer. Not menacing, not cruel. Just present. For the first time in a long time, he was fully there in front of her. No walls. No excuses. Just the wound she’d opened, still bleeding.

“I could’ve been dead,” he said. “And it wouldn’t’ve changed a damn thing for you.”

That silenced her.

Maggie opened her mouth again but there were no words this time. Just the glint of regret that showed up too late, when the damage was already done and the walls had already cracked.

Louis stood there a second longer, eyes drifting across the room like he was seeing it for the first time. The worn dresser. The cracked windowpane. The quilt they’d chosen together when they still thought choosing things together mattered.

And then he breathed in. Slow. Final.

“I’m sellin’ the ranch.”

Maggie’s head snapped up. “What?”

His voice didn’t waver. “I’m done, Mags. With all of it. Pourin’ every drop of who I am into this land—into you—just to watch it rot beneath me.”

“That’s not fair,” she said, sitting forward now, sheet still clutched like armor. “You love this place.”

“I loved what I thought it could be,” he corrected. “But it ain’t that. Not anymore.”

She was shaking her head before he’d finished, scrambling to close the gap. “You’re just upset. This is heat-of-the-moment stuff. It’s not like you-”

“It’s exactly like me,” he cut in, voice firmer now. “It’s me finally seein’ it for what it is.”

She stood, the sheet falling away as she stepped toward him, bare feet against the creaking wood. “I’ll end it with David,” she said quickly. “I swear. I’ll leave this place if you want. Just… give me a chance to fix it. We can go somewhere new. Start over.”

Louis let out a bitter breath.

“You think I want to start over with someone who only remembers I exist when the other man ain’t around?”

Maggie’s expression crumpled. “It wasn’t just about him.”

“No,” Louis agreed. “It was about you.”

That stung. He saw it land. But he didn’t take it back.

“I spent the last few years thinking if I just worked harder, held on tighter, I could keep this place from fallin’ apart,” he said, gaze steady. “But it already was. And you knew it. You just didn’t say a damn thing.”

“You were always gone,” she whispered. “You were always tired, always somewhere else. I felt like a stranger in my own house.”

Louis nodded slowly. “So did I.”

And that was the truth of it.

She looked at him like she wanted him to fight. To beg. To say she was still enough for him to rebuild something out of the ashes.

But he didn’t.

He just said, quieter now, “You need to go.”

“Where?”

“I don’t care,” Louis said. “Just not here. Not now.”

He turned and walked out before she could say anything else, before she could weaponize the tears that had always come so easy when she wanted to stay close without doing the work.

His boots were back on before the door shut behind him.

The sky had turned sharp blue, the sun higher now, the land quiet and waiting. And in the distance, down by the bunkhouse, Louis could see Harry.

Waiting, too.

Louis walked slow.

Not because he was tired but because he wasn’t ready for what came next.

Because the weight of everything was finally catching up to him, and it wasn’t just sitting on his shoulders anymore. It was curling inside his ribs, breathing against his lungs, pressing on him from the inside out like it wanted to hollow him clean.

He passed the barn. The fence that needed mending. The half-rusted pump he kept saying he’d fix next week. All of it had once meant something. A life he’d tried to build from dust and sweat and grit. A marriage he’d tried to salvage, not because it still fit, but because he’d sunk too much time into pretending it did.

David had been the crack in the wall, but the rot was already there. Maggie just helped it spread.

And now?

Now the whole damn thing was coming down. Piece by piece. He thought he’d feel angry. Or broken. Or hollowed out.

But all he felt was done.

Until he looked up and saw the light still on in the bunkhouse. And something in him moved again.

Harry.

The only breath of life this place had left. The only thing that hadn’t asked Louis to give more than he had. Who’d taken what he gave and never once tried to twist it, hide it, use it as leverage. Just… held it. Gently.

Even when Louis didn’t deserve gentle.

He reached the steps of the bunkhouse, every part of him pulsing with exhaustion, with grief, with the brittle kind of hope he hadn’t dared let himself feel in years.

His hand hovered at the door, heart thudding quiet but sharp. Then he knocked once.

And opened it.

Harry looked up from where he was sitting on the edge of the cot, shoulder bandaged, boots off, hair mussed from drying in the sun. He looked like home if home had ever once been kind to Louis.

They stared at each other for a long breath.

Harry didn’t smile, not right away.

He just looked at Louis in that same way he always did; quiet, open, like he was already listening to something Louis hadn’t even said yet.

And maybe he was.

Because Louis didn’t speak. He stepped inside, slow and deliberate, and shut the door and locker it behind him with a soft click that sounded like a choice made.

The lamplight was soft in the room, throwing gentle shadows against the wood, catching in Harry’s hair, warming the bruise along his jaw. The air between them felt still, like it was holding its breath.

Louis crossed the room without asking. Just moved, step by step, until he was standing in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat where Harry sat. Close enough to feel like the weight he’d been dragging behind him all day might actually be something he could set down.

Harry looked up at him, lips parted, eyes soft. “You okay?”

Louis didn’t nod. Didn’t shake his head, either. He just reached out, rough fingers brushing Harry’s cheek, gentler than they’d ever been. Like he was touching something that mattered.

Like he was touching ‘yes.’

Harry leaned into it barely. Just enough.

That was all Louis needed.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, a quiet, uneven thing that caught halfway through his chest.

Then he knelt. Right there between Harry’s knees, the wood floor cool beneath him, his hands still warm from holding onto too much for too long. He rested one on Harry’s thigh, the other still at his cheek, thumb brushing under the curve of his jaw like he couldn’t stop touching, couldn’t stop making sure he was real.

Harry’s thumb moved slowly against the back of Louis’ neck, soothing without asking anything in return. But his eyes held steady on Louis’ face.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked, quiet.

He didn’t say what, didn’t need to. The question was simple, but it wrapped itself around everything Louis had left upstairs in that house. The bed. The crash. The way Maggie’s voice had twisted itself into apology and excuse. The way David hadn’t even looked him in the eye when he walked out the door.

Louis didn’t answer right away.

He stayed there, kneeling in front of Harry, jaw working slow, like the words were bricks he had to dig out of wet earth.

“I saw ‘em,” he said finally, voice low. “Didn’t yell. Didn’t fight. Just stood there and… watched.”

Harry’s fingers tightened just a little, not pulling just grounding.

Louis let his hand fall from Harry’s cheek, pressing it flat to the other man’s chest instead, over his heart. It beat steady beneath his palm.

“I knew it for a long time,” he murmured. “Was just easier pretendin’. Thought if I held it all together long enough, worked hard enough, I could fix somethin’ that was already gone.”

He looked up then, met Harry’s eyes. “Turns out I was the only one still tryin’.”

Harry’s brow furrowed with something close to ache, but he didn’t interrupt.

Louis shook his head slowly. “She looked at me like she felt sorry for me. Not even guilty. Just… tired. Like I’d ruined her affair by comin’ home alive.”

He let out a breath, sharp and quiet.

“I thought it’d tear me apart, seein’ it. But all it did was make me certain. Certain I was done holdin’ onto things that ain’t ever gonna hold me back.”

He blinked, eyes flicking away for just a second. “And I walked outta that house, and all I could think about was you.”

Harry’s breath hitched just slightly but Louis felt it under his hand, against his chest.

Neither of them moved.

The words hung in the air like they were still deciding whether they were brave or foolish. Louis didn’t know which yet. Didn’t really care. Because they were true, and that was the only thing that had ever saved him.

Harry didn’t smile. Didn’t say something light to soften it. He just reached up again, palm against Louis’ cheek this time, thumb brushing slow over the edge of his jaw like he was memorising it. Like it was something worth knowing.

Louis’ breath trembled in his chest as he reached for Harry’s other hand gently, like it might break if he wasn’t careful. Their fingers tangled slow, warm and unshaking despite the way his own hand was trembling. He held it anyway. Held him.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Barely a rasp. “Can I…?” He paused, swallowed, then said it for real—soft, honest, scared. “Can I kiss you?”

Harry didn’t move at first.

His eyes were dark and steady, full of that same impossible patience he always had. The kind that waited for Louis to catch up, never rushing, never asking more than what he could give.

Then Harry’s mouth softened to not quite a smile, but something close. Something warmer. His hand tightened just slightly in Louis’, thumb brushing over trembling knuckles in a way that said, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes never leaving Louis’. “Please.”

And that was all Louis needed.

He leaned in slow like he didn’t want to startle the moment. Like he didn’t want to shatter something that had only just begun to grow roots.

Their lips met in a kiss that wasn’t rushed or hungry. It was quiet. Earnest. The kind of kiss that says I see you and I’m still here and maybe this doesn’t have to hurt so much anymore.

Louis sank into it, one hand cradling Harry’s face, the other still clasped in his like an anchor. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself want. Let himself feel the shape of something good.

Let himself be held.

They didn’t pull away. Not after the first kiss. Not after the second.

It just kept going soft and slow at first, like they were both afraid it might vanish if they moved too fast. But then something in it deepened. Cracked open. The kind of shift that didn’t come from lips or hands, but from everything they’d carried up until now; the fear, the guilt, the silence, the years of holding too much alone.

Louis kissed Harry like he needed to memorise it. Like he’d spent a lifetime without comfort and had only just realised what it meant to be wanted without conditions. Without confusion.

Harry kissed him back like he understood that.

Like he’d been waiting for Louis to reach for him, and now that he had he wasn’t letting go.

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t frantic.

It was desperate in a different way, like they were both trying to put pieces of themselves back together with their mouths, their hands, their closeness. Like the ache had found a place to rest, finally.

Louis made a small sound in the back of his throat, raw and almost surprised, and Harry answered it by curling his hand around the back of his neck, drawing him in closer.

Their foreheads pressed together between kisses, breaths short and warm, mouths brushing but not parting. Just there.

And if Louis’ eyes burned when he closed them—if the tremble in his hands never fully stopped—Harry didn’t say a word.

When Harry leaned back just slightly, his breath stuttering through the part in his lips, Louis followed. Not hurried, just sure. His hand found Harry’s waist, warm and steady, guiding him down onto the bed with a gentleness that bordered on reverent.

He was so goddamn careful.

His palm hovered for a beat near Harry’s bandaged shoulder, eyes flicking up like a silent question. Harry gave the smallest nod, just once, and Louis eased him back, slow and precise, like he was something precious, like if he hurt him even a little, he’d never forgive himself.

The bed creaked beneath them, quiet and worn like everything else in this place, but it didn’t matter.

Louis didn’t break the kiss. Even as he settled beside him, lying half-on his side, propped on one elbow, his hand still threaded in Harry’s, he kept kissing him. Slow and close and real.

Every time he pulled back, just slightly, it was only to breathe the same air. Only to look at him; to memorise the way Harry’s lashes fluttered, the way his lips stayed parted, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Then Louis would lean in again, brush their mouths together like the space between them had become unbearable.

It didn’t feel like a beginning. It felt like something they’d been aching toward without ever naming it, without ever daring to hope it might find them in return.

Louis’ thumb traced along the line of Harry’s wrist, slow and steady. A grounding thing. Not possessive. Not nervous. Just… present. Like he needed the touch as much for himself as for Harry.

Harry’s breathing had steadied now, threading gently through the air between them. He kept his eyes on Louis, glassy with something unspoken, something quiet and open and safe.

Louis hadn’t felt safe in years.

Not with Maggie. Not with the ranch. Not even with the silence he used to wrap around himself like armor.

But here, in the soft hush of this room, with Harry’s fingers curled between his, it was like the world had gone still. Like it was letting them have this.

Louis leaned forward again, their lips brushing just barely now. Slower. Like they’d kissed through the ache and now they were kissing through the calm. No rush. No fire. Just the steady weight of this matters.

He pulled back half an inch, pressed his forehead to Harry’s, their noses brushing.

“You’re the only thing that’s felt right in a long time,” Louis whispered, the words like confession. Like truth.

They didn’t speak for a while after that. Didn’t need to.

Harry curled in closer, careful of his shoulder, and Louis shifted just enough to make room. He didn’t ask if he was hurting, didn’t ask if he needed anything; he already knew what mattered was just being there.

And he was. There, in the quiet of the bunkhouse where the light had softened to a muted amber, Louis let his fingers drift. First over the line of Harry’s wrist, then up the slope of his arm, slow and thoughtful. Just feeling. Just memorizing.

Every freckle.

Every ridge of muscle worn by work, not vanity.

Every rise and fall of breath.

When his hand reached the edge of Harry’s collarbone, he paused there letting his fingers trace it absently, like he was still convincing himself Harry was real. That this was real.

Harry didn’t move, just watched him with those soft, green eyes, his hand still resting over Louis’ heart like it belonged there.

Louis leaned down a bit, pressed a kiss to his temple. Then let his fingers tangle gently in Harry’s curls, brushing them back from his forehead, carding through them slow and reverent.

“You ever think,” Louis murmured, voice low, “how strange it is that you ended up here? Of all places. Of all people.”

Harry smiled faintly, eyes still closed now. “All the time.”

Louis nodded a little, gaze roaming over his face. “Never known anyone like you,” he said, quiet. “Don’t know how someone so sweet and steady got dropped on my doorstep after everything I’ve been through. After everything I’ve been.”

His fingers stilled in Harry’s hair.

“And still… you look at me like I was worth stayin’ for.”

Harry opened his eyes again at that, something shining in them. “You are.”

Louis blinked, jaw tightening like he wasn’t sure how to hold that without breaking something.

And then Louis looked down at him, voice soft but serious, the kind of serious that only came from a man who’d thought long and hard about losing everything and decided it wasn’t too late to start over.

“What if we just…” Louis trailed off for a second, thumb brushing behind Harry’s ear. “Left.”

Harry blinked up at him, lips parting.

Louis went on, a little steadier now. “No ranch. No ghosts. Just—just the road. Some quiet place with dirt that don’t expect anything of us. We could—hell, I dunno. Grow things. Find some pretty plants. You always stop and stare when you pass somethin’ bloomin’.”

Harry’s throat moved as he swallowed, his eyes searching Louis’ like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

“You’re serious,” he whispered.

Louis nodded once. “I think so.”

A beat passed. Harry lifted a hand, gently cupping the back of Louis’ neck.

“You’d leave all this behind?” he asked, not disbelieving, just soft. Careful. Like he was holding the question up to the light.

Louis huffed a soft breath more amused than bitter, like he already knew how ridiculous it sounded coming from his own mouth.

“I ain’t exactly the type to pick up and go,” he said, lips curving wry. “You know that. Spent half my life fixin’ fences and fightin’ to hold ground that never gave nothin’ back.”

Harry’s thumb brushed gently along his jaw, saying nothing, just listening.

Louis’ eyes flicked up to meet his again, steadier now. Honest.

“But after everything?” His voice dropped to a murmur, thick with meaning. “After last night. After what I saw in that house. After you-”

He broke off for a second, jaw tightening.

Harry didn’t let him finish. He leaned up, slow and sure, and kissed him like he could feel the weight in Louis’ chest and wanted to take just a little of it for himself. Wanted to quiet the storm before it swallowed him whole.

When he pulled back, his hand stayed at Louis’ neck, thumb brushing slow and warm against his skin.

“You’re all in your head right now,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “You don’t have to make promises tonight. You don’t have to fix the rest of your life by morning.”

Louis stared at him, jaw clenched like he was still trying to hold it all up.

Harry gave a faint smile, just enough to soften the edges. “You can rest. Just for now. Just be here.”

Louis nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders finally easing a fraction. He leaned in again, resting their foreheads together, breathing in time.

They stayed like that for a while, letting the quiet hold them.

Then Harry’s voice came again, softer. “If I’d stayed it through the season… my plan was to head north after.”

Louis blinked, lifting his head just enough to meet his eyes.

“North?”

Harry nodded. “Mountains. Wildflowers. I read there’s a ridge full of them that bloom late into summer. Fields of color. Was gonna find it.”

Louis smiled a little, couldn’t help it. “You and your damn plants.”

Harry grinned back. “They don’t ask much of you. Just need sun and time.” He paused, then added with a small tilt of his head, “Gets cold up there, though. Come winter.”

Louis let out a low chuckle, voice rumbling close between them. “You already know I’m good at keepin’ warm.”

Harry laughed, short and warm, and tugged him back in for another kiss.

It lingered longer this time like a promise made without words. Like maybe, just maybe, they could take the road north together.

Chapter Text

The heat came suddenly.

Not the weather, it was already a scorcher that made the air thick and the sweat cling. But between them. That heat. That tension that had been simmering ever since the night in the bunkhouse. Since the kiss, the quiet decision to stay close, even if everything else was still splintering.

It hit them in the barn. One minute they were talking low near the tack wall, hands brushing as they worked, and the next Harry was pulling Louis in by the belt loops, a sharp little tug that sent his back up against the nearest stall door, just out of view from the main opening.

Just out of view from Maggie.

She was out front, moving slow with the pitchfork, dust rising around her ankles. She still lingered on the ranch, for now. Louis had told her she could stay through the season, mostly out of some dull sense of decency or maybe guilt. But they didn’t talk much anymore, didn’t eat together, didn’t look at each other too long.

Didn’t matter. Because right now, Harry’s mouth was on his. Hot. Quick. Messy in the way that came from holding back too long.

Louis grabbed at Harry’s hips, half-steadying him, half-pulling him closer, their boots scuffing against hay-strewn dirt. His heart pounded too loud, too fast, half from the kiss and half from the risk. Harry kissed like he had something to prove. Not to Louis but to the days they’d both spent biting it down, keeping their hands to themselves, swallowing every look too long and breath too close. His hands skimmed up Louis’ sides, fingers curling in the worn fabric of his shirt, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or hold him still.

Louis made the decision for him. He grabbed the back of Harry’s neck and kissed him back hard, all teeth and heat and desperation that buzzed low in his gut and made him forget about everything else. About the horses in the stalls. About the summer flies buzzing in the rafters. About Maggie, just a few yards away, shoveling dry earth like it wasn’t their shared grave.

Louis couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this; light, breathless, younger than his years had any right to let him feel.

Harry was grinning against his mouth, laughing into the kiss like the whole damn world had gone soft around the edges. Like it was just them and the heat and the creaking wood of the barn, the rest of it be damned. Louis laughed too, low and ragged, grabbing at Harry’s belt like he could tether him there for the rest of the damn day.

“God, you’re trouble,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut as Harry’s lips ghosted down to his jaw, then lower and slower kisses trailing down his throat.

“You like trouble,” Harry murmured, voice muffled against the crook of Louis’ neck. “Don’t lie.”

Louis didn’t even try to.

Harry’s teeth grazed his collarbone, just under the edge of his shirt, and Louis groaned softly, the sound catching in the thick barn heat.

And then—

“Louis!” Maggie’s voice rang out from somewhere just beyond the barn, sharp and irritated. “The south gate’s still closed. Cattle are crowdin’ the fence!”

Louis’ head thudded softly against the stall wall behind him, and Harry just snorted. Full-on giggled. Mouth still on his neck, shoulders shaking as he bit down lightly and sucked just hard enough to leave a mark somewhere only they’d see.

 “You little shit-” Louis hissed through his teeth, half a curse and half a laugh, fingers tightening in the back of Harry’s shirt.

“As if you don’t love it,” Harry muttered, voice smug and muffled, lips still pressed to the damp skin just under Louis’ ear. He gave one last, smug kiss to the spot he’d branded with his mouth, and then leaned back just enough to look at him.

Louis was flushed to his ears, hair a mess from where Harry had been tugging at it, lips kiss-bitten and curved into the kind of smile he didn’t let anyone else see.

Harry looked damn proud of himself. “Go on,” he said, breathless, tapping Louis’ belt with two fingers. “Go wrangle your cows before your wife loses her mind.”

“She’s not my wife anymore,” Louis said, too quickly. Then quieter: “Not really.”

Harry’s grin faltered, just a little. His eyes softened. “I know.”

There was a pause.

Louis brought a hand up, brushing a curl back from Harry’s forehead, thumb lingering too long at his temple. “I’ll be back,” he murmured.

“I know that too.”

Louis took a breath like he didn’t want to leave. Then stepped out into the blinding sun, adjusting his shirt and tugging his hat low, trying not to think about the hickey pulsing warm near his throat. Trying not to grin. Trying not to miss Harry already.

The days that followed blurred into heat and dust and moments stolen behind barn doors. There wasn’t much to it yet. Just kisses in the quiet, soft things shared when no one was looking. A touch on the arm that lingered too long. Louis leaning close to pretend he needed to say something quiet, only to end up with his mouth brushing Harry’s cheek instead.

They hadn’t gone further. Not past hands and mouths and that aching sense of almost. Not because they didn’t want to, but because, somehow, what they had felt full already. Like rushing it would only dim the edges of something that was still taking shape.

Besides, everything else was shifting.

Maggie was still in the house, but her presence was thinning. Her boots weren’t by the door as often. Her clothes disappeared from the drawers a few at a time. Bits and pieces of her life left quietly. Louis didn’t know where to, and he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to hear her say his name again.

There was distance between them now, civil but cold. They passed each other like ghosts with polite nods, shared glances that said nothing. No arguments. No apologies. Just the slow, inevitable unwinding of whatever they’d been. And in the background of it all, Louis was making quiet moves.

He’d spoken to three different ranchers in the last week. One old friend from down near Harlow Creek. Another with a growing cattle operation who’d been eyeing his land for years. Nothing official. No papers signed. Just cautious talks over fences and tin mugs, conversations that ended with things like, “Well, let me think on it,” and “I ain’t lookin’ to rush but I’m listenin’.”

He hadn’t told Maggie. Hadn’t told Harry either.

But when Louis lay back in bed at night. sometimes alone and sometimes with Harry clinging to his skin, he found himself tracing outlines in his mind of a road north, and what might wait at the end of it. Not cattle. Not chores. Not silence. Just a chance. And maybe someone worth taking it with.

He also started noticing the things he’d never paid much mind to before. The way Harry leaned against fence posts with his whole body all lazy and long-limbed, sun in his hair like it belonged there. The way he laughed when the horses got stubborn, like even their bad moods amused him. The way his eyes softened when they passed wildflowers blooming along the edge of the pasture, pointing them out like they were worth naming.

Foxglove, he’d said once, brushing his fingers just shy of the petals. Poisonous, but beautiful.

Louis had watched him more than the flower. Watched the way he moved through this place like it hadn’t broken him. Like he didn’t carry ghosts in his chest. Like the bruises on his body and the weight of the past hadn’t dimmed him down but sharpened him into something steadier.

God, he was steady and Louis didn’t know what to do with that. Had never known what to do with good things that didn’t demand penance in return. But Harry didn’t ask for anything. He just stayed. He helped mend the fences even when his shoulder ached. He cooked when June sent over extra bread. He walked beside Louis during the long twilight hours when the cattle were quiet and the land held its breath before night.

And Louis… Louis let himself want. Not loudly. Not all at once. But enough to start making room for it. He thought about what it might feel like to see the ranch disappear in the rearview. To pass the tree line and not look back. To let this chapter close soft instead of slamming the door on it in anger.

To let himself close it.

But he wasn’t there yet. Not quite. He hadn’t spoken the words out loud. Not to Harry. Not to himself. And so the days stretched on, warm and heavy, full of that quiet in-between space where something is ending, but something else hasn’t quite begun.

—

Evening light spilled in through the windows, all soft edges and gold dust, catching on the bits of steam rising from the pot on the stove. Harry stood over it, sleeves rolled up, stirring stew with one hand while the other braced the counter. The scent of garlic and thyme filled the room.

Louis sat near the open window, old guitar balanced across his thigh like it belonged there. Like it hadn’t sat untouched in the corner of his bedroom for the better part of a year. His fingers moved slowly, just strumming chords he half-remembered, letting the strings hum and settle under his hands. Not a song yet. Just sound. Just the feeling of wood and string and memory. Harry glanced over once, eyes soft, but didn’t say anything. Just smiled to himself and kept stirring.

Across the room, Maggie folded laundry with mechanical precision. Quiet. Not sulking, not glaring, just going through the motions. A stack of towels. A shirt Louis hadn’t worn in months. A pair of socks she didn’t recognize and didn’t ask about.

They didn’t talk much anymore. Not unless they had to. And that was its own kind of peace. For the first time in a long while, the house didn’t feel full of tension. It felt like what it was, three people in transition, orbiting the same space, all of them carrying endings they hadn’t quite let go of yet.

Louis kept strumming, letting the quiet fill the spaces between chords. Maggie paused mid-fold, hands resting on the edge of a half-folded towel. The steady rhythm of the room slowed for just a breath, like it knew the question before it came.

“You haven’t played in a long time,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice wasn’t sharp. Just observant. Familiar, in that way that only years of shared history could make it.

Louis didn’t stop strumming. Not right away. Just let his fingers drift through the tail end of a lazy chord, watching how the light caught on the strings. Then he spoke, quiet and even. “Didn’t have a reason to.”

That earned a shift in the air. Maggie’s hands moved again, slower now as she laid the towel down. “And what’s the reason tonight?” she asked.

Louis didn’t answer at first. His fingers stilled, resting lightly on the frets, but his eyes didn’t leave the golden horizon out the window. A breeze came in carrying the smell of dust and wild sage. Harry said nothing, but Louis could feel him listening, just behind the quiet clink of the spoon hitting the pot. He glanced over his shoulder, just briefly. Met Harry’s gaze. Something passed between them.

He strummed once. Let the chord hang.

“Sometimes music just… shows up,” he said finally, not looking at her. “Felt like the air needed it.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either. Not the whole of it. Maggie didn’t push. Maybe she heard the edge in his voice. Maybe she already knew what the answer really was and didn’t want to face it, not with the sun setting and the stew thickening and the silence starting to settle in around them again. So she just nodded, barely, and kept folding.

Louis strummed again. Slower this time. And the chord sounded a little more like goodbye than it had before.

The next afternoon, the dust of a stranger’s arrival kicked up. Louis was already on the porch when he spotted the rider cresting the hill. It was a lean man on a tired-looking mule, saddlebags heavy and clinking. One of those passersby who showed up like clockwork this time of year. Traders, mostly. Some just lookin’ for water or a place to rest a night. Most didn’t stay long. Louis made sure of that.

He stepped down from the porch, boots thudding against the packed dirt, eyes narrowing as the rider drew close. Harry followed a few paces behind, quiet, calm, but watchful.

The man raised a hand in greeting, a lopsided smile beneath a scruffy beard. “Afternoon. Name’s Clive. Heard there’s usually some nice families willin’ to trade out this way! Maybe share a bite, some supplies, things I might be low on. Got tin goods, dry herbs, few old tools, if you’re in need.”

Maggie appeared from around the side of the house, wiping her hands on her apron, smile already too easy. “Well, look at you,” she said, bright and warm. “Bet you’ve seen more of the world than most ever get the chance to.”

Clive chuckled. “That might be true, ma’am.”

Louis didn’t smile. He didn’t like strangers acting too familiar before they’d earned it and he liked the way Maggie’s voice softened even less. He stepped forward, keeping himself between the trader and Harry. “You travelin’ through or lookin’ to stay a night?”

Clive glanced around, catching the guarded edge in Louis’ tone. “Just passin’ through,” he said. “No trouble.”

Harry stayed close, arms crossed, his presence quiet but firm. No puffed chest, no false bravado. Just a man standing beside another who’d learned not to trust smiles that came too quick.

Louis nodded slowly. “You can water your mule. And I’ll take a look at what you’re carryin’. After that, you move on.”

Clive tipped his hat. “Fair enough.”

Maggie opened her mouth like she wanted to say something more, maybe offer coffee or a seat, but Louis caught her eye, and whatever it was died before it came out. She turned, heading back toward the house, jaw a little too tight for someone who claimed to be fine with how things had changed.

Louis watched Clive dismount, watched the way his eyes scanned the barn, the fences, the bunkhouse. And without looking back, he said, “You see him wander too far, keep your eyes sharp.”

Harry smirked slightly. “Already on it.”

Clive wiped a line of sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, glancing toward the house. His smile hadn’t slipped once since he rode up; still easy, still polite. There was something just a little too smooth in the way he held himself. Something too careful.

“Wouldn’t mind a glass of water,” Clive said casually. “And if you don’t mind, I’ve been on the trail awhile. Could I use the restroom before I head on?”

Louis didn’t move right away. Didn’t say yes. Didn’t say no. Just studied him for a second, chin ticking slightly. Then: “Harry, why don’t you walk him in?”

Harry gave a small nod, the ghost of something unreadable in his expression. “Sure.”

Clive gave them both a grin, all teeth. “Appreciate it.”

Louis watched as they stepped up onto the porch together, Harry walking just behind him; close enough to be polite, close enough to be a warning if it needed to be.

He lingered by Clive’s mule, letting his eyes drift over the goods laid out on the side satchel and the few packs strapped to the saddle. Most of it was typical trader fare; dried goods, a few old tools, some books with half the pages worn down by rain and dust. A rusted horseshoe. A chipped enamel coffee pot. He wasn’t much for bartering. Never had been. But he figured they could spare a few sacks of grain for something they might actually use. He set aside a small tin of beeswax polish, a bundle of sage wrapped in twine, and—on impulse—a small brass pocket mirror, with a cracked edge and a flower pressed into the back. Pretty in an old way.

Something about it made Louis think of wildflowers blooming where they shouldn’t. He set it aside and kept looking. Then his hand brushed against something soft. A folded square of dark fabric. Crimson, sun-faded around the edges, like it had seen too many years of sun and sweat. He picked it up, letting it unfurl between his hands.

A bandana. Ordinary, almost. Except it wasn’t. There was a stitch in the corner that was small, hand-done, almost missed if you didn’t know to look for it. And something about the weight of it in his hand made Louis’ spine shudder. He didn’t know why. Didn’t know what he was remembering. Old instinct. Cold and buried. The way something in your gut could scream long before your mind caught up.

Clive and Harry rounded the side of the house a few minutes later, the late sun slanting behind them, casting long shadows over the dirt yard. Clive was smiling again.

“Much obliged,” he said, eyes flicking between the goods in Louis’ hands he had gathered. “Fine choices. You’ve got a good eye.”

Louis didn’t smile back. He stepped over to the grain sacks, hoisted one with a grunt, and dropped it near Clive’s mule. “That should cover it,” he said. “Fair trade?”

Clive tipped his head. “More than fair.” His gaze lingered a little too long on the house behind them. “Nice place you got here.”

He didn’t answer, just wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped back, positioning himself subtly between Clive and the front steps. Clive didn’t press it. Just smiled again, that same slippery grin like oil on water. He reached down, threw the grain on the back of the mule, adjusting a strap on his saddlebag.

“Well,” he drawled, “I’ll be on my way. Sun’s got a head start on me.”

Harry still hadn’t said anything. He stood a few feet away, quiet and unreadable, arms crossed over his chest. But his posture was stiff. Watchful. Louis could see it in his jaw, in the way his fingers tapped once against his bicep like a tell.

Clive tipped his hat as he mounted. “Hope the season treats you kind.”

Louis just gave a nod. No smile. No well-wishes in return.

Clive clicked his tongue, turned his mule, and started off at a lazy trot back down the trail he’d come from, back into the heat and dust and silence. Only once he was past the fence line did Louis exhale, just a little. Then he looked to Harry.

Harry’s jaw worked for a second. “You know him?”

Louis shook his head. “No.”

He watched Harry for another beat, eyes narrowed slightly, like he was still reading something under Harry’s skin. The way his shoulders were still tight, the way his voice had that guarded edge now.

Harry finally spoke, voice quiet. “He was too friendly. Didn’t feel right. Gave me the creeps.”

Louis nodded once. He felt it too. That kind of polite that wasn’t meant to make you feel at ease but to disarm you. He’d seen men like that before. Smiles like knives. “Yeah,” Louis muttered, mostly to himself. “Me too.”

Maggie’s voice broke through the quiet, clear and clipped from the porch steps. “Lunch is ready.” She didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and disappeared back inside like it didn’t matter whether anyone followed.

Louis didn’t move right away. He waited until the door swung shut behind her, then reached into his pocket. He turned to Harry. “Here,” he said, voice low.

Harry blinked. “What’s that?”

Louis held it out, thumb brushing the edge of it. “Just somethin’ I picked up off that trader.”

Harry didn’t take it right away. He looked at Louis, brow drawn slightly. “For me?”

Louis shrugged, but there was a curl of something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Figure you’ve earned somethin’ pretty.”

Harry finally took it, cautious fingers until the brass mirror slid into his palm. It was small, oval-shaped, scratched but catching the light like it had a little magic left in it. The flower on the back glowed faintly in the sun. For a second, Harry didn’t say anything. Just looked down at it like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to have something like this. Like it had been meant for someone softer than him. Then his ears went pink.

Louis bit back a grin. “You like it?”

Harry nodded, quick and bashful. “It’s… yeah. I mean—yeah, I do. I really do.”

Louis chuckled under his breath, watching him turn it over in his hands like it might slip away if he didn’t keep looking at it. “You’re terrible at hidin’ when you’re flattered.”

“I am not,” Harry mumbled, still flushed.

“You are,” Louis said, smug now. “It’s cute.”

Harry shot him a look but he didn’t let go of the mirror. Not even when Louis brushed a knuckle down his wrist before finally, finally heading for the house. And Louis? He didn’t stop smiling.

The house was quiet after lunch. Maggie had taken a basket of laundry out toward the creek line, muttering something about needing cleaner water than what the pump could give. Louis didn’t argue. He watched her disappear into the trees and only half-felt the guilt that usually crept up his spine when she walked away. It was getting quieter, that guilt. Like everything else.

Inside, the air was still warm from the stove, and Harry stood by the sink with the sleeves of his shirt pushed high on his arms, washing the last of the dishes. He was watching Harry. The way his shoulders flexed when he scrubbed. The way his curls had started to grow longer, sticking to the back of his neck from the heat. The way he swayed just a little with the rhythm of the hum coming from his lips, hips moving in a way that made Louis feel like the room had narrowed down to just him.

Harry looked over his shoulder and caught him staring. And instead of looking away, he grinned. “You gonna stand there or are you going to help?”

Louis cocked a brow. “Wasn’t aware I was needed.”

Harry turned back to the sink, but not before he said, over his shoulder, real casual, “Not needed. Just…wanted.”

Louis’ mouth went dry. He stepped forward, meaning to grab a dish towel or say something sharp in return but then Harry reached up to the top shelf for a clean bowl. The stretch pulled his shirt tight across his back, riding up just enough to show the barest slip of skin at his waistband. Tanned. Smooth. Tempting. It was a small thing. But it did something to Louis. Fast.

Harry turned slightly, side-eyeing him as he set the bowl down. He was smirking now. “Something wrong?”

Louis didn’t answer. Didn’t even pretend to be amused. He stepped in close enough to feel the heat coming off Harry’s back, his hand landing low on Harry’s hip. “You think you’re real funny, don’t you?”

Harry stilled for just a breath. Not out of fear, not hesitation, but something softer. Like he was waiting. Like he knew whatever came next wasn’t going to be rushed. Louis’ hand stayed on his hip, fingers splayed wide like he was anchoring himself there, holding steady in the middle of the heat they’d been pretending not to drown in. Then, quiet and slow, Louis leaned in. Pressed a kiss to the curve of Harry’s shoulder, just above where the fabric of his shirt clung to the damp skin. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… there. Gentle. Sure.

Harry let out a breath. He turned slightly in Louis’ hold, just enough to glance back, eyes soft now. Still bright, still teasing, but melted around the edges with something deeper.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” he murmured, voice low. “Thought I was about to get wrangled into some hay again.”

Louis huffed a laugh against his shoulder, kissed him again, just a little higher this time. “You’re trouble,” he said, like it was a fact. “But you’re good.”

Harry blinked at that. His smile tilted, not cocky now, just tender. “You think so?”

Louis nodded, chin brushing the slope of Harry’s neck. “I know so.”

There was a beat where neither of them moved. Then Harry reached back, found Louis’ hand again, and laced their fingers together; wet dishwater and all.

“You’re getting soft on me,” he said, grin returning.

Louis kissed his shoulder one more time, slow and unbothered. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Harry leaned into him with that same slow confidence he always carried like he knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t feel the need to rush it. Just pressed his back gently to Louis’ chest, subtle. But it was enough.

Louis’ breath hitched, fingers tightening slightly where they curled at Harry’s waist. He didn’t mean for it to happen. He just… reacted. Like his body had been waiting for this kind of invitation, this kind of warmth, for longer than he was willing to admit. He let his nose brush against the crook of Harry’s neck, breathed him in slow; floral, sweat, something sweeter underneath. The scent of someone who belonged out here but had never once grown rough from it. Someone soft. Still.

“You keep pressin’ back like that,” Louis murmured, voice barely a breath, “and you’re gonna get more than dishwater on your hands.”

Harry made a sound low in his throat that was half a laugh, half a challenge. His hips shifted, the barest roll, a gentle grind that felt more like suggestion than pressure. His voice dropped when he spoke. “That a promise, cowboy?”

Louis didn’t answer with words.His hand slid lower, his thumb brushing the edge of the waistband again, only this time with purpose. His lips dragged slow along the base of Harry’s neck, open-mouthed now, warm and reverent. Not rushed. Not rough. But far from innocent. Harry’s head tipped to the side without being asked. The teasing had gone quiet. The kitchen felt warmer now from the closeness, the electricity between them crackling like it had finally found dry kindling.

Louis pressed another kiss to Harry’s skin, then whispered, voice rough and wrecked, “We…should go.”

Harry didn’t ask where. Didn’t need to. He just turned in Louis’ arms, eyes dark and full of something he’d been holding back too long, and nodded once, slow and sure.

They didn’t speak as they left the kitchen, they just moved in sync, like the weight of what had finally broken open between them made words too clumsy, too small. Louis led him to the back of the house, through the narrow hallway to the room no one used much anymore. Quiet, shaded from the heat, the window cracked just enough to let in the scent of warm pine and dry grass. The door clicked shut behind them like the world had been folded into something private.

Then it was just breath, and hands, and the weight of everything they’d both been holding back for too long.

Louis pressed Harry back against the edge of the bed, hands framing his jaw, eyes locked on his like he couldn’t look away. Like he didn’t want to.

Harry grinned softly all crooked and cocky, but flushed now, breath short. “You want me?”

Louis answered him with a kiss. Harder this time. Deeper. Not a question, not a maybe, just yes. Yes to this, yes to him, yes to all of it.

Harry pulled him closer by the hips, fingers finding the loops of Louis’ belt again like they had in the barn but this time with no one around to stop them. No one to overhear. No reason to hold back. Louis groaned low into his mouth when Harry’s hips met his as they hit the bed, the friction sparking fast, heady. His hand slid up under Harry’s shirt, dragging rough over warm skin and muscle, feeling the tension coil there like it was made for his hands.

Harry’s voice broke when Louis kissed down his neck again, open-mouthed. “God, you—”

“Need you,” Louis murmured. “Fuck, sweetheart.”

Harry shivered beneath the word sweetheart like it reached somewhere deeper than touch ever could. His hands moved instinctively, sliding up Louis’ back under his shirt, nails scraping lightly just to feel the tremble it drew from him. Like he needed proof Louis was as undone as he was.

And he was. Louis had spent years gripping the reins of the land, of his life, of his heart and now he felt like they’d finally slipped from his fingers, and he didn’t want them back. He only wanted this.

Harry’s breath hitched again when Louis leaned in close, pressing their bodies together, as his thighs met on each side of his hips. There was no rush to it just intensity. A slow burn finally allowed to catch fire. His mouth hovered at Harry’s jaw, teeth grazing skin, lips tracing a path to his ear.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice low and rough.

Harry exhaled shakily, hips lifting into him in answer. They didn’t need to ask what they wanted, their hands did the talking now.

Louis pushed Harry’s shirt higher, fingertips skating across his ribs, coaxing every hitch of breath, every whispered curse. Harry’s own hands went lower, undoing Louis’ belt with a focused urgency that made his stomach tighten. There was a pause when skin met bare and Harry’s eyes fluttered open, met Louis’, wide and dark and wrecked. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Louis kissed him again, slow and sure, and then slid his hand between them.

The gasp Harry gave him when his fingers wrapped around his cock was sharp and immediate, muffled by the kiss, and Louis swallowed it down like water after a long drought. He stroked him slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t just about getting off, but about giving.

Harry broke away to breathe, forehead pressing to Louis’ as his hips moved up against his hand. His voice came out strained, barely there. “Louis—”

Louis’ name in Harry’s mouth didn’t sound like it ever had before. It wasn’t teasing, or casual, or a whisper from across the yard; it was reverent. Raw. Wrecked with pleasure and trust and something deeper, something that cut through both of them like lightning through dry fields. They moved in tandem.

No words, no commands, just instinct and want, mutual and deep. Louis’ hand wrapped around Harry with the kind of care that came from knowing exactly how precious this was. And Harry, eyes dark and mouth parted, reached for Louis at the same time, his touch confident and familiar now, like he’d been dreaming of this long before either of them admitted it out loud. Their foreheads pressed together, breath shared in the small space between them, and they stroked each other slowly. Matching rhythm, matching pace, like they were syncing up to the same heartbeat.

Louis let out a soft groan, the sound vibrating against Harry’s lips as they kissed through it, messy and breathless. His other hand gripped Harry’s hip, grounding him, steadying them both through the mounting pressure.

Harry’s voice cracked in his throat, head falling back as he whispered, “God, you feel good—” and Louis chased the sound with another kiss, rougher this time, lips dragging down his throat.

Their hips were grinding in lazy rhythm, skin slick with sweat, hands tightening. Louis felt Harry’s breath catch in his throat, felt the tremble in his hand as they moved together, closer, tighter, bodies pressed so close on the bed it was impossible to tell where one of them ended and the other began. They stayed forehead-to-forehead, mouths brushing with every uneven breath. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, lashes damp with sweat, his hand still working Louis with the kind of rhythm that spoke of both urgency and reverence, like he wasn’t just trying to make him come, but trying to hold him steady while he did.

Louis groaned low in his chest, voice gone rough. “God, Harry—”

“I know,” Harry whispered, barely holding himself together. “Me too.”

They were right there. Caught in the middle of something raw and real, something neither of them had let themselves need out loud until now. And even as the heat crested—spines arching, fingers tightening, mouths catching on skin—they didn’t look away.

Louis watched him through it. Watched the way Harry’s mouth dropped open, watched the flush climb up his chest and throat, watched the way he held on, desperate and quiet, like letting go meant something more than just release.

When it finally hit, it was all breath and sound; low, wrecked gasps swallowed against each other’s skin. Louis’ hand didn’t stop moving until he felt Harry shudder against him, until his own body answered with a sharp, grounding release that left him shaking, his forehead pressing tight to Harry’s shoulder. They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, hands slowing, the silence afterward thick and warm and full of everything that had gone unspoken for far too long.

Louis couldn’t stop. Even as the heat settled into the quiet hum of after and their limbs were heavy, their bodies still trembling from the weight of it, he leaned in and kissed Harry again. Not on the mouth at first, but everywhere else. His temple. His cheek. The edge of his jaw. The spot just beneath his ear where Harry always tilted his head without thinking. Slow, reverent kisses, soft with gratitude and something dangerously close to awe.

He could still feel the slick warmth between them, the mess neither of them had bothered to clean yet, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the way Harry looked right now; flushed, breathless, eyes glassy and gentle.

Louis cupped his face in both hands, thumbs brushing over damp skin, and kissed him again. Slow and deep, like it wasn’t about want anymore. Like it was about saying thank you, and I’m here, and I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in years. Harry made a soft sound in the back of his throat, one of those broken little laughs that came when you didn’t know whether to cry or kiss back harder.

“I’m starting to think you like me or something,” he murmured, voice rasped out, wrecked from kissing and coming and feeling too much.

Louis just kissed the corner of his mouth, then his nose, then his forehead. “I like you,” he said, quiet and certain, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “More than I know what to do with.”

And Harry all sweet, wrecked, and still catching his breath just smiled and pulled him close again, like he wasn’t about to let go for a long, long time.

They lay there for a minute longer still tangled, still half out of breath, until Louis finally stirred, brushing a kiss against Harry’s temple before sitting back on his knees. His shirt was bunched halfway up his chest, his belt undone, his jeans… well, they needed tending.

Harry blinked up at him, lazy and flushed, lips kiss-swollen, hair a complete mess. Louis couldn’t help it. He reached down and ran his fingers through those curls, smoothing them back like it made any difference.

“We should clean up,” he murmured.

Harry groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t want to.”

“Didn’t ask if you wanted to,” Louis said, smirking a little despite himself. “Just know Maggie’ll be back soon, and you don’t exactly look subtle.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “Neither do you.”

Louis looked down, his shirt rumpled, neck and back probably a mess of marks, belt still undone. “Shit.”

They moved quickly after that, laughing under their breath, whispering curses and fumbling with buttons, trying to fix the disaster they’d made of each other in time. Harry tossed Louis a cloth from the washbasin, and Louis shot him a look that was half-grateful, half-you owe me for this later.

Just as Louis was tucking in his shirt, running a hand through his hair in some last-ditch effort to not look like he’d just gotten off with a man against a guest bed, he heard the door.

Maggie.

Her footsteps were light, like she didn’t want to be heard, but the door creaked anyway. Louis turned just in time to see her set the basket down near the front.

“Water’s clearer out by the creek,” she said flatly, not looking at either of them.

Harry walked to the sink again, sleeves rolled back down, scrubbing something invisible off a plate like his life depended on it. His face was a little too pink. Louis stood near the window, arms crossed. Casual, maybe, if you didn’t look too close. Maggie squinted between them for a half-second, brow knitting faintly.

Louis gave her a nod. “Appreciate it.”

She didn’t answer, just turned and headed toward the back room, her basket half-empty.

Louis held his breath. Harry bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t move.

The door clicked shut behind her.

A beat of silence.

Then Harry glanced over, eyes dancing, and mouthed, we’re so bad at this.

Louis almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, he shook his head and muttered, just loud enough for Harry to hear, “You’re lucky I like you.”

Harry’s grin widened. “I know.”

And they both pretended like the air didn’t still taste like heat and sweat and something dangerously close…to falling in love.

—

The light outside had faded to a burnt orange, shadows stretching long across the floorboards. The quiet had settled in comfortable now. Just the hum of crickets starting outside and the occasional creak of the house cooling down for the night.

Harry and Louis moved around the kitchen in a rhythm that had somehow become natural; tidying up, wiping the table, setting things back where they belonged. Their shoulders brushed often. Sometimes on accident. Sometimes not.

Louis had just finished drying the last plate when Harry leaned against the counter beside him, drying a spoon slowly like it was the most important task on earth.

“I ever tell you about that weed that used to grow in my mum’s garden?” Harry asked, voice low and amused.

Louis glanced sideways at him, skeptical. “Sounds like a thrilling tale already.”

Harry grinned. “Don’t be rude. It was the bane of her existence. Creeping Charlie, I think it was called. Real stubborn little thing. Kept taking over the roses no matter what she did. She’d dig it out one day and it’d be back with a vengeance two mornings later. Like it was mocking her.”

Louis chuckled, leaning his hip against the counter. “Creepin’ Charlie sounds like a bastard.”

“Oh, he was,” Harry said, nodding solemnly. “She hated it with a passion. I swear, I thought she was gonna salt the whole bloody garden at one point just to prove a point.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Louis muttered under his breath, nudging him lightly with his elbow.

Harry grinned wider. “Are you comparing me to a weed?”

Louis shrugged. “I’m sayin’ you showed up where I wasn’t expectin’, got under my skin, and now I can’t seem to get rid of you.”

Harry turned to him fully now, the spoon forgotten in his hand. “And are you trying to get rid of me?”

Louis looked at him, slow and serious for a moment. Then, with a soft smirk: “Not even a little.”

Harry leaned in a bit, crowding his space just slightly, eyes playful. “Good. ‘Cause I’m real bad at taking a hint.”

Louis reached out and plucked the towel from Harry’s hand, tossing it toward the sink without breaking eye contact. “That right?”

Harry nodded. “Yup.”

They stood there for a moment, close and warm, the kitchen dim now but still glowing around the edges from the last bit of sunset. The air between them was all tease and tension again, but softer now. Easy.

“Bet your mum never figured out how to kill that Creepin’ Charlie,” Louis said after a beat.

Harry shook his head. “Nah. She just learned to plant around it. Let it live where it wanted and stopped fightin’ it.”

Louis’ expression softened. He didn’t say anything for a second. Then: “Smart woman.”

Harry nodded, his voice a little quieter now. “Yeah. She was.”

They stood like that for a while, not needing to fill the quiet, both pretending they didn’t notice how close their hands were on the countertop.

Eventually, Louis broke the silence, voice light again. “Come on. Let’s lock up.”

Harry bumped their shoulders gently together. “Yes, sir.”

Louis was double-checking the latch on the back door, jaw working like it always did when he was lost in thought, when he heard a soft rustle behind him.

He didn’t turn right away, just finished his quiet inspection and made sure the bolt was snug, and then stood upright, rolling his shoulder with a tired exhale.

And that’s when he saw it.

Harry.

Wearing his hat.

Perched right on top of his curls, a little crooked, and absolutely ridiculous. He was standing near the kitchen table, casually pretending he wasn’t doing anything at all, but the way his mouth was twitching at the corners gave him away.

Louis blinked. Then tipped his head slightly, brows raised, mouth already curling into a smirk. “The hell you doin’, Styles?”

Harry turned slowly, hands in his back pockets, like he wasn’t guilty at all. “What?” he said, eyes wide and innocent. “Just trying it on.”

Louis snorted. “You look like a lamb tryin’ to play wolf.”

Harry laughed at that, chin dipping as he reached up to adjust the brim. “Figured I’d see what it feels like, being a brooding rancher. Tragic backstory. Slow jaw. Sunburned hands. All that.”

“Mm-hm.” Louis crossed the room toward him, eyes sweeping over him once. “You look cute.” Harry grinned, and Louis added, with a mock-stern glance, “Too posh for it, though. You got too much skin left unfreckled.”

Harry squinted dramatically. “I can be weathered. Gimme a few more months.”

“Mm. Maybe.” Louis stepped in close to feel the warmth still clinging to Harry’s skin from the day. He reached out and took one of Harry’s hands, rough pad of his thumb brushing over the smoother knuckles. He glanced down at the hand for a moment, thoughtful, then back up to Harry’s eyes. “You know, there’s a rule about wearin’ another man’s hat.”

Harry blinked, eyes wide and playful behind the brim of the hat. “What kind of rule?”

Louis just smirked. Didn’t answer. Just held his gaze for a long, heavy beat.

Harry’s brows lifted, his mouth curling with curiosity. “No, seriously, what does it mean?”

Louis gave a slow shrug, letting his thumb drift up and down Harry’s wrist. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, come on.” Harry laughed, shaking his head. “You can’t say something all gravelly and mysterious and then not tell me. That’s not fair.”

Louis grinned, leaning in just enough for his breath to brush across Harry’s cheek. “You’ll learn one day.”

Harry groaned, exaggerated and dramatic. “You’re killing me.”

“That right?”

“Dead. Gone. Died of cowboy-related secrets.”

Louis snorted under his breath, stepping back just slightly, his fingers still curled loosely around Harry’s. His eyes flicked toward the quiet kitchen; the empty sink, the empty chairs, the silence. The kind of silence that only settled in when there was no one else home. Maggie had gone. Staying the night at David’s. The thought landed like a match striking dry wood. And before Harry could tease him again, Louis bent suddenly and wrapped an arm around his legs.

Harry yelped. “Louis!”

And then he was up. Slung right over Louis’ shoulder like a sack of flour, laughing breathlessly as he squirmed, completely useless in Louis’ grip. “You—you can’t just—I weigh more than I look!”

“You think I ain’t noticed?” Louis said, voice smug.

“Jesus—you’re strong for your age.”

Louis gave his thigh a playful slap. “Keep talkin’ like that, Styles, and I’ll drop you right in the water trough.”

Harry wriggled half-heartedly on Louis’ shoulder, palms pressing flat against his back. “Put me down, you brute; this is undignified!”

Louis snorted. “There it is. Undignified,” he mimicked in a posh accent, thick and dramatic. “God forbid the prince of Surrey gets hauled off like a sack o’ feed.”

“I’m not from Surrey!”

“You sound like you are.”

“I do not!” Harry protested, laughter still catching in his throat. “You’re just jealous ‘cause I know how to pronounce herb correctly.”

“Oh, I see,” Louis said, rounding the corner into the hall, boots thudding against the old wood. “Is that what this is? Maybe make some tea to soothe your bruised dignity?”

“Tea wouldn’t go amiss, actually,” Harry managed, twisting to peek at the path ahead, curls bouncing. “But not when you’re carting me off like livestock!”

Louis gave him a little bounce just to make him squeal again. “You know damn well you like it.”

“I absolutely do not,” Harry said, his voice tipping dangerously close to giggles again. “I’m protesting this entire process.”

“Mm-hmm,” Louis hummed, nodding like he was listening as they reached the bedroom door. “Well, unfortunately, complaints have to be filed in-person. With the management. In bed.”

Harry thumped the middle of his back with the side of his fist, breathless from laughing. “That’s convenient.”

Louis kicked the door open with the toe of his boot and stepped inside. The room smelled like cedar and old cotton. The sheets were half-made. The sun had gone low, casting soft blue light through the window, long shadows slipping up the floorboards like even the light knew it wasn’t supposed to interrupt. Louis eased Harry down, slow and careful, until his feet touched the floor. Their eyes met.

Harry was still grinning, still flushed from laughing, still wearing Louis’ hat crooked on his head. And Louis… Louis couldn’t believe this was real. That he got this laughter and heat and something sweet curling in his chest like it had every right to be there. Harry stood there, breath a little uneven from laughing, curls wild. The sunset lit the edges of him gold—cheekbones, lashes, the curve of his neck—like someone had dipped him in honey.

Louis felt the ache of it. That stupid, quiet ache he was still learning to carry. Not the sharp kind he’d grown used to that came with grief and guilt and anger, but the soft kind that asked nothing of him except to stay. To want. To let himself be happy.

“Well,” Harry said, breaking the silence with a grin, “you’ve abducted me, insulted my heritage, and denied me tea. What now, cowboy?”

Louis reached out and tugged the hat forward just enough to cover Harry’s eyes. “Now I fix your posture.”

Harry pushed it back up with a mock scowl, curls bouncing. “I’ll have you know I have excellent posture. I’m very well-aligned.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, stepping in close again, hands settling lightly at Harry’s waist. “I’ve noticed.”

Harry’s breath caught, but only for a moment. Then he slid his arms up and around Louis’ neck, easy and loose, tilting his head like he was considering something serious.

Louis watched the way Harry looked at him like he was a question already answered, like he was something worth lingering over. It made the space between them feel heavier than air, thick with everything they hadn’t said yet and everything they didn’t need to.

“You always look at people like that?” Louis asked, voice low, eyes searching.

Harry’s brows lifted just slightly, his grip tightening at the back of Louis’ neck. “Only the ones I don’t wanna forget.”

It hit Louis harder than it should’ve because he believed him. He breathed in, steadying himself on the curve of Harry’s waist, the familiar warmth beneath his palms. He wasn’t used to this kind of sweetness. Didn’t know where to put it. Couldn’t just laugh it off or walk away from it like he might’ve once. So he stayed. Let himself stay.

“I ever tell you I like the way you talk?” Louis murmured, leaning in, brushing his nose along Harry’s cheek.

“Whatever,” Harry grinned, lips close. “You like making fun of the way I talk.”

“That too,” Louis said, smiling against his skin. “But it’s grown on me.”

“Like mold?” Harry teased.

Louis laughed softly, his hands sliding around Harry’s back. “Nah. Like wildflowers.”

Harry pulled back just enough to look at him. “That’s disgustingly romantic of you.”

Louis gave him the faintest little push, one hand pressed at his sternum; not rough, not hurried, just guiding. And Harry let himself fall back into the bed with a soft, dramatic “Oof,” like he’d just been felled by a great force. He bounced once against the mattress and then settled, curls spilling against the pillow, Louis’ hat finally falling off his head.

Louis leaned over him, planting one hand on either side of Harry’s chest. “You know, for someone who gets dragged around the ranch like a sack of potatoes, you sure talk a lot of shit.”

Harry reached up and tugged Louis down by the shirt collar, lips brushing against his jaw. “It’s my only defense.”

Louis huffed a quiet laugh, then gave in and lowered himself fully, his body aligning along Harry’s like it belonged there. He shifted until his weight settled comfortably between Harry’s legs, his arms winding around him in a slow, sure hug. Not tight. Not possessive. Just close. Harry exhaled, long and quiet, his hands drifting to Louis’ back. One slid up, fingers tracing along his spine. The other settled low, right at the dip above his hip. Holding. Stroking. Familiar.

“You clingy?” Harry asked softly, his voice teasing but fond.

Louis hummed. “When I get the chance.”

They lay like that for a while, legs tangled, bodies pressed together, nothing between them but soft cotton and skin still warm from the day. The window was open just a crack, letting in the quiet sounds of dusk settle in for the night.

“I could get used to this,” Harry murmured, lips brushing Louis’ temple.

Louis let himself settle, cheek pressed just above Harry’s collarbone, where he could hear the rhythm of his heartbeat. Steady and warm beneath his ear like a secret being told without words. It grounded him. Reminded him that this, whatever they were building between whispered jokes and unspoken looks, was real. Not a daydream. Not a thing waiting to be taken away. Harry’s fingers never stopped moving. Small, absent strokes at the base of Louis’ neck. Over and over. Not asking for anything, just there. Present. Like a promise.

They stayed like that for a while. Quiet. Breathing the same air. Letting the day settle into their bones without rush or worry.

Then Harry broke the silence—not abruptly, not sharply. Just soft. “Can I ask you something?”

Louis didn’t lift his head. Just murmured into Harry’s skin, “Mmhm.”

Harry’s hand paused for a second, then resumed its slow movement. “What were you like… before all this?”

“All this?” Louis echoed, eyes still closed.

“The ranch. Maggie. The years you don’t talk about.”

Louis was quiet for a long time. Harry didn’t push. Didn’t even fidget. Just waited, like he always did, quiet and steady, the kind of patience that made Louis want to answer even the questions that hurt.

Finally, Louis pulled in a breath and let it out through his nose.

“I was mean,” he said, voice low. “And not the kind that makes you sharp. The kind that makes you small.”

Harry’s brows knit slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“I didn’t know how to let anything in. Got good at makin’ sure people didn’t try.” Louis shifted, finally glancing up at him. His voice stayed steady, but there was something in his eyes—tired, but open. “Didn’t know I had any softness left until you walked onto my damn porch like a stray dog with manners.”

Harry smiled faintly. “So I’m your rescue now?”

Louis gave a soft snort. “Somethin’ like that.”

There was another pause. Harry’s thumb brushed Louis’ jaw.

“You regret any of it?” he asked. “The time you lost?”

Louis hesitated, then said, “Only if I never got here. Only if I didn’t end up right where I am now.”

Harry didn’t say anything right away just leaned in and kissed the top of Louis’ head. A small thing. Gentle. Quiet.

But it cracked something open. Louis let the silence stretch again, even though he felt his throat go tight. He closed his eyes against Harry’s chest and spoke before he could talk himself out of it.

“I did things I’m not proud of,” Louis murmured. “Things I wouldn’t repeat. We stole. Broke things. Broke people, sometimes. We thought if we were angry enough, it made us right.”

He pulled back a little then, just enough to look up at Harry.

“But Tuck…he always had this line in his head about loyalty. About how we’d take care of each other if the world wouldn’t. And I bought into it. ‘Cause I didn’t have anything else.”

Harry’s eyes were full now. Soft, sad, and steady.

Louis swallowed. “But that loyalty… it turned into control. Violence. That gang stopped feelin’ like survival and started feelin’ like prison. And by the time I figured that out, I’d already helped him hurt people who didn’t deserve it.”

He stayed quiet for a moment after that like the words were still weighing themselves out inside him, still deciding if they could bear the air. Harry didn’t press. He just let his thumb drift slowly along the curve of Louis’ jaw, as if to say I’m here. Take your time.

Louis exhaled through his nose, eyes distant now, but not empty. Remembering. “There was a man once. Rancher outside Laredo. Older. Had nothin’ but a stretch of land and a dog that wouldn’t stop barkin’. We were lookin’ for shelter for the night, and Tuck said we’d pay him. Said we’d work for it. But when the man said no—just wanted us gone—Tuck didn’t take it kindly.” His voice dropped lower, like even the walls shouldn’t hear it. “I stood there while they roughed him up. I didn’t lift a hand, but I didn’t stop it either. I just…watched. Told myself we needed the place, that it wasn’t my call. That’s the thing about doin’ bad. You start small. Tell yourself it’s just survival. But before you know it, you’re standin’ there quiet while somebody screams, and it’s your silence that does the most damage.”

Harry’s hand had stopped moving. It just held him now, still and sure.

Louis went on, like the dam had cracked and wouldn’t stop spilling. “There was a kid. Barely seventeen. Got picked up by Tuck when he was on the run. Name was Eli. Scrawny thing, real smart. Used to read books in the middle of nowhere, said it made him feel like he was anywhere else.” He swallowed hard. “Tuck didn’t like him much. Said he talked too much. Acted soft. I tried to look out for him when I could, but I didn’t do it loud enough. Not enough to make a difference.”

Louis’ voice cracked.

“One day he just… disappeared. No goodbye. No word. And I knew. I knew. But I didn’t ask. ‘Cause I already knew the answer.” Louis’ voice went hoarse at the edges. The kind of roughness that wasn’t from shouting but from years of carrying something in his throat and never letting it out. “I told myself back then that I’d square it up someday. Make it even. Do enough good to balance it out. But you don’t ever balance it out, Harry. You just get older, and you wake up in a bed you don’t recognize, and you’re still carryin’ it with you.”

Harry’s thumb brushed along his jaw again, gentle, but Louis didn’t lift his head.

“I stood there and let it happen,” he went on, softer now. “I let Eli vanish. I let that rancher bleed. I let so many people suffer. And when it finally hit me what I’d become, I didn’t walk away ‘cause I was brave. I walked away ‘cause I was too damn scared to look in the mirror.”

His eyes shut tight, his forehead resting against Harry’s shoulder like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I don’t deserve this,” Louis said, voice barely a whisper. “This bed. This roof. You. Any of it. I built a life outta someone else’s pain. Maggie was just another thing I thought I could fix. This ranch, this land—I thought if I worked it hard enough it’d wash me clean. But it never did. I just kept gettin’ dirtier.”

Harry’s fingers slid up into his hair, combing through it slowly. Still no judgment. Still no flinch. Just that steady presence that had always undone him. “Louis…” Harry said softly. “Look at me.”

Louis hesitated, then lifted his head.

“You’re not that man anymore,” Harry said. “You’re the man sitting here telling me the truth when you could’ve kept it buried. You’re the man who stitched me up. Who came back. Who didn’t leave me.” His voice went quieter still. “That is the man I stayed for.”

The words landed heavy. Not like a blow. Like a hand on his heart. Louis blinked, jaw trembling. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just reached out and took Harry’s wrist, pressing it flat to his chest like he needed him to feel the heartbeat there, to know it was still working. Harry’s hand stayed right where Louis placed it, steady and warm over his heart, like he wasn’t just feeling the rhythm but keeping it going. Louis didn’t pull away. Didn’t hide. Didn’t try to laugh it off, like he might’ve done once. He just let himself be held.

There was a silence that followed—thick but soft, like the weight of all that grief had finally been set down between them instead of carried alone. It wasn’t gone. It wouldn’t ever be. But it was seen now. Shared. And Louis didn’t feel hollow in the telling like he expected. He felt… lighter. Not forgiven. Not fixed. But known. And still wanted.

Harry leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple. Not out of pity. Not out of trying to hush him. Just affection. Deep, real, simple affection. “You know what I see when I look at you?”

Louis swallowed hard, not trusting his voice. Just shook his head.

Harry’s hand slid from his chest to cup his cheek. “I see a man who kept going. Who got out when most don’t. Who looked the past in the eye and chose not to be it anymore. That takes more than goodness, Louis. That takes strength. That takes courage.”

Louis’ jaw trembled again, but this time, he didn’t turn his face away. He let Harry hold him there. Let himself be held.

“Maybe I don’t deserve you either,” Harry added, voice gentler now, his thumb sweeping once along Louis’ cheekbone. “But we’ve got each other anyway. So let’s stop arguing with it and just be here.”

Louis breathed out shakily, some wounded sound caught in his throat. And then he laughed. Just a little. It wasn’t sharp or bitter, like the kind he used to cover things up. It was soft. Like he’d forgotten for a long time what it meant to be held and not judged, to be seen and not turned away. Like it had caught him off guard that someone like Harry, all light and edges worn gentle, had chosen to stay.

He shook his head a little, resting his brow against Harry’s, voice rough with emotion. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

Harry smiled, lips brushing his. “Dangerous how?”

Louis let out a breath that almost passed for a sigh. “You make me believe things I thought were gone.”

They stayed there for a long while pressed together, wrapped up in each other like it was the only thing keeping the rest of the world out. Crickets picked up somewhere outside. The last light was gone now, swallowed by the slow stretch of night, but neither of them moved to turn on a lantern.

Louis’ thumb traced lazy circles over Harry’s back, and Harry’s fingers stayed in his hair like he couldn’t quite stop touching him. And maybe he couldn’t.

“You wanna know something?” Harry said eventually, voice soft.

Louis shifted, murmuring, “Yeah?”

Harry’s voice was barely louder than a whisper. Just enough to carry through the quiet between them. “I think,” he said slowly, “that maybe you were always meant to be loved like this.”

Louis froze, breath caught mid-exhale.

“I think someone should’ve held you years ago. Should’ve looked at you and said, ‘You’re not broken, you’re just tired. Let me help you carry it.’”

The words landed like a stone dropped in still water. Gentle, but rippling all the way through him. Louis’ throat worked around a sound he didn’t let out, didn’t dare to. His eyes stung, vision blurring at the edges before he could stop it, and he clenched his jaw to keep it in. Keep it together. Louis blinked hard, willing the burn behind his eyes to settle. It didn’t. If anything, it swelled.

He tried to say something. Anything.

But nothing came out.

Because how the hell were you supposed to respond to that? To being seen so clearly and still held like you were worth something? Not just tolerated. Not just forgiven. But loved—on purpose. Like maybe all the broken pieces made him easier to hold, not harder.

He stared at Harry for a long moment, his lips parting once, then closing again. He looked away—just for a second—but Harry’s hand came up, fingers curling gently under his chin, guiding his face back.

“Don’t look away,” Harry said softly.

And Louis didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Harry held his gaze, unwavering. Not with force. Not with pity. Just with that same quiet insistence he always had—that steady, rooted patience that never asked more than Louis could give, but never let him run either.

“You deserve softness,” Harry said gently.

The words landed like a slow tide against stone—patient, relentless, certain.

Louis blinked again, slower this time. Like the weight behind those words had finally cracked something in him wide open.

So Harry leaned in and kissed him again—light at first, then firmer when Louis didn’t pull away. When he sighed into it, like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

When they broke apart again, their foreheads stayed pressed together.

They stayed like that, suspended in the kind of stillness that didn’t feel heavy—just full. Of breath, of quiet, of the kind of closeness that didn’t ask for more than what was already given.

Louis’ hand slipped to the back of Harry’s neck, thumb tracing slow circles at the base of his hairline. Just touching. Just staying. His eyes were still closed, but his whole body had softened—like something deep inside had finally unclenched.

Harry’s voice broke through the hush, barely a whisper. “You with me?”

Louis nodded slowly, a brush of movement that let their brows press together.

“I’m with you,” he murmured, the words caught somewhere between a promise and a prayer.

Harry smiled faintly, eyes fluttering open to study him in the dark. “Good.”

They didn’t speak after that. They didn’t need to. Louis leaned in, pressed a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth slow, like he was learning how to be gentle for the first time in his life, and then curled closer, wrapping an arm around his waist as they shifted down into the pillows. And there, tangled up in each other, no ghosts between them, no weight but what they’d chosen to carry together, they finally let themselves rest.

Chapter Text

Louis woke first. He always did.

Body trained by years of ranch rhythm and quiet dread. His mind clicked on with the sky still gray, and for once, there was no weight waiting for him. No panic about cattle out past the fence line, no ache in his back from a busted bunkhouse mattress, no shouting in his head from dreams he didn’t ask for.

Just warmth.

Harry. Lying on his stomach, one arm bent up under the pillow, curls a mess over his face, lips parted slightly like he hadn’t stirred once all night. There was a faint line on his cheek from the edge of the sheet, and Louis had never in his life felt something so goddamn tender toward another person.

He could’ve moved. Could’ve slid out of bed, pulled on his boots, gone to get started on feed and gates and the hundred other things that would fill the day.

But he didn’t. He stayed, head propped on his elbow, hand resting lightly over Harry’s back, thumb brushing faintly over warm skin. Just watching. Just letting himself have this.

Because there’d been a time when he’d wake from sleep and forget what softness felt like. Forget what it meant to wake up next to someone who wasn’t already halfway out the door. But Harry wasn’t leaving. And Louis wasn’t rushing him out.

Louis let out a slow breath, barely audible, like even the sound might wake him. But Harry didn’t stir. He just kept sleeping like he knew he was safe. Like his body believed it. Louis’ hand drifted down the slope of his spine, pausing where the sheet dipped across the small of his back. Skin warm, soft, dotted with freckles he wanted to memorize. He didn’t need anything more than this. Didn’t want more. He just wanted to stay.

“Look at you,” he murmured under his breath, so quiet it didn’t even reach the pillow. “Just lyin’ there, makin’ a fool outta me.”

Harry shifted, not fully waking, but his brows twitched slightly. A soft sound escaped him halfway between a hum and a sigh and Louis smiled without meaning to.

He leaned in, pressed the faintest kiss to Harry’s shoulder, lips barely brushing skin. He didn’t want to wake him. Not yet. Let the morning wait. Let the chores wait. Let the world go on turning without them for just a little while longer.

For once in his life, Louis didn’t want to get up and fix things. Didn’t want to run ahead of the mess. He just wanted to be still.

He pressed another kiss, this one just beneath Harry’s shoulder blade, where the skin dipped gently with breath. Then he rested his forehead there too, eyes slipping closed, like he could sink into the quiet if he just stayed still enough.

The room was dim, lit only by the pale edge of sunrise threading through the curtains, just enough to outline the shape of Harry’s body in the sheets. Bare shoulder, narrow waist, legs tangled up like he owned the whole bed. And maybe he did. Maybe he owned Louis too. Or some part of him, anyway. The part that had always been too stubborn to admit he wanted anything more than a quiet life and a long road.

He could’ve laughed at that now. How small his wants had been. How narrow his world had felt before Harry showed up like he’d been born out of the land itself. Soft in the exact way Louis didn’t know he needed.

Louis let his hand wander again, tracing the faint curve of Harry’s spine, up and back down, slow and quiet, like playing a song he didn’t want to end.

Harry murmured something then, sleep-heavy and slurred, but Louis didn’t catch the words. Just felt the way his body shifted toward the touch, instinctive and trusting. His voice, when he finally spoke, was rough with sleep.

“You’re looking at me like I’m the sunrise,” he said, voice thick with sleep and teasing affection.

Louis’ thumb swept lightly over his ribs, slow and lazy. “You ever seen yourself in this light?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, a lopsided smirk beginning to take shape. “You flirting with me, cowboy?”

Louis leaned in, kissed the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I’m admittin’ defeat.”

“Mmm. Thought you’d never.”

Harry hummed, smug but still too sleepy to gloat properly, and let his fingers wander through the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck. His thumb brushed the skin there in little half-circles, like he was still waking up but didn’t want to let go.

“Don’t get used to it,” Louis muttered, barely audible against his cheek.

“Too late,” Harry replied, lips curved and eyes nearly closed again. “I’m already dreaming about a future where you say sweet things without acting like they hurt.”

Louis huffed a quiet breath, forehead resting against Harry’s, his voice rough with a half-laugh. “That ain’t fair. You sayin’ ‘sweet’ like I didn’t just tell you you look better than the dawn.”

Harry grinned. “Could’ve sworn it was just you trying not to cry ‘cause I look so good in the morning.”

Louis snorted, then leaned in and kissed him again, this time properly. Full lips, slow and warm, like nothing was rushing them; not time, not chores, not the sun steadily rising behind the curtains.

When they broke apart, Louis whispered, “You feel like home.”

Harry stilled. Then blinked slowly, like the words had stunned something quiet inside him. And he didn’t smile this time, didn’t tease. He just looked at Louis, heart in his eyes, and said, soft and sure:

“So do you.”

Louis just looked at Harry like he’d never seen anything so goddamn good in his life, like every version of the word home he’d ever tried to bury had just taken shape in front of him, tangled up in curls and new freckles and a voice that kept undoing him in all the right ways. It made something sharp and soft twist in his chest.

“Jesus,” he muttered, barely audible, thumb tracing the corner of Harry’s mouth like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re unreal.”

Harry ducked his gaze for a second, flushed and smiling in that way that meant he didn’t quite know what to do with the compliment. But then he looked back, eyes bright now, a spark rising behind the softness. Something playful. Wanting. Harry’s grin deepened, cheeks flushing even as he leaned in closer. He looked like he wanted to say something clever, some slick line to tip the moment back into playful, but whatever it was didn’t make it to his lips. Instead, he ducked his head a little, eyes flicking down between them, then back up.

And then he shifted again one hand sliding gently across Louis’ stomach under the sheet. Testing. Tentative, but not nervous. Like he was asking a question without speaking it aloud. Louis stilled, heart kicking a little harder under Harry’s palm.

Harry looked up at him through his lashes, voice still soft. “Can I…?”

His fingers curled slightly, but he didn’t go further. Not yet.

Louis reached out and brushed a curl off Harry’s forehead, his touch tender, steady.

“You don’t gotta ask,” he murmured. “But I like that you do.”

He leaned into Louis’ hand as it brushed across his forehead, eyes slipping shut for just a second like the touch was something he’d been craving more than anything else. Then he pressed a kiss to the inside of Louis’ wrist and looked back up at him.

“Just wanna take care of you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Louis felt the words more than he heard them. Felt them in his chest, low and warm, curling behind his ribs. He let out a slow breath and nodded, the corners of his mouth tugging upward with something tender, something undone.

“You already do,” he said.

Harry smiled the kind of smile Louis didn’t see him give to just anyone. It was shy and sure all at once, like he was proud of what he was offering but still amazed he got to offer it at all.

He didn’t move fast. Didn’t rush. Just dipped his head down again, slower this time, his lips brushing against Louis’ sternum. A kiss that said thank you more than let me. Another followed, lower. Then one more. Louis’ breath hitched, hand tightening ever so slightly where it rested against Harry’s shoulder.

He couldn’t look away.

The light was climbing now, warming the room with that soft, golden glow that made everything feel a little more like a memory already being made. The kind of morning that stayed with you for years after, no matter how many passed.

Louis’ chest rose and fell beneath Harry’s mouth, steadying itself against the warmth of his touch, the gentleness of each kiss. And Harry looked like he meant every single one. Like he wasn’t just loving Louis, but honoring him. Every inch he touched, every place his lips lingered, felt like forgiveness without saying the word. Like I know who you are. I still want all of it.

Louis’ hand slipped into Harry’s hair, fingers curling loosely in the curls he always pretended not to be obsessed with. His voice came quiet, strained around the edges in a way that had nothing to do with restraint and everything to do with how full his heart felt.

“Harry.”

Just his name, but it held everything.

Harry’s hands were careful and slow, fingers brushing the waistband of Louis’ trousers like they didn’t want to startle him. There was no teasing in him now. No smugness. Just patience. Just want.

Louis lifted his hips without being asked. It was instinct, maybe. Or surrender. He didn’t know. But the fabric eased down under Harry’s touch, and the weight of the moment settled in his chest like a stone in still water.

This was new. Not the wanting. Not the need. That had lived in him for longer than he cared to admit.

But the being wanted like this. By another man.

By Harry.

He felt exposed but not vulnerable. Not in a way that made him pull back or hide. In a way that made him feel seen.

Harry looked up at him as he settled between Louis’ thighs, curls shadowing his eyes, lips parted, breath soft. His hands never stopped moving, skimming over skin like he was committing it to memory.

And Louis… couldn’t look away. He’d spent his whole life braced for something else. For judgment. For shame. But there was none of that here. Only touch. Only warmth. Only Harry, loving him without needing to explain it.

Louis’ fingers tightened in the sheets, jaw slack as his breath caught, deep and slow. His head tipped back against the pillow, throat exposed to the ceiling like he couldn’t keep the weight of it inside anymore.

“Jesus,” he whispered, voice unsteady. “You’re gonna undo me.”

Harry’s voice came back low. “That’s the idea.”

His hands didn’t falter. Didn’t push for more than Louis was ready to give. He just kept holding him, literally and otherwise, with that quiet steadiness Louis had come to recognize as the truest thing about him. No demand. No expectation. Just care, distilled into every gesture, like he knew exactly what Louis needed before Louis could find the words himself.

Louis turned his head to the side, eyes slipping shut, throat working around the sheer emotion of it. His breath shook as it left him, and he reached out blindly, fingers brushing through Harry’s curls in a motion that said stay without needing to say anything at all.

Harry shifted lower with a kind of patience that made Louis’ chest ache. Every movement was unhurried, every touch deliberate. His palms skimmed down Louis’ sides, warm and steady, anchoring him as he went.

Louis’ eyes stayed closed, but his fingers threaded through Harry’s curls like a lifeline, thumb brushing slow circles against his scalp. His body was trembling now, not from fear, but from the strange sweetness of surrender.

Harry pressed a kiss just below his ribs. Another, lower. A trail of reverence. He looked up once, eyes catching Louis’, wordless and steady, like a final ask: are you sure?

Louis gave the smallest nod, breath shaking.

Harry smiled small and warm, like he already knew the answer. Then he dipped his head.

Louis’ hand tightened slightly in his hair, a quiet gasp leaving him before he could catch it. The world narrowed to sensation. Soft, slow, steady. Nothing rushed. Nothing expected. Just the unshakable fact of Harry’s hands holding him, mouth worshiping him like he deserved to be loved this way. Like this wasn’t something Louis had to earn, or beg for. Like it was already his.

His chest rose and fell in ragged pulls, head tipped back against the pillow, lips parted in a soundless moan. He wasn’t used to this kind of tenderness, didn’t know where to put it in his body, except to let it come out through the way he whispered Harry’s name like a prayer he didn’t know he knew.

“God, you…” he breathed, unable to finish the thought, overwhelmed by it.

Harry lifted his gaze briefly, and that look, God, that look undid him more than anything. Like he was proud to be here. Grateful. Like it meant something to him too.

Louis blinked hard, swallowed thickly. His free hand pressed over his eyes, not to hide, but to hold back the edge of something too big for the room.

“Harry…” His voice cracked low in his throat, half warning, half worship.

Harry hummed softly at the sound like it pleased him, and it sent a bolt of heat right through Louis’ spine. Still, he didn’t speed up. Didn’t turn it frantic. He kept the pace of his mouth over him firm, letting it build slow like sunrise on skin. Like he wanted Louis to feel all of it. Wanted this to be something he remembered. And God, Louis would. He didn’t think he could forget this if he tried.

It was burning itself into him, how it felt to be wanted without conditions. Touched without shame. Loved like he was something holy and not just haunted. His body tensed, teetering. A breath caught, drawn tight like a bowstring. His fingers dug into the sheets, the other still curled around Harry’s shoulder, grounding himself.

It was hot—God, it was hot—but it was more than that.

It was intimate.

It was romantic.

It was Harry.

He took his time, like he had all the time in the world. Every pause was purposeful. A breath. A recalibration. A chance to shift from lips to hands, from mouth to skin, without ever breaking the spell they were in. His palm wrapped around Louis with the same care he’d used in every other moment that mattered. Like Louis was something valuable. Breakable, maybe, but worth keeping whole.

Louis’ breath hitched, and his hand found Harry’s free one and held onto it, fingers curling tight around his wrist like he needed the anchor. Like the slow, steady drag of Harry’s hand and tongue was the only thing tethering him to earth.

He could barely speak. Barely think. The only word that lived in his mouth was Harry’s name, half-formed on every inhale. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like he didn’t need anything else.

Harry leaned up just a little, resting his cheek against Louis’ thigh for a moment, still stroking him with that quiet, devastating rhythm. His voice was low, gravel-sweet. “You’re beautiful like this, you know that?”

Louis’ eyes fluttered shut, his throat working. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Harry smiled, breath warm against his skin. “Not yet.”

Then he bent again. Continued.

His hand moved blindly to the back of Harry’s head, not guiding, just needing. Needing to touch, to feel, to believe this was happening. That someone was here not for what Louis could give, not for what he used to be, but for him. Just him.

The pace of his mouth ebbed and flowed like a tide, and Harry didn’t look away. Every time Louis dared a glance, he found those eyes on him; half-lidded, soft, glowing with a kind of pride that made Louis’ throat ache. Like this meant something to him too. Like Louis wasn’t just being undone, he was being chosen. Over and over again.

The pressure built, slow and steady, curling through him with every pass of Harry’s hand, every flicker of breath, lap of his tongue. The intimacy of it was almost too much.

The release took Louis by surprise, not just the force of it, but the way it hollowed him out in the best possible way. Like something old and heavy had finally been let go. His breath hitched, hand still curled in Harry’s hair, grounding himself through the storm of it. And Harry stayed. Gentle. Steady. Until Louis’ body softened beneath him, until every tremor passed and all that was left was breath and heat and quiet.

Louis opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the ceiling before letting his gaze fall back to the man still holding him like he was something worth keeping.

Their eyes met. And there was a beat there long and full. Nothing said. Nothing needed. Just the thrum of shared air, the stretch of silence filled with everything they didn’t yet have the language for.

Harry reached up, brushing his thumb across Louis’ hip like he couldn’t stop touching him. His mouth was a little swollen, hair mussed, eyes heavy-lidded and warm.

Louis felt a smile start to pull at his lips.

Then—

The unmistakable clack of the front door opening.

“Louis?” Maggie’s voice rang out from down the hall, clueless in that way that made Louis want to throw himself out the goddamn window. “Ain’t you out in the field yet? I thought I’d be back to an empty house!”

Louis launched out of bed.

Harry made a strangled noise that was half laugh, half panic as he dove for his pants on the floor. Sheets tangled. Limbs collided. The bed creaked violently.

“Shitshitshit—” Louis hissed, yanking the blanket up and half-making the bed with one hand while trying to shove one of Harry’s sock under the dresser with his foot.

“She said she was staying at David’s all day—” Harry whispered, one leg in his jeans, shirt inside out, hair sticking in six directions.

“Yeah, well, she lies,” Louis snapped, teeth clenched, buttoning the top of his flannel and throwing a second one at Harry. “You got ten seconds to look like you weren’t on my dick for five minutes.”

“I wasn’t,” Harry said indignantly, arms going into the wrong sleeves. “It was at least fifteen.”

Louis whipped a pillow at him. “Shut up.”

Harry ducked, laughing breathlessly even as the pillow whumped harmlessly into the wall. “You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, trying to flatten down his curls with one hand and yank his shirt straight with the other.

Louis glanced at him, then at the door, then back. “You keep talkin’, I’ll make it a murder-suicide.”

Harry smirked. “Romantic.”

“Louis?” Maggie called again, louder this time. “I’m makin’ coffee! You want in?”

Louis slapped a hand over his face and groaned, then called back, voice way too calm for how frantic he looked, “Yeah, just…gimme a sec!”

He looked at Harry, who was now hopping on one foot trying to fix his sock situation.

“This is a disaster.”

Harry straightened up, struck a ridiculous pose. “You mean to tell me this”—he gestured to himself, shirt half-buttoned, jeans crooked, hair haloed around his head like a drunk angel—“doesn’t scream innocent houseguest?”

Louis gave him a flat look. “You look like you just got dragged backwards through a hayloft by the spirit of poor decisions.”

Harry gasped. “How dare you. I am distinguished.”

“You’re doomed,” Louis muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Get the hell outta here. Use the back door and circle around the barn.”

“And say what? That I was lost in the wheat?”

Louis shoved the pillow back onto the bed and fixed the collar of Harry’s shirt roughly. “Say you came in to borrow a damn book and got distracted by your own reflection.”

Harry grinned. “That’s believable.”

Just then, Maggie’s footsteps neared the hall.

Louis heard the floorboards creak under Maggie’s steps and his eyes went wide like a man staring down a tornado.

“Nope. Nope. Closet,” he hissed, grabbing Harry by the wrist and practically dragging him across the room.

Harry stumbled, clutching the book like a prop in a tragic play. “You’ve gotta be kidding—”

“I’m not. Get in.”

“But Louis—”

“Get in the goddamn closet, Styles.”

Harry threw his arms up, mouthing a theatrical this is beneath me as he ducked into the small, creaky-paneled wardrobe tucked in the corner of the room. Louis shoved the door shut behind him just as Maggie knocked lightly then pushed the door open without waiting.

Louis spun around and slapped a casual look on his face so fast it might’ve given him whiplash.

Maggie stood in the doorway, cradling a mug of coffee, looking perfectly at ease like she hadn’t just interrupted Louis in the middle of a scene straight out of a farce.

“I made coffee,” she said simply, like it was the most important announcement in the world, handing him the cup.

Louis, somehow still miraculously upright, forced a nod. “Thanks.”

“I’m headin’ into town in a bit,” she continued, stepping just inside the room, utterly oblivious to the chaos she’d nearly stumbled into. “We’re outta rice and that jam you like. Figured I’d stock up while the heat’s still low.”

Louis lifted the mug to his mouth to hide the rush of color crawling up his neck. “Good thinkin’.”

Maggie squinted at him over her own cup. “You seen Harry?”

Louis blinked. His heart tried to leap out of his throat but he caught it just in time. “Harry?” he echoed, buying half a second.

She nodded. “Yeah. Thought he’d be pokin’ around by now. Wanted to ask if he needed anything from the store.”

Louis shrugged, casual as sin. “Last I saw, he was out by the fence line. Y’know, sniffin’ plants. Talkin’ to bees. Whatever he does.”

Maggie huffed a little laugh. “That man is one poem away from bein’ a forest sprite.”

Louis smiled behind his mug. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll make it his entire personality.”

She rolled her eyes, already turning toward the hallway. “I’ll look for him on my way out. If you see him, tell him to holler if he wants anything. I ain’t psychic.”

“Noted,” Louis said, voice miraculously calm.

Maggie paused, glancing back in with a raised brow. “You sure you’re alright?”

Louis nodded quickly. “Just tired.”

She studied him a second longer, then gave a little shrug. “Alright then. Don’t work too hard.”

And with that, she disappeared down the hall, her footsteps retreating toward the kitchen and eventually the front door. Louis stood completely still, listening as the screen door creaked open, then shut again. A few moments later the house was quiet again. Only then did he turn and yank open the closet door.

Harry emerged like a man crawling out of the depths of absurdity; hair flattened on one side, expression dazed and betrayed. “Sniffing plants?”

Louis shrugged, setting his mug down. “What? It’s believable.”

Harry scowled. “You’re the worst.”

“You’re the one who forgot his shirt.”

“I had a shirt. You threw it across the room.”

“I saved your life.”

“You shoved me in a closet!”

Louis leaned in, kissed Harry quick and rough on the mouth, then muttered, “You should really button that shirt before Maggie thinks you got heatstroke.”

Harry smirked. “Or before she figures out I was sniffing something else?”

Louis groaned. “Get outta my room.”

—

Louis stood halfway up the ladder, one boot braced against the second rung, hammer balanced in one hand, a bent nail in the other. The porch overhang had started sagging again. Nothing urgent, just one more thing in a long line of things that always needed fixing.

Below, Harry held a support beam steady, shirt damp with sweat, curls clinging to the sides of his face, cheeks flushed. He was grumbling about how the sun hit different out west, how he was going to start charging by the hour if Louis didn’t get better aim.

Louis squinted down at him, sweat beading at his temple. “You wanna come up here and do it yourself, princess?”

Harry gave the beam a dramatic little shake, just enough to make the ladder wobble, and grinned up at him. “Oh, believe me, I will have toast  soon as you fall off that ladder and break your pride.”

Louis gave the nail a sharp tap, mostly for show. “If I fall, I’m takin’ you with me.”

“You wish you had that kind of upper body strength.”

“I do have that kind of upper body strength.”

Harry tilted his head. “Sure. That’s why you grunted like an old mule lifting that bag of feed yesterday.”

“That bag of feed weighed more than you and your mouth combined, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

Harry smirked. “You think about my mouth that much?”

Louis nearly dropped the hammer. “Jesus, Styles.”

Harry leaned against the beam, smug and unbothered. “Just saying. You bring it up a lot.”

“I bring it up when it’s runnin’.”

“Well, it runs ‘cause you feed it. You give it the best material.”

Louis glanced down at him with a glare that was more fond than annoyed. “You’re annoying.”

“Maybe, but,” Harry said, gesturing broadly around the porch, “you invited me to help fix your saggy roof. Which, by the way, isn’t even sagging that much.”

“It was saggin’ plenty.”

“You’re sagging plenty.”

Louis laughed, loud and rough, like it caught him off guard. “You’re just full of it today, huh?”

Harry beamed. “What can I say? Must be the company.”

And Louis, god help him, just shook his head and kept hammering, grinning the whole time.

Harry wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt in the shape of a half-moon near his temple. He didn’t notice. Just kept squinting up at Louis through the sunlight, his curls haloed and wild, shirt clinging to his back, that little crease between his brows as he held up the tin of nails like it was some kind of offering. “Here,” he said, a bit breathless.

Louis reached down and took the nails, his fingers brushing Harry’s. Barely a second. Barely anything. But it was enough.

He paused, hammer held loosely in one hand, the nails in the other, just to look at him.

And Jesus. The sun hit Harry’s cheekbones like it had something to prove, lighting up the pink in his skin, the gold in his lashes. His eyes were nearly closed against the brightness, but he still looked up at Louis like he was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

“You’re squintin’ like a little old man,” Louis said finally, but his voice had gone soft with it, no real bite behind the tease.

Harry rolled his eyes bit still he looked… golden. Like something from a dream Louis wasn’t brave enough to say out loud. Every time the light shifted, it caught a new angle—his cheek, his mouth, the sweat at his collarbone—and Louis felt the damn wind knocked out of him.

He swallowed hard, jaw working like he was chewing through something too big to say.

Harry tilted his head, catching the change, the quiet. “What?” he asked, soft and curious, still squinting up at him like Louis hung the moon.

Louis shook his head. “Nothin’,” he said. But it came out rough, uneven. Like it meant everything.

Harry didn’t believe him. Of course he didn’t. Just kept looking up at him like he was trying to read something that hadn’t been written yet.

Louis glanced away for a moment, pretended to check the beam. Pretended not to feel the sun on the back of his neck and the weight of everything unspoken in the air between them. But then he looked back and Harry was still watching him. Still golden in the morning light, still impossibly soft.

So Louis said, quieter this time, “You ever get tired of makin’ everything look like summer?”

Harry blinked, stunned into silence for a beat. And then he smiled. Full and soft and so damn loving it made Louis’ chest hurt. “God, you’re gettin’ good at that,” Harry whispered.

Louis raised a brow. “At what?”

“Saying things that make me wanna kiss you.”

Louis cleared his throat and looked away, one hand gripping the ladder like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Think we left that…uh, chisel in your bunkhouse,” he said casually. Too casually. Like it wasn’t a complete lie, and like he hadn’t just invented it on the spot to get them out from under the sun and under each other instead.

Harry’s brow quirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You mean the one you swore was in the shed last week?”

“Mm. Must’ve moved,” Louis muttered, already climbing down the ladder like it was a decision made.

As Louis hit the ground and brushed his palms off on his jeans, something sparked in his chest. He felt like a teenager again. Like he was sneaking behind a barn somewhere with a crush who smiled too easy and asked too many questions. Like he had something to hide and couldn’t stop grinning about it.

He caught Harry’s eye as they crossed the yard, both of them walking just a little too fast to be casual, shoulders brushing once, twice, like their bodies couldn’t help but lean in. Every footstep over the dry grass sounded louder in the quiet. Every glance felt loaded.

Harry didn’t say a word, but he smiled cheeky and secretive, like he knew exactly what Louis was doing and was more than happy to play along.

And maybe that’s what made it feel so damn good. This wasn’t about urgency. It wasn’t even about lust, not really. It was about the thrill of getting away with it. About that tiny stolen window between chores and expectation, where they got to be selfish and soft and wrapped up in each other. Where Louis didn’t have to explain why his heart kept hitching every time Harry looked at him like that.

He reached for the bunkhouse door, held it open, and said far too politely, “After you.”

Harry ducked inside, brushing past him close, and Louis followed with the kind of nervous excitement he hadn’t felt in years.

The moment the door swung shut behind them with that familiar creak, Louis was already on him, hands firm at Harry’s waist, spinning him gently until his back hit the wall with a soft thud.

Harry let out a startled yelp that turned into laughter, high and breathless, curls bouncing as he tilted his head back.

“Jesus—warn a man next time—!”

But Louis wasn’t listening. He was already kissing him. Fast, eager, everywhere.

Cheek. Temple. Jaw. The corner of his mouth. His nose, his chin, the curve just beneath his ear.

“You—” kiss.
“—drive me—” kiss.
“—crazy,” Louis murmured between presses of his lips, every one softer than it should’ve been, like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. “You and that damn smile—”

Harry was still laughing, eyes squeezed shut as he melted into it, hands gripping the sides of Louis’ shirt like he needed something to hold onto. “You’re the one who made up a fake chisel excuse.”

“Desperate times,” Louis muttered, brushing his nose along Harry’s as he finally slowed. His voice was rough now, quieter, breath ghosting over Harry’s lips. “I just needed a minute. Just one.”

They didn’t stop kissing. If anything, it deepened; hands roaming now, hips brushing, mouths parting just enough to pull in shaky breaths before diving back in. There was no rhythm to it, not really. Just hunger and affection and something giddy underneath it all, like they were two men pretending they weren’t already tangled in something much bigger than themselves.

Harry’s fingers slid under the hem of Louis’ shirt, warm against his back. Louis had just pressed a kiss behind Harry’s ear—Clatter.

They jolted at the sudden noise, both of them glancing down just in time to see a small stack of books and an old tin pencil cup scatter across the floor, knocked off the bedside table in their scramble.

Harry winced. “Oops.”

Louis huffed, amused, and bent down instinctively to pick up the mess. “That thing’s been wobbly since—”

He trailed off. Louis’ hand froze just inches above the floor, his breath catching tight in his throat. The object wasn’t a pencil, or a coin, or some forgotten bit of junk like he’d assumed. It was silver. Small. Worn.

A pin.

Shaped like a star, jagged and crooked, edges dulled with time.

Louis picked it up slowly, turning it over in his fingers, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. He stared like it might bite him. His whole body went still.

“Harry…” he said quietly. Too quietly.

Harry was crouching beside him, brushing dust off one of the books. He glanced over, casual. “Yeah?”

Louis held up the pin, his voice a gravel scrape. “Where the hell did you get this?”

Harry blinked at him, not catching the shift in Louis’ voice right away. “That?” he said, brushing a curl from his face. “It was on one of the guys. The ones that took James. I—” He paused, noticing Louis hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed.

Louis couldn’t hear him anymore. Not really. Harry’s voice had started like any other thing but now it sounded warped. Far away. Like it was underwater, or echoing from inside a barn with the doors nailed shut.

The pin sat in his hand like a curse. Like it was heating up, burning through his skin, branding him all over again.

He barely registered Harry pausing. Barely noticed the shift in tone. His whole world had tunneled into that one scrap of metal. It hadn’t changed. Not at all. That same crooked star, jagged like a splinter under skin. Tuck always said it was a “badge of freedom,” a sign they didn’t belong to the rules of anyone else’s world. But it had never been about freedom.

It had been a warning.

A mark.

Louis used to wear it. Pinned just under his collarbone, back when he thought he had something to prove. Back when he’d believed that loyalty meant silence, that blood made you stronger, not just guilty. And now here it was again. After all this time. On the body of the kind of man who’d taken a child and left a nightmare in his place. He didn’t know if it was the same boys. Couldn’t be sure. But someone out there still believed in that symbol. Still carried the rot of what they used to be.

Which meant… this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

He felt his breath coming harder now, chest rising too fast, like he was standing in the middle of a fire and just realizing the smoke had gotten in his lungs.

“Louis?” Harry said again, voice lower now. Closer. Careful. “What is it?”

Louis didn’t look at him. Couldn’t yet. He turned the pin over in his fingers one more time.

The same dull shine. The same sharp edge on the left spoke. Louis finally spoke, quiet and flat.

“It’s his. Tuck’s. It’s their mark.”

He heard the pause in Harry’s breath. Felt him shift beside him.

“I thought they were gone,” Louis added, eyes locked on the metal like it was going to give him a different answer if he stared hard enough. “Thought I’d buried all of them when I walked away.”

Louis’ jaw clenched so tight it ached. He stared down at the pin, the memory of that symbol burning through every wall he’d built since leaving that life behind. And then, with a sharp inhale, he stood fast and sudden, like the thought had struck him so hard he had to move or be crushed under it.

Harry rose too, slower, cautious. “Louis—”

“They know,” Louis said, his voice raw now, angry but not loud. Not yet. “They know I’m here.”

Harry’s brows drew together. “Who?”

“The ones wearin’ this,” Louis snapped, holding up the pin like it might start hissing between his fingers. “Tuck’s boys—whoever’s still left. They went after the Halloways. Not for money. Not just for blood.” His hand dropped to his side, fisting around the pin. “They were sendin’ a message.”

Harry was quiet now, still watching him.

Louis turned toward the window, breath coming harder. “They know I walked away. Know I tried to make something new here. This ranch. This town. Maggie. You.” He swallowed. “They saw me crawl out of the dirt and try to build something better on it.”

“And now they’re back,” Harry said slowly.

Louis nodded once. Sharp. Certain. Louis was already halfway to the door when he said it. “We need to find Maggie. Now.”

Harry was right behind him. “She said she was going into town, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, shoving his hat onto his head, heart thudding like a drum in his chest. “But David’s place is on the way. And if they know how to track me, if they even got wind of where I been layin’ low, she’s walkin’ straight into it.”

He yanked the door open, boots thudding on the porch before Harry caught his arm and pulled him to a stop.

Louis turned, eyes wide, teeth gritted like he was barely holding it together. “Harry, we don’t have time—”

“I know,” Harry said, voice calm but firm. His hand stayed steady on Louis’ arm, grounding him. “I know we don’t. But you gotta look at me first.”

Louis hesitated.

So Harry stepped closer, soft but unshaking. “I’m with you, alright? I don’t care what this is, or how deep it runs, or what comes out of the dark next. You’re not doing this alone.”

Louis blinked, jaw tight, eyes flickering like he couldn’t quite believe someone would still be standing here still choosing him after everything.

“We’ll find her,” Harry said. “And we’ll be okay.”

Louis didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at him, heart too full and too afraid to speak. Then, finally, he nodded once. Sharp. Grateful.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s ride.”

The barn was still warm with the breath of late morning when Louis and Harry burst through the doors, boots heavy on the planks. Dust kicked up beneath their heels as they moved fast, no wasted motion. Louis grabbed halters off the wall, barking a soft “Blue, c’mere” that had his old horse stepping out of his stall like he already knew something was wrong.

Harry was right behind, reaching for the tack shelf, already hauling his saddle down like he’d done it a hundred times. And lately, he had. They didn’t talk much at first. Just moved. Straps buckled. Saddles cinched. Louis tossed two rifles into the scabbards along their horses’ sides and stuffed extra rounds in his saddlebag. Water. Rope. First aid. He paused for a second, fingers ghosting over the worn leather before stuffing in the pin, too. Couldn’t bear to leave it behind now. Not when it felt like a fuse had already been lit.

Harry slung his own pack across the back of his saddle and turned toward him, voice low. “Alright,” he said. “Tell me what I need to know.”

Louis paused, jaw clenched. “About what?”

“About Tuck. About how they work. If we’re walking into this, I need to know what we’re up against.”

Louis met his eyes for a beat, then gave a sharp nod. “They don’t act fast. Not unless they’re panicked. They circle first, poke at the edges of your life. Take someone small. Burn something. Just to see how you’ll react.”

Harry’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “So taking James…”

“Was step one,” Louis finished, grim.

Harry adjusted the rifle over his shoulder. “And Maggie?”

Louis’ hands tightened on the reins. “If they think she matters to me… she’s the next pressure point. They don’t go straight for the kill. They want you squirming.”

There was silence as that settled over them like dust.

Harry glanced toward the barn doors, then back at Louis. “So how do we make sure they don’t get what they want?”

Louis looked up, eyes hard. “We don’t give it to ‘em.” He stepped into the stirrup and swung up onto Blue’s back. “We find her before they do.”

Harry mounted beside him and gave a single nod, voice steady. “Then let’s move.”

And with that, they turned toward the road, hooves pounding into dry earth, hearts hammering just as loud.

The dust kicked up behind them like smoke from a brushfire, wheels spinning in Louis’ head faster than hooves on the trail. Blue’s stride was long and sure beneath him, but it didn’t feel fast enough, not with that damn pin still burning a hole in his pocket, and the image of Maggie driving into town playing on a loop in his mind.

Harry kept pace easily beside him, leaned low over his gelding’s neck, curls blowing back in the wind, face focused. Determined.

“Louis,” he called over the thudding rhythm of their horses. “You said they circle. But when they take someone, do…do they kill quick?”

Louis didn’t answer right away. The sun blazed above them. Dry heat. Dry ground. A silence long enough to be felt.

Then, low and flat: “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On who they’re takin’. If it’s a warning they leave ’em alive. Messed up, but alive. Scared. Bleedin’. Screamin’, sometimes. It’s part of the game.”

Harry swallowed hard, his jaw tight. “And if it ain’t a warning?”

Louis didn’t look at him. Just kept his eyes forward on the road, the faint dust trail ahead of them the only thing tethering him to hope. “If it’s personal,” he said, voice rough, “they don’t waste time.”

That sat heavy between them.

Harry’s voice came softer next. “You think Maggie’d be useful to them? Or just a message?”

Louis tightened his grip on the reins. “She’s smart. Brave. People in this town love her.” He shook his head. “If they want leverage they keep her breathing.”

Harry looked over, brow furrowed, breath short. “But if it’s for you?”

Louis nodded once. “Then they want her gone.”

The silence stretched again.

Then Harry said, resolute, “We’ll get to her first.”

Louis didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. He just pushed Blue harder, breath sharp in his chest, every hoofbeat screaming the same prayer over and over in his mind: not again. Not this time.

“Could be she stopped at David’s,” Harry said after a moment, voice raised just enough to carry over the pounding hooves and the dry wind rushing past. “She always checks on his horses when she’s out that way, yeah? Could be nothing.”

Louis didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, muscles ticking under sunburnt skin. But then he gave a single nod, tight, grim. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, could be.”

Harry pressed on, gentler this time. “Or maybe she already left town. Maybe she’s on the road home and we’ll run into her before they even think to look.”

Louis nodded again, but it didn’t settle him. The queasiness had already taken root in his gut sour and heavy. Like his body knew something before his mind would let it in. He didn’t believe in luck. Not anymore. But he believed in instincts. And his were screaming. Still, he looked over at Harry and took in the way he rode: steady, focused, rifle strapped across his back, jaw set like a man ready to throw himself between danger and someone he loved.

Louis breathed in slow. Let it settle in his chest.

“She’s gotta be okay,” Harry said, eyes still forward.

Louis didn’t say it, but he was thinking the same thing.

She had to be. Because if she wasn’t—He didn’t let himself finish the thought. Just pressed his heels to Blue’s sides and rode faster, Harry right behind him, the horizon trembling in the heat ahead.

The moment they crested the last rise and David’s ranch came into view, Louis’ breath caught. There tethered just outside the porch rail, casually pawing at the dirt stood Maggie’s horse. Alive. Unbothered. Unharmed. It didn’t mean she was safe. Not yet. But it was something.

Louis kicked Blue into a faster trot, barely waiting for Harry to catch up before he swung down from the saddle in one practiced motion, boots hitting dirt hard.

Harry dismounted just behind him, voice tight. “That’s her horse?”

Louis nodded once, sharp. “No mistake.”

They didn’t waste time tying their own. Just let the reins drop to the ground—well-trained horses knew better than to wander—and hurried up the porch steps. Louis took them two at a time.

He pounded on the door with the side of his fist. “Maggie!”

Harry stood just behind him, one hand resting on the butt of his revolver.

“Maggie, it’s me! You in there?”

They waited. The wind blew dry through the trees. A bird chirped somewhere off to the side. But inside? Nothing.

Louis knocked again, harder this time. “Maggie! Open the damn door!”

Still quiet. He reached for the handle, jiggled it; locked. His stomach twisted, heart hammering in his ears. “Something’s wrong.”

Harry stepped up beside him. “Step back.”

Louis didn’t argue. Harry kicked the door hard—once, twice—and on the third hit, it splintered open with a crack and slammed against the wall inside.

They rushed in to a voice, sharp and startled, from the kitchen: “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you two doin’?”

Maggie. Whole. Alive. Holding a jar of preserves in one hand and looking at them like they’d just broken in to rob the place.

Louis let out a breath that nearly knocked him over. His knees almost buckled.

Harry just leaned forward, hands on his thighs, and said, panting: “Good… news is… you’re fine. Bad news is… we owe David a door.”

Louis didn’t waste time.

“Maggie,” he started, voice already gravel-rough with urgency, “we need to go. Now. Pack your things. There’s trouble comin’, and I don’t know how close it is, but we’re not waitin’ to find out.”

Maggie blinked at him, still holding the jar. “Louis, what the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“You’re not safe,” he said, stepping further into the room. “I’ll explain everything, but right now—”

“What kind of trouble?” came another voice.

Louis turned.

David stood in the archway, half-shadowed by the hallway behind him, a cloth in his hand like he’d just finished drying dishes. His eyes flicked from Louis to Harry, then to the busted door behind them.

“Well,” he mumbled, “didn’t expect to see…you two.”

Louis’ chest was still heaving. “Sorry about the door. Had to make sure she was—”

Then he stopped.

Mid-sentence.

Mid-breath.

His eyes had dropped out of habit and landed right where they shouldn’t have.

On it.

A glint of silver. Jagged edges. Crooked star.

The pin.

Right there on David’s jacket. Not hidden. Not ashamed. Worn. Like it belonged there.

Louis’ blood turned to ice.

His heartbeat, which had just started to settle at the sight of Maggie alive and well, now roared back louder, harder. He felt it pounding in his ears, in his chest, in his teeth. He didn’t move, but everything inside him did. Everything screamed.

He saw red.

He heard Tuck’s voice.

“You wear it like a brand, boys. Like a vow. This ain’t just a crew, it’s a gospel. You bleed for the ones who wear this. You die for ’em. And if someone turns their back on it? You make sure the world forgets they ever walked.”

Louis didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to guess. He knew.

David was one of them.

Harry noticed it a second later. His breath caught sharp, and Louis felt him shift behind him, slow but certain. Tension coiled in the air like a rattler in dry grass.

David noticed too. His eyes flicked down to the pin as if he’d forgotten it was there. Then slowly back up to meet Louis’ stare. And for the first time in all the years Louis had known him, David didn’t smile out of politeness. He smiled because the mask was off. Because he didn’t need it anymore.

“Guess you remember what that means,” he said softly, almost like he was proud.

Louis didn’t speak. He just stared. At the man he’d once shaken hands with. Trusted. Then hated.

The man who’d slept under his roof.

Eaten Maggie’s cooking.

Held her too close.

Stolen nearly everything from him.

Maggie stood up so fast the jar in her hand clattered to the floor and rolled beneath the table. “What the hell is goin’ on?” she said sharply, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Neither Louis nor Harry answered. Because Louis couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t tear his eyes off David.

And David…David had already started smiling again. That slow, slick kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes.

Louis’ voice was low and bitter, scraped raw from the inside. Like it was being pulled from a part of him he hadn’t touched in years.

“This what it was?” he asked, eyes locked on David. “Tuck send you here just to ruin me from the inside out?”

David didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He just stood there, still wearing that goddamn smirk like a badge of honor.

Louis took a step forward, jaw clenched. “Was that the plan? Come into my home, eat at my table, watch me build somethin’ real, just so you could burn it down slow?”

David let out a soft sound, almost a laugh, almost pity. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lou. It wasn’t all about you.” He shifted slightly, eyes glinting. “But yeah. It was part of it.”

Louis’ eyes flicked away from David just long enough to sweep the room.

His instincts kicked in like muscle memory; checking windows, corners, doorways. A lifetime of watching his own back, of knowing what shadows meant. There was no sound upstairs. No second set of boots in the entry. No cigarette smoke. No second breath behind the walls. But he didn’t trust it. Couldn’t.

Tuck had taught him well. Louis’ fingers inched subtly toward his belt. Just resting on the leather. Not drawing. Not yet.

Behind him, Harry shifted quiet but ready.

David, of course, noticed. He always noticed.

“Relax,” he said, casual as ever, crossing his arms over his chest. “You think I’d bring the others here with Maggie standin’ two feet from me? I do care about her, despite the way it looks. What do you take me for?”

Louis gave him a dead stare. “A coward.”

David’s smile thinned. But only slightly.

Maggie’s breath hitched, sharp and broken, and then the dam cracked.

“I didn’t know,” she sobbed, backing up toward the kitchen counter, one hand over her mouth, the other curled around her middle like it was holding her together. “Louis, I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

Louis didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. His jaw was locked so tight it felt like it might snap. His eyes were still on David and his fingers twitched again by the grip of his gun.

Harry took half a step toward Maggie, not touching her yet, but close. Watching. Ready to catch her if she fell. His voice was soft, but sure. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

She was shaking her head, over and over. “I—I just thought he was—he was just kind, and after everything, I—” Her voice broke again. “I’m so sorry.”

Still, Louis didn’t speak. Not to her. Not yet. Because David was talking again. And every word tasted like rot.

“Killing your marriage was just the warm-up,” he said, eyes glinting like a man who enjoyed pulling wings off flies. “A little betrayal, a little confusion… I gotta admit, it was fun. Watching you flinch every time she walked in the room.”

Harry’s hand clenched at his side.

“But it wasn’t enough, was it?” David went on, shrugging like this was all just one long, tedious chore. “You didn’t fall apart. You didn’t run. You didn’t pick up a bottle or your boots and vanish. You just kept going.”

He leaned his shoulder against the doorway now, looking too casual, too at home in someone else’s pain.

“So we moved on to the Halloways. Sent a little message. Stirred up the dust. Thought maybe that’d bring back the old you.” He chuckled, actually chuckled, and shook his head. “But damn, you’re stubborn.”

Louis’ mouth didn’t move, but the pulse in his neck was hammering.

“You’re still happy. Still whole. Which don’t make any sense at all… ‘cause you ain’t supposed to be capable of that. You never were.” He took one step forward.

Harry mirrored it, subtle, protective.

David smiled, cruel and clean. “So I started thinking. What changed?”

He glanced briefly at Maggie shaking and silent and then past her. Right at Harry.

And then he said it.

“That’s when I realized. It’s him.”

The room went still.

“He’s the difference,” David said, voice quiet now, like he was trying to drive the nail in just right. “It’s not the land. Not the ranch. Not her.” He nodded at Harry like it was a done deal. “You’ve got him. And that’s why you’re dangerous again.”

Louis’ hand was no longer twitching.

David’s smile didn’t last. It fell into something colder, flat and resigned. Not angry. Not even cruel anymore. Just mechanical. Like the end of a job.

He glanced at Harry, and then back at Louis, like he was sorry Louis had made it come to this.

And then he said, clear and quiet:

“So let’s fix that.”

The gunshot cracked through the room like thunder.

Maggie screamed. Louis did too but it was wordless, raw. Instinct screamed first and he moved, too late to stop it but not too late to answer it.

He drew and fired in one fluid motion, not hesitating, not blinking. Two shots center mass. David jerked back like he’d been yanked by a rope, his expression never changing before he collapsed in a lifeless sprawl against the hardwood.

Louis was already dropping his gun and falling to his knees beside Harry.

“No. No, no—Harry—”

Harry was on his side, curled slightly, his hand clutching just under his ribs, dark red already blooming through his shirt. His face was pale. Eyes wide. Breathing fast and shallow.

Louis’ hands hovered uselessly over the blood, then pressed down, his voice shaking. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me. Stay the fuck with me—”

Harry didn’t speak. Didn’t even cry out. But the tears came anyway, quiet, shaken loose by fear more than pain. They tracked down his cheeks in silence, mixing with the sweat and dust, and Louis saw them like they were carved into him. Each one felt like it might drown him. He was shaking. Not trembling, not flinching, just shaking, like the fear had taken hold of his bones and refused to let go. His eyes were wide and glassy, lips parted like he couldn’t get enough air, like he was trying not to make a sound because it would make it real.

Louis leaned in closer, hands still pressing down, heart hammering as fast as Harry’s own.

“Harry, hey, look at me,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m here, yeah? I got you. You’re alright.”

Harry’s lips moved, but nothing came out. His gaze darted wild and unfocused between Louis’ face and the ceiling and then back, like he was trying to ground himself, like he was searching for some anchor he couldn’t find.

Louis took his face in one blood-slicked hand, gently, steadying him. “You’re gonna be okay, d’you hear me? I won’t leave you. Not for one second. Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe.”

In the background, Maggie was crashing through the cupboards, her sobs choking every breath. Glass bottles clinked, a drawer slammed. She cursed under her breath, tripping over her own feet in her rush to find something to help.

“Where’s the gauze?” she cried. “Where the fuck is the gauze—God—”

He didn’t take his eyes off Harry. Not for a second.

Harry’s tears kept coming. Silent, steady. He clutched at Louis’ sleeve now, fingers curled tight like he was trying to hold himself in place through it.

“Shh, shh, I got you,” Louis whispered, thumb brushing across his cheek. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

But the words tasted like ash. Because Louis had seen this before. Too many times before. And the only thing worse than bleeding out… was being scared while you did it.

So Louis didn’t let go. He didn’t flinch at the blood or the shaking or the weight of the moment caving in around them.

He just held Harry’s face, kissed his temple, and whispered again and again—“You’re not gonna die. You hear me? Not like this. Not today.”

And somewhere in that, Harry blinked. Slow.

One tear lingered on his lashes, and he finally rasped, broken: “…you promise?”

Louis’ heart cracked.

“I swear.” Louis could barely breathe past the lump in his throat. “I swear,” he said again, firmer this time. Fierce. Like saying it enough might make it true. “I’d take the bullet out with my own hands if I had to. You’re not leavin’ me, Harry. Don’t even think about it.”

Harry blinked slowly, lips trembling like he wanted to believe it, but his eyes… his eyes were scared. Not just the kind of fear that came from pain but from not knowing. From being caught between wanting to hold on and not knowing how.

Louis leaned in closer, resting his forehead to Harry’s for just a second. Breathing him in. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Please.”

A crash behind them, Maggie, hands trembling, dropped the tin of first aid on the floor, but she scrambled to open it. Her fingers were slick, shaking as she pulled out bandages, antiseptic, cloths. Her sobs were coming quiet and fast now, like she was running out of air.

“I got it,” she gasped. “I got it, I got it—Louis—”

“Here,” Louis said, reaching back with one hand, not breaking contact with Harry’s gaze. “Hand me some cloth.”

Maggie pressed it into his palm. Louis wadded it tight and leaned back just enough to press it against the wound, his jaw locking when Harry flinched and gasped.

“I know,” Louis murmured. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. Just breathe through it. You’re doin’ so good.”

Harry let out a small, broken sound half whimper, half breathless laugh, like he was the one embarrassed about bleeding out in Louis’ arms.

And Louis just shook his head. “Don’t you dare go quiet on me now,” he said, voice catching. “You’re the loudest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. I need that noise right now.”

Harry gave him the ghost of a smile. “Thought… you said…I talk too much.”

“Yeah, well—” Louis swallowed hard, forcing the pressure firmer against the cloth. “—I lied.”

Maggie dropped to her knees beside them now, hands red to the wrists, trying to tie a strip of bandage around Harry’s side. “We need to get him to a bed,” she said, voice tight with urgency. “We can’t do this on the floor.”

Louis nodded once, then met her eyes. “This ain’t on you.”

Her face crumpled. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I loved him, Louis. I messed up—”

Louis cut her off, gently. “Then be here now. That’s all I need.”

She nodded, blinking tears away, and moved to brace Harry’s legs.

Louis leaned down again, brushing his fingers through Harry’s curls. “You still with me?”

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “Tryin’.”

Together, they lifted him and carried him toward the back bedroom. Maggie cleared the space while Louis set Harry down like he was made of glass.

Blood soaked the towel. The sheets. His shirt. Louis stripped it off carefully, hands shaking but practiced. Maggie handed him another cloth, her breath still catching every few seconds.

Louis pressed it to the wound again, lower this time. Still bleeding, but not spurting. No bubbles. No lung.

Thank God.

“Pressure’s good,” Maggie whispered. “It’s bad, but he’s got a chance.”

Louis gave Maggie a nod and shifted aside just enough to give her space to work. But he didn’t move far. One hand still cradled the side of Harry’s face. The other curled lightly around Harry’s wrist, keeping track of his pulse; steady, but weak.

Maggie leaned in, focused now, her hands surprisingly sure despite how badly they were shaking minutes ago. Her voice was low, almost soothing, but efficient as she muttered to herself: “We’ve got to stop this bleed… Clean it first, then pressure… Stitch if I have to…”

Louis could barely hear her. His whole focus was on Harry.

Harry, whose lashes were fluttering.

Harry, whose lips had gone dry and pale.

Harry, who couldn’t afford to close his eyes.

“Hey,” Louis said softly, leaning closer, brushing his thumb across Harry’s temple. “No sleepin’. That’s not the deal.”

Harry gave a faint groan, barely audible, but his eyes cracked open again just enough to find Louis.

“Bossy,” he rasped, lips twitching weakly. “Always…so bossy.”

Louis huffed, but his breath hitched somewhere in the middle of it. “And you always gotta backtalk. Even with a hole in your damn side.”

“I’m…consistent,” Harry murmured, his voice strained but familiar, like the roots of a joke he didn’t have the strength to finish.

“Yeah,” Louis whispered, swallowing hard. “You are.”

Maggie dabbed gently around the wound, her hands working fast. “No major artery, I think. Bleedin’s slowin’. Gotta close it, though. It’s gonna hurt.”

Louis tightened his grip on Harry’s hand just a little, grounding them both. His voice stayed low, coaxing, even as the panic clawed at his insides like a wild animal trying to break loose.

“Tell me about those flowers,” he said, brushing back the damp curls at Harry’s temple. “The ones up north. You said they only bloom after frost?”

Harry’s brows twitched, eyes fluttering open again glassy and slow.

“Mm…” he murmured, voice paper-thin. “Frost asters.”

“Yeah,” Louis said quickly, nodding. “Those. You said they come late… stubborn little things.”

Harry gave the ghost of a smile, his lips cracked and pale. “Like…you…”

Louis huffed a breath, half-laugh, half-sob. “Don’t go flatterin’ me now. Tell me more.”

Harry’s gaze was distant, but he kept talking; halting, broken, like his thoughts were wading through molasses. “Grow on the…edge of fields. Purplish-white. Look like little stars… don’t need much… just cold ground… and a little light.”

His voice trailed off.

“Hey,” Louis said sharply, squeezing his hand. “Don’t you drift. I’m still here. You’re still here.”

Harry’s lashes fluttered again, breath stuttering.

Louis bent lower, nearly nose to nose with him now, voice urgent but steady. “Tell me what else grows with ’em. What’s around the asters?”

Harry blinked slowly, trying to pull himself back up from wherever he was slipping. “Goldenrod… sometimes… milkweed. Bees like it.”

“Bees,” Louis repeated softly. “Bet you love that.”

Harry made the faintest noise of amusement. Then his breath hitched. Not from pain this time, but from something deeper. Something raw. His hand squeezed weakly in Louis’, his eyes filling so fast it was like the fear finally broke through whatever shock had been keeping it at bay.

“I don’t wanna die,” he whispered, voice shaking. “Louis—I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

And just like that, Louis broke. Tears slipped down his face, hot and silent, catching in the corners of his mouth. He leaned closer, forehead to Harry’s, voice cracking on every word. “You’re not gonna. You hear me? You’re not.”

“Promise me,” Harry whispered. “I—I can’t go yet. Not now. I just—I just got here.”

“I know, baby. I know.” Louis was crying harder now, the weight of it sinking into his chest like stone. He didn’t care. “You’re stayin’. I swear to God, you’re stayin’. You ain’t leavin’ me. Not after all this.”

Harry tried to nod, but his whole body trembled. “It hurts.”

Louis pressed a kiss to his forehead, his temple, anywhere he could reach. “I know. I’m so sorry. Just hold on, alright? Hold on.” His voice turned desperate. He looked at Maggie over Harry’s shoulder, his grip never loosening. “Mags—please. Please.”

“I’m tryin’,” she choked, hands covered in blood now, threading a needle with shaking fingers. “Louis, I’m tryin’, I swear to you—he’s lost a lot but—if I can close it up, and the fever doesn’t set in…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

Louis turned back to Harry, who was shivering now, sweat slick on his brow.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, tears dripping onto Harry’s skin. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And underneath all of it, like a prayer, he kept repeating it.

Over and over, softer and softer.

“Stay with me.”

“Stay with me.”

“Stay.”

Harry’s eyes were barely open now, just slivers of green under heavy lids. His grip in Louis’ hand had gone slack, fingers trembling but still threaded with his. His lips parted once, twice, like he was trying to say something and couldn’t quite find the strength.

Louis leaned in close again, brushing his hand through his curls, his thumb over the edge of Harry’s jaw. “What is it?” he asked, voice thick. “I’m right here. You can say it.”

Harry’s lips moved. And this time, the sound made it out.

Barely a breath.

“I love you.”

Louis froze.

The words didn’t come like a confession. Not rushed. Not frightened. Just soft. True. Like Harry had known it for a while and only now let himself say it, when the world had gone quiet around the edges, when the pain blurred everything else, when time felt short and simple.

Louis opened his mouth, but no sound came.

“I love you,” Harry whispered again, weaker now. His lashes fluttered. His hand slipped further out of Louis’. “I… I’m tired…”

“No—hey, no, no,” Louis said quickly, catching his face in both hands. “Stay awake. Please, Harry, just a little longer. Don’t go under yet.”

But Harry was already fading eyes sliding shut, breath shallow. His body went still.

And Louis, shaking, crushed his forehead to Harry’s, his voice breaking apart at the seams.

“I love you too,” he whispered into the quiet. “Goddamn it, I love you too.”

Behind them, Maggie worked faster, more frantic now. “He’s not gone,” she said, breathless. “He’s not gone, Louis, I can still feel a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.”

Louis didn’t move. Just stayed right there, holding on to Harry like he could anchor him in place. Like if he just said it enough, it’d be enough.

“I love you,” he whispered again. “You hear me? I love you. So you don’t get to go anywhere.”

Chapter Text

The room had gone quiet, save for Maggie’s frantic whispering half to herself and the wet, terrible sound of cloth pressing into blood.

Louis knelt beside the bed, soaked through in sweat and someone else’s pain. His hands were red to the wrists. His shirt stuck to his back. And all he could do was keep talking. Keep praying.

“He just needs to hold on,” he said under his breath, again and again like a mantra. “That’s all. Just hold on long enough for me to ride into town. Just needs to be stable enough for that. Then the doc’ll fix it. He’s seen worse, right? He’s fixed worse?”

Maggie didn’t answer. She was bent over Harry’s side, her hands moving quick and precise even though they trembled at the edges. The bullet was out now. It had clattered onto the floor with a sickening little sound that Louis didn’t think he’d ever forget, but the bleeding hadn’t stopped.

She was doing everything she could—compressing, stitching, binding—but Louis could see it in her face.

It wasn’t enough. Not yet, at least.

He shifted closer, watching Harry’s chest for every fragile rise and fall, afraid to blink in case one didn’t come. His voice cracked as he leaned in again.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You stay.”

Harry didn’t answer. His face was slack, lips parted, skin pale and clammy. But he was still breathing. Just barely.

Maggie sucked in a breath and pressed another layer of gauze into the wound, her voice nearly breaking. “I’ve slowed it as best I can. But we’re running out of time.”

Louis’ hands clenched on the blanket under Harry, grounding himself. “Then I’ll buy us more.”

He stood abruptly, his voice was all gravel now. “We pack him up, keep him warm, wrap him tight and I ride. I’ll have him see Doc out here by sunset, even if I gotta carry the man over my shoulder.”

Maggie looked up at him, eyes wide and bloodshot. “Louis, if he jostles too much, if you hit a rut or he slips—”

“I know,” Louis cut in. “But if we wait here, he bleeds out before dawn.”

She stared at him for a beat, then nodded slowly. “We do it your way.”

Louis moved back to Harry’s side, dropping to his knees again, brushing sweat-damp curls from his forehead. “Alright, darlin’. You’re gonna hate this ride, but you’ve always been stubborn. So just keep bein’ that.”

His voice dropped, low and rough with love and fear. “You hold on. For me. I’m not done with you yet.”

Maggie was already moving before Louis even finished speaking, ripping open another roll of bandage, tearing sheets into strips, doubling up the padding where Harry’s shirt had been cut away. Her hands were fast now, steady through the tremor, like a woman working on instinct more than hope.

Louis kept talking, kept touching, because it was the only thing he had. His thumb stroked over Harry’s temple, brushing away sweat that had nothing to do with the heat.

“You hear me?” he murmured, leaning close enough that his words were against Harry’s skin. “We’re gonna move you, but I’m gonna hold you the whole way. You’re gonna stay warm, you’re gonna breathe, and I’m gonna get you to the doc. That’s the plan. You and me—we keep plans.”

Harry’s lashes flickered faintly. A sound, something between a sigh and a groan escaped him. It wasn’t words, but it was there.

Louis bent lower, forehead against his. “That’s it. Stay with me. Just like that.”

Maggie tied the last strip tight, pulling a blanket over Harry’s bare shoulders and tucking it around him with trembling fingers. “That’s as tight as I dare,” she whispered. “He’s not bleeding heavy anymore, but if you jolt him—”

“I won’t,” Louis said quickly, his voice sharp but not at her. “I won’t.”

He slid his arms under Harry, one behind his shoulders, one under his knees. He felt how light he was, how fragile, and it scared him more than the blood. Harry’s head lolled against his chest, breath shallow but still there.

Louis swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “We’re moving now.”

Maggie grabbed the door, pushing it open wide. “I’ll saddle Blue for you,” she said, already running. “He can carry you both.”

Louis shifted his hold on Harry, cradling him tighter. “Hear that?” he whispered against his hair. “Blue’s waitin’. He’s gonna take us to the doc. You just hang on.”

Harry’s lips moved faintly, no sound this time, but Louis thought he could read it anyway.

Louis’ heart cracked a little more. “I know,” he said softly. “I love you too. Just stay with me.”

He stepped out into the sunlight with Harry in his arms, every sense screaming at him to move faster but every step careful and steady, like the whole world depended on not letting him slip.

Blue was already saddled by the time Louis stepped out onto the porch, Harry in his arms too still, too quiet, but alive. Still breathing. Still with him.

Maggie was tightening the last strap, her cheeks streaked with sweat and tears, hands moving with furious purpose. She looked up as Louis approached, her eyes wide and rimmed red, but focused.

Louis didn’t stop walking as he spoke, voice hard now, grounded in the kind of clarity that only came from grief or war. Maybe both.

“We’re goin’ to town. The doc. That’s priority. You hear me?”

Maggie nodded quickly. “Yeah. I got you.”

“But after that—” He shifted Harry carefully as he reached the stirrup, cradling him close as he began to hoist them both into the saddle. “We need to decide. Fast.”

Maggie blinked, startled. “Decide what?”

Louis settled into the saddle, Harry nestled against his chest, limp but still warm. Blue shifted beneath them but didn’t flinch. Like he understood the weight he was carrying.

“David was with them,” Louis said, his jaw tight. “Tuck. The old crew. I don’t know how many’s left, but they’re movin’ again.”

Maggie stared, hands falling to her sides. “Jesus…”

“They came for me through the Halloways. Through you. And now through him.” Louis looked down at Harry, voice thickening with something broken and dangerous. “So we either disappear or we put a bullet in Tuck and burn whatever’s left behind him.”

Maggie swallowed hard. “And you think he knows you’re comin’?”

“He’s been waitin’ on it.”

Maggie gripped the saddlebag, tightening the strap with sudden violence. “Then let’s make sure he regrets it.”

Louis nodded once, turned Blue toward the road. And with the dust rising beneath their hooves and Harry’s heartbeat pressed against his chest, Louis rode for town like the devil himself was behind them.

The rhythm of the hooves filled the silence between them.

It wasn’t a hard ride. The terrain was even, the path familiar, and Harry was strapped in tight against Louis’ chest, head tucked beneath his chin, wrapped in bandages and sweat and prayers.

That was all Louis let himself focus on for now.

The sky above was high and pale, not quite noon. The birds were quiet. Even the wind seemed to hush around them, like the world understood something fragile was being carried through it.

For a long while, it was only the horses and the road.

Then, behind him, Maggie spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

Louis didn’t respond right away. Just kept his eyes on the path ahead, one hand holding the reins, the other curled instinctively around Harry’s hip like a tether.

Maggie cleared her throat, quieter now. “For how I treated you. For believin’ him. David said a lotta things...things I wanted to hear. About you. About what you wanted. Who you were. I think I needed someone to blame when you stopped lookin’ at me the way you used to. And he gave me that. Made it feel like it was your fault I was lonely.”

Louis closed his eyes for half a second, then opened them again.

“I wasn’t fair,” Maggie said, her voice thick. “But I didn’t know what you were carryin’. And I didn’t ask. I should’ve.”

Louis was quiet for a beat. Then: “We both wanted somethin’ we couldn’t find in each other. Doesn’t make us bad. Just makes us… honest, eventually.”

Maggie gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Eventually.”

The horses kept moving. The road curved gently with the hillside, dust rising behind them in little golden clouds. Then Maggie asked, quieter than before, but clearer somehow.

“You love him, don’t you?”

Louis’ hand froze slightly on the reins. He kept his eyes forward, jaw tightening against the words caught somewhere between his chest and throat.

“Yeah,” he said, careful. “’Course I do.”

But Maggie didn’t let that slide.

“No, Louis.” Her voice was soft, but firm. “I don’t mean care about him. I don’t mean you’d take a bullet for him—which…”

Louis’ grip on the reins flexed.

She pressed, gentler this time. “I mean… are you in love with him?”

He didn’t answer. The silence this time wasn’t peaceful. It clawed. He stared at the road, at the dust rising in the wake of their horses, at the hills stretching quiet and wide on either side. And he felt it pressing on his ribs like a hand trying to squeeze the truth out of him.

He wanted to say it. He almost did. But even out here, after everything, the words caught.

Because there were still pieces of him stitched with warnings. With scripture. With voices that hissed things about sin and shame and what it meant to be “a man.”  Voices he thought he’d buried long ago but had never stopped echoing in the darker corners of his mind.

He didn’t look back at Maggie. He couldn’t.

“I’ll be honest, Louis… I don’t know if I understand it.” Her voice wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t cutting. Just honest, the way someone speaks when they’re unlearning the rules they were raised with. “I was raised same as you. Taught certain things meant right, and other things meant wrong. Black and white, no room for grey.”

Louis’ throat worked, but he still didn’t speak.

“But you know what else I was taught?” she continued. “That love was supposed to make people better. Softer. Steadier.”

She paused, then added, “And I’ve never seen you more yourself than when he’s around.”

That got Louis to glance over at her just briefly. Her eyes were wet, but clear.

“I used to think the ranch would come alive ‘cause of work we did,” she said. “The routines. The fixing. The pushing forward even when it felt like we shouldn't.” She shook her head, a soft, bitter smile tugging at her mouth. “But it wasn’t that.”

She looked at Harry then, bundled tight against Louis’ chest.

“It came alive when you started looking at someone like you wanted to stay. Not run. Not disappear. Just… stay.”

Louis blinked hard.

Maggie turned her eyes back to the road ahead. “I don’t get it. But I see it. I won’t say a word about it. Not to the town. Not to anyone. Not unless you want me to.”

Louis swallowed hard, staring straight ahead, jaw set against emotion.

She glanced over again, just long enough to add, “He takes up a lot of room in your heart, I can see that clear as day. But after everything I put you through…” Her voice cracked slightly. “You deserve to have somethin’ that good. Someone that good.”

Louis didn’t trust his voice yet, so he said nothing. But the weight of her words sank into his chest, deep and quiet. Like someone had finally set down a burden he didn’t realize he’d been carrying alone.

“He loves you too,” Maggie added, almost like an afterthought. “The way he looked at you when he was hurt? Scared outta his damn mind, but still trying to stay awake just to keep hold of you?”

She gave a shaky exhale. “I ain’t seen devotion like that in a long time. And maybe it ain’t what people expect, or what they talk about out loud… but it’s real.”

Louis’ grip on the reins eased just a little. His other hand shifted instinctively pulling Harry in tighter, pressing his palm against his chest to feel the slow, steady rhythm beneath the bandages.

Alive. Still alive.

He finally said, quiet as breath: “I don’t know how to deserve him.”

Maggie gave a soft sound that was half laugh, half sorrow. “You think any of us know how to deserve love? We don’t. We just don’t waste it when it comes.”

Louis nodded slowly, more to himself than her.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It felt… full. Like something had been said that couldn’t be unsaid. Something that could be carried now, instead of hidden. Maggie didn’t push again, didn’t ask for more. She just rode beside him, steady, close. Familiar in a way that wasn’t painful anymore.

The town was still a ways off, just visible now on the far horizon with little buildings tucked beneath the wide blue sky. Louis focused on that. On the ache in his thighs from riding too long. On the weight of Harry against him. On the steady, stubborn beat of a heart that refused to quit.

He didn’t know what came next. Not really. But he knew what mattered most. And right now, that was making damn sure Harry got the chance to wake up in a world that still had room for both of them in it.

So he kept riding.

By the time they hit Main Street proper, folks had started to look. Not the kind of look Louis was used to, no wary eyes or half-bowed heads. This was different.

People were staring. At the way he rode, clutching someone they couldn’t see. At Maggie, right behind him, eyes red, hair wild, blood on her apron and hands. At the way he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Didn’t speak.

The doctor’s place was just past the chapel. White shutters. Big windows. Curtains pulled halfway against the heat. Blue skidded slightly when Louis pulled hard on the reins, but the horse didn’t falter.

Louis slid off the saddle before the dust even settled, arms curled tight around Harry’s slack frame. Maggie was already off her horse, running up the steps ahead of him.

“Doc!” she banged the door. “Doc, we need you! He’s bad!”

Inside, feet scrambled. Wood creaked. A voice shouted something muffled, and then the door flung open, the scent of antiseptic and tobacco smoke rushing out with it.

The doctor—a small, wiry man with spectacles and sleeves rolled to the elbow—took one look at Harry and didn’t bother asking questions.

“Back room,” he snapped, already turning. “Lay him on the long table. Maggie, fetch the burn water and bandage case.”

Louis followed, head ducked low, his breath loud in his own ears.

Still warm. Still breathing.

The doctor’s back room smelled of alcohol, old books, and worn-out prayers.

Louis didn’t even flinch when the doc snapped for him to lay Harry down. He moved on instinct, like if he rushed a single inch Harry might unravel in his arms. The table was narrow, hard wood under a thin blanket, and Louis cradled Harry down onto it like a man handing off half his own heart.

“Keep that pressure on the gauze,” the doc barked, already rolling up his sleeves and barking orders to his nurse. “Don’t let up. Grab scissors. And heat the irons just in case.”

Louis pressed both hands down over Harry’s side, the bandages squelching softly under his palms. He could feel the pulse fluttering at Harry’s neck, weak but still there. Still trying.

The doctor moved with clipped efficiency cutting the bandages open, inspecting the stitching Maggie had done, nodding once in what Louis hoped was approval. He peeled back the cloth soaked through with blood and muttered, “Jesus, someone got lucky.”

“Don’t feel like luck,” Louis rasped.

“Could’ve hit the lung,” the doc said. “Could’ve torn the liver. Could’ve nicked the artery that feeds his gut. But it didn’t.”

“Is that good?” Louis asked, though his mouth was already dry.

The doctor looked up briefly. “It means he gets to fight. That’s all we can ask for.”

Louis nodded once, slow. His hands didn’t move.

The nurse returned with supplies, setting a bowl of hot water and another of boiled rags on the table beside them. The doctor didn’t waste breath on pleasantries. His fingers were already moving steady, stained with the same red Louis couldn’t seem to wash off himself.

“Hand me the curved needle,” he said, voice low but direct.

Maggie and Louis watched as the nurse passed it without comment. Maggie was standing just behind Louis now, close but not crowding. Her hands were folded tight against her stomach, like she was holding herself together piece by piece.

Louis stayed where he was, hunched over, his shadow stretching long across Harry’s body in the flickering lamplight. He watched every movement. Watched as the doctor cleaned the wound again, stitched layer by layer, sealing flesh with quiet precision. Watched as Harry’s face twitched at the edges, breath rattling soft and shallow, caught somewhere between this world and wherever he’d been drifting.

The stitching took time. The wrapping even longer. The fever hadn’t come yet, but it would. The doctor had already warned them they'd keep him cool, watch his breathing like a hawk.

“He makes it through the next day or two, I’ll be surprised,” he’d said flatly. “But not shocked.” He looked to Louis, brows drawn under tired eyes. “Some people just don’t quit.”

Louis nodded once. “That’s him.”

The doc wiped his hands, stepped away from the table. “I’ve done what I can. Rest now. Both of you.”

He gave Maggie a look, one that understood too much, and said too little. She nodded and followed him quietly out of the room, pulling the door to with a soft click.

Now it was just them.

Harry lay motionless, breath still thin, but there. Louis sat beside the table in a worn wooden chair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

For a long time, he didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Then finally soft, low, and full of something that had been waiting too long to be let out: “You weren’t supposed to mean this much.”

He looked up, eyes red-rimmed, jaw trembling.

“I didn’t want to love again. Not after—” he stopped, swallowed. “Not after the life I had. After what it turned me into.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against Harry’s temple. The touch was gentle. Reverent.

“But you showed up anyway. With your damn wildflowers and your dumb plants and that mouth that never shuts up.”

A breath caught in his throat, and he let it break.

“And I didn’t even see it happening. Not until it was already too late.”

His fingers curled over Harry’s hand again, holding tight.

“But I ain’t lettin’ you go. You hear me? Not now. Not like this. You stay. You fight. I don’t care if it hurts, I’ll carry you through it.”

He bent his head again, closing his eyes.

“You stay.”

Louis stayed.

Long after the doc left the room. Long after the lamps burned low. Long after Maggie’s boots had stopped moving across the floorboards.

He didn’t move from Harry’s side, not once. His chair groaned beneath him, but he didn’t notice. The night pressed in heavy around them, thick with the scent of blood, iodine, and quiet desperation.

Harry didn’t stir. But he breathed. And Louis counted every damn one.

There wasn’t a clock in the room, but the light outside the shuttered windows had gone from gold to gray, and now hovered somewhere between blue and black. Still, Louis didn’t sleep. His hand stayed wrapped around Harry’s, thumb brushing soft circles against his knuckles.

At some point, he whispered again. Not out of hope that Harry would respond but because silence made the room feel like a tomb.

“You remember that first week?” he said, voice hoarse. “You wore that ridiculous shirt. The one with the sunflowers.”

He exhaled a laugh that barely made it past his lips.

“I thought you were a damn fool.”

His grip tightened slightly.

“But then you went and taught me how to breathe again.”

The door creaked behind him, but Louis didn’t turn. He knew those footsteps.

Maggie stepped in slow, her hands wringing the edge of her skirt. She didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, watching him in the dim light, watching the man she’d once called her husband sit so still beside someone else.

Someone who mattered.

Finally, she cleared her throat softly. “You eaten anything?”

Louis shook his head. “Not hungry.”

“You should be,” she said, but without bite. “You been holdin’ the world up all day. Need somethin’ in you.”

He didn’t answer. Maggie crossed the room, slow and cautious like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed this space anymore.

“I meant what I said, you know,” she said quietly, voice low but steady. “About not understandin’. But still seein’ it.”

Louis nodded a little, still not looking up. His eyes were locked on Harry’s face, on the pulse at his throat, the faint twitch of his chest.

Maggie pulled the other chair closer. Sat down.

“You loved me once,” she said, almost more to herself. “And I believe that. I do. But you never looked at me the way you look at him.”

Louis’ breath caught. “Maggie—”

She held up a hand. “I ain’t mad about it. I’ve had a long ride and a longer think.” Her eyes drifted to Harry. “And I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. But not about love. I know what it looks like.”

She was quiet for a moment, then added, softer now, “You found it. And that means somethin’. Even if it ain’t with me.”

Louis looked over at her, finally. She looked tired. And older than she had a week ago. But there was something softer in her too, like a thorn had been pulled from her chest and she was still feeling the ache of where it’d been.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Louis said. “Back then. I didn’t know what I was. What I needed.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Neither did I.”

They sat like that for a minute, two people holding pieces of the same past, finally able to look at it without picking up the blame.

Maggie looked back to Harry. “He gonna wake up?”

Louis looked too. “He will. He has to.”

Maggie nodded, then rose slowly to her feet. She paused with her hand on the doorframe. “I think when this is all over,” she said, “you and him oughta go somewhere. Start fresh. Somewhere folks ain’t so interested in who you used to be.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “I’ll finish things here. Keep the ranch standing until someone bites on the price. You don’t owe me stayin’. But maybe you owe yourself leavin’.”

Louis stared after her, speechless. There was more he wanted to say; thanks, forgiveness, maybe even grief. But the words wouldn’t come. So he just nodded. And then she left. The door shut soft behind her.

And Louis turned back to Harry, his whole world wrapped in one frail body on a too-small table still waiting for the next breath. Still counting. Still holding on.

—

The waiting was the worst part.

Louis hadn’t left the room. Not once. He slept in fits, if at all. Slumped forward in the wooden chair beside the bed, or curled on the floor when his body gave out. He ate only when Maggie brought something and didn’t leave until she saw him take a bite.

The doc came in every few hours to check the bandages, the fever, the breathing. He always said the same thing: “Still with us. Still stable. Sometimes it takes time.”

Time.

Louis was starting to hate the sound of that word.

Harry hadn’t stirred once. Just breathed slow and shallow, wrapped in layers of cotton and quiet, his skin pale but no longer ghost-gray. The wound was healing, the doc said. But his body was slow to follow.

It was just past noon when the peace shattered. Louis had just stepped out onto the porch, blinking at the hard sunlight, when a voice cut through the quiet.

“Help! Somebody—please—he’s bleeding!”

Louis turned fast.

A girl—sixteen, maybe seventeen—was stumbling down the street, half-dragging a man slumped over her shoulder. Her boots scraped the dirt, her braid was coming loose, and her eyes were wide with panic.

“Doc!” she shouted, tears in her throat. “Please—he’s been shot!”

Louis bolted down the steps. “What happened?”

The girl looked up, saw him, and froze for just a second. Then her grip tightened on the man beside her.

“They came at night,” she said, panting. “Three of them. Bandanas, guns, they didn’t even ask for anything, just said… said it was a warning. That he’d helped someone he shouldn’t’ve.”

Louis’ heart dropped. “Where’re you from?”

“South ridge. Near the old creek.”

Doc came running out behind Louis, Maggie just behind him. They rushed forward, grabbing the man by the arms, easing him down onto the porch.

Louis knelt beside the girl. “What’d they look like?”

She shook her head, breath shaking. “Didn’t see their faces. Just heard one say something. Said, ‘Tell him this is from Tuck.’”

Louis went still.

Maggie, pale behind the doc, turned to him slowly. “He’s not just after you.”

Louis stood up, fury hollow in his chest. The doc was already barking orders, dragging the man inside. The girl followed close, her shoulders tight with fear.

Louis didn’t move right away. His hand drifted to the grip of his gun. The porch boards beneath his boots felt suddenly too still.

He stared down the street like he expected another rider to appear out of the shimmer gun in hand, face wrapped, message ready.

But nothing came. Only the wind. Only dust and heat and that same godawful silence that always came before the next shot was fired.

Behind him, Maggie stepped onto the porch. She didn’t say anything at first, just stood beside him, arms crossed tight over her chest, her face gone hard again. It was a look Louis remembered. The one she wore when they buried cattle in winter. When storms came through and took more than they gave.

“What’re you thinkin’?” she asked, voice low.

Louis didn’t answer right away. His fingers flexed once against the grip of his Colt. Then again. Slower. Finally: “Tuck ain’t hiding. Not really.”

Maggie’s brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

Louis’ voice was flat. Quiet. The kind of calm that came from rage so deep it’d run cold. “He’s not just after me,” he said. “He’s after everyone who knew us. Who knew what we were.”

Maggie turned toward him, eyes narrowing.

Louis kept going. “He’s cleanin’ the slate. One body at a time. Anyone who might remember who he was before he started callin’ the shots, anyone who might remind the world he ain’t untouchable.”

He glanced back toward the door, where the girl and her father had disappeared inside. His jaw worked. “He’s burnin’ bridges and callin’ it strategy.”

Maggie was quiet for a moment. Then: “He’s cuttin’ ties.”

Louis nodded. “Wipin’ every trace of what we were. What we did. What we knew.”

Maggie let out a slow breath. “And you think you’re the last one left.”

He looked out toward the road again, toward the shimmer of heat curling above the trail, toward the wide stretch of nothing where danger could ride in from any direction.

“Tuck don’t fear death,” Louis said. “He fears bein’ forgotten. He fears bein’ small. So he’s makin’ damn sure no one left alive can tell a story where he ain’t the devil in charge.”

Maggie’s mouth was tight, jaw clenched hard. “And you? You think he’s savin’ you for last?”

“No,” Louis said. “He’s waitin’ for me to come.”

She turned to him sharply. “What if that’s what he wants?”

“It is,” Louis said. “But it don’t matter.”

He finally looked at her, eyes hard and sharp as flint. “This ain’t about revenge anymore. It’s about stoppin’ him before there’s nothin’ left to save.”

—-

The smoke curled slow from the end of the cigar, rising into the late-afternoon air like it had nowhere to be. Just another ghost on the porch.

Louis leaned back in the wooden chair, boots crossed at the ankle, hat tugged low against the sun. He’d barely spoken all day—not to the doc, not to the neighbor woman who brought stew by and didn’t ask questions. Not even to Harry, who was sleeping more than not, the fever having broken sometime in the early morning.

Doc said that was good. Said he was healing.

But Louis knew healing and peace weren’t the same thing.

The cigar crackled soft between his fingers.

Maggie was gone now. Riding out to the Halloways. Said she needed the quiet. The space. Louis didn’t blame her. The ranch wasn’t safe, and she was smart enough to know that when a man like Tuck was casting shadows, it didn’t matter if you stayed still. The darkness would still find you.

So now, it was just the creak of the chair. The quiet hum of the town going on like it didn’t know hell was inching closer. And Louis, sitting there, chewing on the taste of the past like it might poison him if he swallowed it wrong.

Tuck had always been older. Not by much, maybe four, five years. But back then, that was everything. He was the one who had the stories, the charm, the answers. When Louis first rode with him, he’d still had blood on his boots from his first real kill. He remembered the way Tuck laughed and clapped him on the back like it was some rite of passage instead of a loss.

He’d wanted to be him. Tuck was freedom, once. Fire and confidence and that kind of magnetic cruelty that made men follow him even when they hated themselves for it. And Louis had followed. For years. Until the smoke stopped smelling like victory and started smelling like guilt.

So why now?

Why, after all this time, was Tuck circling back like a buzzard? He had his empire, small, brutal, but loyal. He had fear sewn into half the territories between here and the border. He didn’t need Louis to burn it brighter.

Unless…Unless Louis was the only piece left that could prove he wasn’t invincible.

Tuck had made his myth on being untouchable. On being a god in the eyes of desperate men. And Louis? He was the only one who’d seen behind that curtain and walked away still breathing.

That kind of defiance stuck.

Louis took another pull from the cigar, let the smoke roll out slow.

Maybe this wasn’t about erasing the past. Maybe it was about rewriting it. Turning Louis into the villain. Making sure anyone left who remembered the truth only remembered it with a bullet in their gut.

He rubbed a thumb over the worn band of his hat, eyes narrowing toward the horizon. The same old trail stretched out from the edge of town, winding past broken fences and open land. The same road Tuck had likely ridden once. The same road Louis would have to take again soon.

And Harry.

Goddamn it, Harry.

The thought of him bandaged and sleeping just down the hall knocked something loose in Louis’ chest. That boy had nothing to do with this. Hadn’t asked for any of it. But he’d stepped into it anyway. Stood beside him. Took a bullet meant for something older, uglier.

And now Louis had to choose.

Let the past devour them both…Or finally turn and face the monster he helped build.

The cigar burned low in his hand.

Louis flicked the ash over the railing.

Didn’t matter how Tuck rewrote the story. Louis had already chosen his ending. And this time, he wasn’t walking away.

Louis watched the last inch of cigar burn down to the nub, the ember pulsing like a heartbeat before it dimmed out. He held it a second longer between his fingers, thumb brushing absently over the band where the label used to be. Then he crushed it against the porch rail and let it go.

Behind him, the door creaked open. Bootsteps. Light. Familiar. He didn’t even need to turn.

Doc’s voice came low, but with a current of energy just beneath it. “He’s stirring.”

Louis’ heart kicked once, sharp and sudden, like a horse flinching under a whip.

He was on his way back in before the doc finished speaking.

The hallway blurred as he moved, spurs silent, hands already flexing like they needed something to hold. He didn’t knock. Didn’t slow. Just pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside.

Harry was there. Right where he left him. Still pale. Still bandaged. Still looking like he’d gone a few rounds with the devil himself and barely made it back.

But his head had turned. Just a little. And his eyes were open.

Barely slits. Glassy. Struggling. But open.

“Hey,” Louis breathed, like the word alone could tether him. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Harry’s eyes tracked the sound, slow and sluggish. His lips parted, dry and cracked, breath catching like it had to claw its way out of his lungs. But then—

“…that...you?”

Louis crossed the room in two steps, dropping to one knee beside the bed. His hands hovered for a moment over Harry’s arm, his chest, the blanket tucked under his chin, like he couldn’t pick just one place to anchor himself.

“I’m here,” he said, voice low and trembling. “Right here.”

Harry blinked slow. “Dreamed… you left.”

“I didn’t,” Louis said. “Not once.”

Harry’s brows twitched together like that hurt to believe. “Feels like… weeks.”

Louis huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been grief. “Feels longer from this side.”

Harry exhaled something close to a sigh. His hand twitched under the blanket. Louis caught it gently, wrapping his fingers around the trembling ones like they were the only solid thing in the world.

Louis leaned in, their joined hands resting lightly on the thin blanket, his thumb brushing soft and steady over Harry’s knuckles, back and forth like the rhythm might keep him grounded, tethered to this side of the veil.

“You’re alright,” Louis murmured, like he could speak it into truth. “You’re here. You made it back.”

Harry’s lashes fluttered. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. Just the small, unspoken effort of a man still crawling out of the dark.

Louis moved his free hand to Harry’s cheek, palm warm against fever-flushed skin. “Doc says you’re healing,” he said softly. “Real slow. Real stubborn. Just like you.”

A faint squeeze came from Harry’s hand, so light it could’ve been imagined, but Louis didn’t imagine it. He knew Harry too well. Even barely breathing, the man was still answering him. Still choosing to stay.

Louis swallowed hard and kept talking, voice low and steady.

“Town’s quiet,” he said. “For now. Maggie’s off with the Halloways. Said she’s gonna rest a while. Doc’s got a heavy hand, but he means well.”

Harry didn’t reply, but his fingers moved again, brushing against Louis’ like a ghost trying to hold on.

Louis let himself smile just a little. Just enough. “Missed the sound of your voice. These walls are too quiet without it.”

Harry’s lips parted, dry and cracked, and Louis saw the flicker of determination behind his tired eyes. The same stubborn light that had carried him through bullet wounds and fire and fear.

“Lou…” he rasped. It barely made a sound. His throat worked around the word like it weighed more than he could lift.

Louis leaned in fast, like the breath itself was sacred. “I’m here,” he whispered. “Take your time, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Harry blinked slow. His tongue dragged across his lower lip, like he was searching for strength somewhere in the dryness.

“…Missed you,” he breathed.

Louis’ chest went tight. He swallowed hard and smiled small, broken, and full of awe. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he murmured. “Laid up like this and still fightin’. Still sayin’ things that wreck me.” He stroked his thumb across Harry’s cheek, slow and reverent. “You could say the sky’s blue and I’d probably cry about it right now.”

Harry huffed the ghost of a laugh, but it lit something bright in his face for just a moment. His hand shifted under Louis’ again, shaky but sure.

Then, with every ounce of effort he had left, he muttered, slurred but teasing: “Real unfair… you say shit like that… and I can’t kiss you for it.”

Louis choked on a laugh, his eyes instantly misting over. “Goddamn, you’re somethin’ else.”

Harry’s smile twitched a little wider, though it cost him. His breath came shallow, the effort of speaking already dragging at his strength but Louis could see it in his eyes. That flicker. That fight. The part of him that always came back swinging, no matter how bloodied.

Louis kissed the corner of his mouth just barely, just enough.

“I’ll take a rain check on that kiss,” he said softly. “You get better, and I’ll let you shut me up proper.”

Harry’s eyes closed, but the smile stayed. Like he’d taken that promise and folded it somewhere deep.

Louis held his hand tighter, grounding them both. “Rest, now. You’ve done enough.”

There was no reply but the tension eased from Harry’s brow, his breathing settled into something steadier. The kind of quiet that finally felt like peace.

Louis sat back, never letting go. And for the first time in days, he let himself believe: They might just come through this after all.

Three days passed.

The fever didn’t come back. The bandages held. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime of blood and running, there was room for quiet.

They stayed in the back room of the doc’s house. Harry still couldn’t walk more than a few steps at a time without getting winded, and Louis stayed close through all of it. Just out of arm’s reach when Harry needed space, hovering right behind him when he didn’t.

Mornings were slow.

Louis would sit beside the bed with a cup of strong, bitter coffee while Harry blinked himself awake. He’d grumble about the taste, about the light, about the way Louis fluffed the pillows too high, but Louis just smirked and said, “You complainin’ means you’re alive. I’ll take it.”

Harry flipped him off with weak fingers, and Louis kissed them like they were made of gold.

Afternoons were quieter.

Louis would read out loud sometimes. Whatever newspaper they could get. A book Maggie had left behind. One afternoon, it was a dime western that made Harry groan every time a cowboy called someone “ma’am” before pulling a miracle shot off a rooftop.

“Ridiculous,” Harry muttered.

“Says the man who got shot through the gut and lived.”

“Difference is,” Harry said, eyes closed, “I didn’t do it wearing fancy boots and a name like ‘Cactus Jack.’”

Louis chuckled and kept reading anyway.

Evenings were the best.

They didn’t do much, just sat. Louis would pull his chair closer and prop his boots up on the edge of the bed, or slide in beside Harry if the doc wasn’t around to scold him for crowding.

Sometimes Harry leaned into him, head tucked under Louis’ jaw, breath warm against his collarbone. Sometimes he fell asleep mid-sentence, his hand curled against Louis’ chest like he’d anchored there and forgotten how to let go.

Louis never moved. Never minded. He’d just hold him, one hand splayed gentle over Harry’s ribs rising and falling, slow and steady and whisper, “Stay.”

Always “stay.”

And Harry did. He stayed through the pain, the exhaustion, the restless nights where he jolted awake gasping and Louis was already there with a palm on his chest, murmuring, “You’re safe. You’re here.”

He stayed through the quiet. Through the peace. Through the waiting. And as the days passed, little pieces of him returned. A joke. A smile. A flicker of that same old spark in his eyes.

By the fourth morning, he managed to sit up on his own.

Harry’s hands braced on either side of him, the quilt rumpled beneath his fingers as he eased upright with a hiss through his teeth but no groan. That was new. Progress. He was pale, yes, and leaner than he should’ve been, but he was up. Shoulders squared like he was proving a point.

Louis stood nearby, arms crossed tight across his chest, watching like the bed might reach up and swallow Harry whole if he so much as blinked.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, breath a little thin. “Not riding out to war. Just sitting.”

Louis didn’t budge.

Harry gave him a long, tired look. “You gonna breathe anytime soon?”

Louis exhaled. Sharp. “Barely two days ago you were halfway to the grave, don’t expect me to clap ‘cause you sat upright without faintin’.”

Harry smirked, weak but cocky. “Well, I didn’t faint. So maybe do a little clap?”

Louis glared but the edges of it softened almost immediately. He stepped forward, boots thudding softly against the wood floor. He crouched down between Harry’s knees without thinking, hands coming up instinctively to settle on either side of his thighs, like he needed to physically hold him steady even though Harry wasn’t swaying.

“You shouldn’t push it,” Louis said quietly. “You always try and rush things.”

Harry’s smirk faded into something gentler. “And you always worry too much.”

Louis looked up at him. Close enough to see the healed skin around the stitches. Close enough to see the wear in Harry’s eyes but also the light coming back.

Harry lifted one hand, slow, and brushed it through Louis’ hair, fingers carding gently through the strands like he’d missed the feel of it. His thumb traced the edge of Louis’ temple.

Louis let his eyes fall closed for a second under the touch. When he opened them again, they were softer. Brighter. Like something was unclenching in his chest.

Harry leaned forward and murmured, “No one’s around.”

Louis didn’t ask what he meant. He knew.

So he tilted his face up, one hand sliding up to Harry’s waist, the other brushing against his side with exquisite care, mindful of every healing inch.

The kiss was soft. No heat. No rush.

Just a long, slow meeting of mouths, familiar and unguarded and gentle in a way that felt more dangerous than anything else they’d ever done. It was all breath and warmth and the quiet thump of two hearts learning how to beat in sync again.

When they parted, Harry kept his forehead pressed to Louis’. “See?” he whispered. “Better already.”

Louis chuckled, low and rough, his hand still warm against Harry’s ribs. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You are.”

Harry smiled at that, something soft and true. The kind of smile that came from being seen. Being held. Being loved in a way that didn’t ask for anything back but presence.

Louis stayed where he was a moment longer, crouched between Harry’s legs, hands still ghosting gentle along his sides like he couldn’t quite let go. Like he was still making sure this was real.

“I keep thinkin’,” Louis said quietly, voice low and rough with honesty, “if I blink too long, I’ll open my eyes and you’ll be gone.”

Harry’s hand slid down from his temple to cradle the side of his neck, thumb brushing just under his jaw. “You’re not losin’ me.”

“You nearly died.”

“But I didn’t.” His gaze didn’t waver. “And you didn’t leave. You pulled me back.”

Louis swallowed, the words catching sharp behind his teeth. “Didn’t know I could. Thought I’d lost too much already to still believe in that kind of thing.”

Harry’s eyes softened further. “Then let me be the one you don’t lose.”

Louis nodded, small and sure. Then rose slowly, cupping Harry’s face with one hand like he was something precious. He kissed his forehead next. Just once.

Harry’s eyes didn’t leave Louis’, even after the kiss. There was something steadier in them now; more color, more weight. Less haze, more fight. He was still weak, sure, but not gone. Not dimmed.

He was back.

“So,” he said, quiet but certain, “what happens now?”

Louis hesitated, hand still resting gently along the line of Harry’s jaw. “We keep healing. You do, I mean. You get stronger. Rest some more. Doc thinks another week, maybe less.”

Harry shook his head slightly. “I didn’t mean that.”

Louis pulled back half a step, enough to see the question in Harry’s eyes more clearly. Not about bandages or fevers. Not about meals and medicine.

This was the real question. About Tuck.

Louis sighed, low and resigned. He reached for the edge of the chair and dragged it closer, settling into it with a heaviness that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with truth.

“I think…” He ran a hand down his face, then looked at Harry again. “He ain’t just after me. Not anymore. He’s settin’ fire to anyone who crossed him, anyone who made him look weak. Doesn’t matter how long ago it was.”

Harry frowned. “But you think it’s personal with you.”

Louis nodded. “Yeah. I’m the one that walked. Only one, far as I know, who made it out alive and didn’t crawl back or get buried quiet somewhere out past the border.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “When I left, he didn’t come after me. Not then. Not right away. But now… now he’s got a legacy to protect. He’s more myth than man in most places.”

Harry watched him, quiet. Patient.

Louis continued. “Someone like me walkin’ free? Buildin’ somethin’ decent? That ain’t a loose end he’s willin’ to leave hangin’. Makes people wonder if he can be walked away from. Makes ‘im human.”

Harry’s brow tightened. “So what do we do?”

Louis met his eyes again. “We stop him.”

“Just like that.”

Louis gave a tired smile. “No. Not just like that. But I’m done lettin’ him cut through folks who ain’t got nothin’ to do with this. Innocent people. Kids. Ranchers. You.”

His hands flexed on his thighs. “We’ve been playin’ defense, patchin’ holes in a boat he keeps shootin’ from the shore. That ends now.”

Harry’s voice was low, but fierce: “You’re gonna go to him.”

Louis nodded. “I have to. End it clean. Either he’s done, or I am. But this don’t follow us forever. I won’t let it.”

Harry reached for his hand again, finding it and lacing their fingers together slow and sure. “I’m not lettin’ you do it alone.”

Louis looked down at their joined hands, at the tremble still hiding in Harry’s fingers, at the faint bruises clinging to his skin, reminders of how close he’d come to not being here at all.

He closed his eyes.

Then, gently but firmly, he brought their hands up and kissed Harry’s knuckles. Held them there for a moment. Just breathing.

“You already did your part,” he murmured. “You bled for this. You bled for me.”

“I’d do it again,” Harry said, voice quiet but hard.

“That’s exactly why I can’t let you.” Louis opened his eyes again, and they were glassy with something more than just exhaustion. “I know what this looks like. You think I’m walkin’ into fire and leaving you behind but I ain’t. I’m tryin’ to make sure the fire don’t reach you again.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “I can still ride. Maybe not far yet, but give me a few more days—”

Louis opened his mouth to argue soft, steady, already lining up the words, but Harry raised a hand, slow and trembling, and pressed two fingers to his lips.

“Just… let me talk a sec,” he murmured. “Yeah?”

Louis stilled. Nodded.

Harry took a breath, deep but uneven, his chest lifting under the thin blanket. “When I was out—when everything was pain or black—I kept dreaming.”

His eyes drifted somewhere distant, not away from Louis, but inward. Like he was still half-there.

“You and me. Up north. Proper north. Fields. Hills. Not a town in sight. Just sky and wind and grass so high it nearly swallowed our boots.”

He smiled faintly, tired but sure. “You were barefoot for some reason. Said the dirt was ‘realer than the road.’ Kept going on about how ‘real things matter more.’ You sounded annoyed, but I could tell you were happy.”

Louis let out a quiet, near-silent laugh, his throat too tight for it to fully leave his chest.

Harry’s voice went softer. “You never left. Not once. Even when I nodded off, even when it was quiet. You stayed close enough I could hear you breathe. That didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like… what’s left, after everything else is gone. And I want that. I want you. I want mornings without fear, and afternoons with our backs in the grass, and quiet nights where you don’t wake up looking for a gun.”

Louis didn’t say anything. Just kept hold of Harry’s hand, thumb brushing over knuckles like he was committing the shape of them to memory.

Harry’s grip tightened, weak but insistent. “If you’re going after him, fine. I get it. You’ve got to. But don’t think I’m just gonna sit here, twiddling my thumbs like I’m some side story. I’m not leaving you to walk into it alone.”

Louis’ voice came low. Rough. “You’re still healing.”

“Then I’ll heal on the trail,” Harry said, quiet but unflinching. “Or in the next town. Or curled up on the bloody horse if I have to. But I’m not missing out on whatever’s waiting once it’s done.” His voice dropped again, nearly a whisper. “I’m not sitting behind, wondering if I could’ve had a life with you. A real one.”

Louis bowed his head, forehead pressing to the back of Harry’s hand like a prayer. His shoulders shook once. The silence that followed was thick, but with something more fragile. More precious. Like truth had settled between them and dared either one to move.

Louis didn’t.

He stayed right there, eyes closed, the cool press of Harry’s hand against his forehead the only thing anchoring him to the moment. To himself.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, caught somewhere between reverence and apology. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted that didn’t come with blood on it.”

Harry didn’t flinch.  Didn’t smile, either. Just watched him—quiet, steady, the strength in his gaze steadier than the body it lived in.

“And you think walking away from that’s some kind of mercy?” Harry asked softly. “Letting me sit here without an inkling you're okay while you go get yourself killed?”

Louis lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes again. “I think it’s protection.”

Harry held his gaze. “It’s cowardice.”

That landed like a shot between them, sharper than Harry meant, maybe. But not wrong.

Harry’s fingers loosened, then re-tightened, gentler this time. “I know you’re trying to save me from this. I do. But I didn’t crawl back from death just to watch you walk away from the only good thing either of us has had in years.”

Louis’ voice was almost broken. “You think I’m good?”

Harry tilted his head, as if baffled the question even had to be asked. “I think you’re better than you know,” he said. “And if you’re walking into hell, then I’ll be at your back. Even if I’ve got to limp there.”

Louis let out a shaky breath. A laugh, maybe. Or grief, disguised as one. “You and me,” he whispered. “After?”

Harry nodded. “You and me. Wildflowers. Quiet. Somewhere no one’s ever heard the name Tuck.”

Louis closed his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” Harry whispered. “I’m not letting go.”

And neither of them did.

—-

The next morning broke clear and cold, the kind of sky that felt too wide for the weight in Louis’ chest.

Harry dressed slowly, carefully, one sleeve at a time, and Louis hovered as always, fingers itching to help but knowing Harry would swat him away if he so much as breathed too loud.

Doc had just finished checking the bandages, making a sound like reluctant approval as he stepped back.

“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel, “he’s still got the colour of someone too damn stubborn to die, so I reckon he’s ready to be miserable somewhere else.”

Harry grinned, breathless. “High praise.”

Doc gave a little huff and gestured to the bag Louis had packed near the door. “He rides easy, stays warm, eats when he can. You hear me?”

Louis nodded. “I hear you.”

Doc turned toward Harry, fixing him with a look that had probably saved more lives than the medicine in his cupboard. “And you, don’t get clever out there. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

Harry offered a tired smile, leaning on the edge of the dresser as he adjusted his coat. “Wasn’t planning to be clever.”

Louis reached for the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. His other hand hovered near Harry’s elbow, close enough to catch him if he stumbled, but not close enough to insult him.

Outside, Blue waited, already saddled and shifting patiently, as if he too knew the weight of the road ahead. The air bit a little, the kind of chill that clung to your bones and made the silence louder.

As Louis helped Harry down the steps, Doc stepped onto the porch one last time. “Wait,” he called, fishing into his coat pocket.

Louis turned, brows knitting.

Doc handed Louis the letter with a slight frown, eyes flicking between the worn envelope and the weariness still lingering in Louis’ shoulders.

“Didn’t look like much when it came in,” Doc said. “No seal. No name. Just had that feel about it…"

Louis took it slowly. The paper was rough. Smelled faintly of smoke. His name was scrawled across the front in a hand that barely held together; shaky, uneven, like someone had been writing through pain, or blurred vision, or both.

He turned it over. Opened it carefully. Harry watched from where he leaned against the porch rail, his coat tugged tight, face pale in the morning light.

Louis didn’t say anything as he read. Didn’t move. Just stood still, jaw clenched, eyes flicking over the broken scrawl that looked like it had been dragged across the page by a man halfway to madness.

The ink was smeared in places, streaked with what could’ve been rain, or tears, but the message was clear enough once he read it twice.

“Funny thing about ghosts. They always come back.
I remember the place you screamed the loudest. I’m there.
Come finish what you couldn’t.”

No name. No signature. But it didn’t need one. Louis folded the paper slowly, each crease deliberate, then tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.

Harry straightened slightly. “Was it him?”

Louis nodded once. “The church. Dawson Hallow. Same place he rode off and left me bleedin’ out in the dirt.”

Harry was quiet for a second, his breath visible in the cold. “He’s taunting you.”

“He wants it to end where it started.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “And somehow, he knew where to send that. Knew we were here.”

Louis’ shoulders tensed at that. He’d been thinking the same thing.

He looked at Doc. “Anyone see who delivered it?”

Doc shook his head. “No one I recognised. Letter was just there when I opened up the porch, restin’ on the rail like it’d been set down careful.”

Louis didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Harry’s voice was lower now. Serious. “Means he’s been watching. Or someone’s been watching for him.”

Louis nodded, jaw tight. “He knows more than he should.”

He looked out toward the trail, the sun not yet high, casting long, pale shadows across the frostbit grass.

“Time to stop lettin’ him pull the strings.”

Louis glanced at him, at the line of Harry’s jaw, pale but set; at the hand resting steady on his side.

Then he looked to Blue, waiting patient and silent. Louis took a breath, slow and deep, the kind a man takes before he starts something he can’t walk away from.

“Let’s ride.”

Blue shifted slightly as Louis stepped closer, reins in one hand, the other reaching back for Harry who was already gripping the saddle with quiet determination.

“I can do it,” Harry muttered under his breath, one foot in the stirrup, jaw clenched against the ache still lingering beneath his ribs.

Louis was already there.

“I know,” he said softly, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”

Harry didn’t argue, just let Louis lift him the rest of the way, his breath hitching as he settled into the saddle. Louis’ hands never left him. One braced his hip, the other adjusting the blanket that hung between the saddle and Harry’s back.

“You good?” Louis murmured, voice close at his ear now, breath warm against the chill.

Harry gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just…don’t let me fall off and die, yeah?”

Louis’ laugh was quiet. “You fall, I fall. That’s the deal.”

Then Louis swung up behind him in one smooth motion, boots sliding into the stirrups, chest pressed flush to Harry’s back. His arms came around without hesitation, one hand settling on the reins, the other firm at Harry’s waist, anchoring him.

Harry exhaled slowly, relaxing into him by degrees. “You’re smothering me.”

“You love it.”

Harry leaned his head back slightly until it rested against Louis’ shoulder. “I do.”

Louis nudged Blue forward with a gentle heel, the horse responding easy and smooth beneath them. As they rolled into motion, Louis kept both hands firm, one guiding the reins, the other splayed across Harry’s middle, protective in a way he didn’t bother hiding anymore.

Once the town slipped behind them, swallowed up by dust and distance, the world quieted.

No clatter of boots on boards. No doors creaking open. No eyes tracking them from behind curtains. Just the soft, steady rhythm of Blue’s hooves in the dirt and the wind whispering low through the brush.

Louis had Blue at a crawl, barely more than a walk, every step careful and deliberate. The trail was gentle here, the earth forgiving, but even the smallest dip could jostle Harry’s side if they weren’t mindful. And Louis was nothing if not mindful.

His arm stayed firm across Harry’s waist, his hand splayed wide like he could absorb every shift of movement before it reached him.

Harry leaned back slightly, quiet and calm, his body soft with trust. His fingers had curled around Louis’ arm somewhere between town and the first bend in the road. Just a light hold. Like he needed to keep a part of him tethered.

Louis dipped his head then, lips brushing gently against the slope of Harry’s shoulder once, then twice.

Harry hummed, low in his throat. “Mm. S’that allowed?”

“Out here?” Louis murmured. “Reckon I can kiss you as much as I damn well want.”

He pressed another kiss, slower this time. Then he exhaled, the breath catching a little as it left him.

“I missed you so much,” he said, voice roughened by all the things he hadn’t let himself say before now. “Scared the life outta me. Watchin’ you go still like that.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. Just reached his hand and laced his fingers with Louis' where they rested against his ribs.

The silence stretched, soft as dusk. Then Harry said, quiet but clear, “I remember hearing you.”

Louis’ brow furrowed slightly. “When?”

Harry shifted a little, just enough that his head tilted back against Louis’ shoulder. His voice was low, not quite steady. “When I was out of it. Not fully gone, just… floating, I guess. I kept hearing you talking to me. Thought it was my head at first. But it wasn’t.”

Louis’ grip tightened ever so slightly. “What’d I say?”

Harry smiled faintly, eyes on the horizon. “Don’t remember all of it. Just bits. You said you weren’t done with me yet. Told me to stay. Said—” His voice caught for a moment, a breath hitching through cracked lips. “Said you loved me.”

Louis closed his eyes. Pressed his forehead to the side of Harry’s neck. “Meant every word.”

“I know,” Harry said. He squeezed Louis’ hand again, thumb brushing over the knuckles. “That’s why I stayed.”

They rode in silence after that, the words sitting between them like something holy. Like something neither of them had to reach for anymore because it had already rooted itself in both their chests, deep and certain.

The trail curved gently along the ridge, tall grass whispering against Blue’s flanks as they moved. The sun was past its peak now, throwing long, warm shadows across the land, lighting everything in that golden, end-of-day hue that made the world look softer than it was.

Louis adjusted the reins in one hand, the other still curled protectively around Harry’s middle. His thumb moved slowly over the thick wool of Harry’s coat, grounding himself more than anything.

Harry spoke first, his voice quieter than before, but steady. “That place he mentioned… the one in the letter. Where he left you.”

Louis’ jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

“How far is it?”

Louis hesitated. Then: “Couple days’ ride, if we keep it easy. Maybe three. It’s out past Red Bluff. Near the dry wash where the riverbed cuts down into a canyon.”

Harry nodded slowly. “That’s where you left the gang.”

Louis huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh, if not for the weight in it. “Where they left me. Tuck had two men hold me while he carved my name outta the ledgers, then rode off without lookin’ back.”

Harry was silent for a moment. Then, voice low: “Thought you said he left you to die.”

Louis’ grip tightened a little. “He didn’t shoot me. But he didn’t have to. No horse. No water. No cover. A slash to the stomach. Just miles of desert and the buzzards waitin’. He figured the land would do the rest for him.”

Harry shifted slightly in the saddle, just enough to glance back. “But it didn’t.”

Louis shook his head. “It didn’t.”

There was something quiet in Harry’s face then. Pride, maybe. Or something fiercer.

Louis kept his eyes ahead. “If that’s where he’s waiting now… he’s sendin’ a message. Wants to finish what he started.”

Harry didn’t blink. “Then we don’t let him.”

Louis let the words hang between them for a moment before nodding. “He’ll have men. He always does. Won’t be a fair fight.”

Harry’s voice came sure, unwavering. “Doesn’t have to be. Just has to end.”

Louis looked down at their hands, still joined. The way Harry held him like there was no world where Louis would ever face anything alone again.

He squeezed his fingers. “We ride slow. Rest when we need. But we ride. And when we get there…”

Harry finished it for him, soft but certain: “We end it.”

Louis nodded.

And they kept riding.

Chapter Text

The sun had long since dipped behind the hills by the time they found the right spot. A narrow rise above a dry creek bed, tucked beneath a scattering of cottonwoods whose leaves rustled gently in the evening wind. The ground was soft enough for comfort, dry enough for a fire, and quiet in that way that told Louis no one had passed through in a while. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

He dismounted first. Blue shifted under him but didn’t complain,just stood patient, waiting for the weight to be gone. Louis turned immediately to Harry, one hand already reaching up to steady him.

“Don’t rush,” he said. “Take your time.”

Harry scoffed, but it was half-hearted. “You say that like I’ve got any other speed.”

Still, he let Louis help him down, his legs trembling with the effort, but steady enough once he got both feet on the ground. Louis didn’t let go until Harry gave him a nod, and even then, his hands lingered a second longer than necessary.

Blue was watered first, led down the slope toward a small, still pool nestled in the crook of the dry creek. Louis rubbed him down after, murmuring soft thanks while Harry laid out their bedrolls and stacked kindling for a fire.

The world was darker now, stars beginning to blink into view between the boughs. The first sound of crickets stirred from the brush, low and rhythmic. They didn’t talk much as they worked. They didn’t need to.

Louis struck the flint after two tries, the spark catching quick on the dry twigs. Soon a low fire crackled in front of them, casting flickering shadows across the earth.

When the fire was steady and the air had gone cool enough to bite at their knuckles, Louis dropped down beside Harry with a quiet grunt and a long breath, stretching his legs out toward the flames.

Harry followed slower, easing down with a hand braced to his side, jaw clenched tight until he found a position that didn’t hurt too much. Louis watched him closely, every twitch of discomfort traced by instinct, but didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to. As soon as Harry was settled, Louis opened his arms slightly. Just an invitation. And after a second, Harry leaned in.

He fit there like he was made for him. Leaned against Louis’ chest, his back pressed to the broad line of him, one arm tucked beneath Louis’ and the other curled lazily across his own stomach. The fire threw warm gold across their boots and legs, and the trees overhead moved just enough to whisper, but not enough to feel threatening.

Louis exhaled into Harry’s hair. “There we go.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Gonna get used to this.”

Louis wrapped his arms around him proper, hands slow and careful, one resting over Harry’s chest. “That’s the idea.”

For a while, there was only the fire and the rhythm of Harry breathing. Slow. Measured. Steady.

“Think Tuck’s out there right now?” Harry asked quietly, eyes half-lidded.

Louis’ voice was quiet in return. “If he is, he’s not half as warm or happy.”

Harry smirked. “Good.”

He tipped his head slightly, and Louis dipped his chin so their foreheads could meet in the middle. A quiet touch. A kind of stillness Louis hadn’t known he could have.

“Don’t fall asleep sittin’ up,” Louis murmured. “Your back’ll hate you.”

“You’ll hold me, though,” Harry whispered.

“Always.”

The fire burned low, just glowing embers and the occasional snap of wood now, but the stars above were brighter than ever. Clear and sharp, scattered like silver dust across a velvet sky.

Louis held Harry close, his chin resting lightly on top of his head, one hand idly tracing soft lines along his ribs; gentle, careful, but constant. Not like he was trying to soothe. More like he was memorizing.

They hadn’t said a word in a while. They didn’t need to. 

Louis tilted his head a little, just enough to look past the crown of Harry’s hair and up into the sky.

“Yeah. Definitely could get used to this,” he murmured.

Harry hummed low, nearly asleep but still aware. “The sitting or the cuddling?”

“The sky. The quiet. You.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Could’ve said that last part first.”

Louis chuckled. “Thought I’d build up to it.”

Another few moments passed in soft silence. Then Louis’ voice came again, a little more certain this time. “After this—after Tuck—I was thinkin’…”

Harry turned his head slightly, just enough that Louis could feel the motion where their temples touched. “Thinkin’ what?”

Louis breathed out slow. “We don’t go back to the ranch. Not for long, anyway. Let it go. Let Maggie sell it, or keep it if she wants. But we ride on. North. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere not soaked in old ghosts. Don't want it to be some fantasy we talk about, want it to be the plan.”

Harry’s body stilled, just for a moment. Then he sank a little deeper into Louis’ arms. “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “No more guns. No more Tuck. No more waitin’ for someone to ride in with a grudge.”

Harry let out a slow breath. “We could have a cabin. By a river or something. Somewhere that smells like pine.”

Louis smiled. “You always did want to have the snowy seasons.”

“But you always say you’d hate to freeze your arse off.”

“I’d learn to cope,” Louis murmured, voice dropping lower, nearer. “For you.”

Harry shifted again and looked up, his face lit orange-gold by the fire’s light, the rest of him painted in moonlight and shadow. Louis didn’t even think. He just leaned down, catching Harry’s lips in a kiss that was slow, soft, and warm as the night around them.

It wasn’t a kiss of hunger. It was one of knowing. Of plans whispered under stars. Of after.

Harry kissed him back, slow and sure, a hand sliding up to cup the side of Louis’ neck. His thumb brushed under his jaw, and Louis leaned into it like it anchored him to the earth.

Their lips parted just enough for breath, but not for distance.

Harry kept his hand warm against Louis’ neck, fingers threading into the short hair there, and Louis pressed close enough to feel the curve of Harry’s mouth again, to chase the shape of it.

Louis whispered between kisses, voice soft and low and reverent, like he was telling a secret to the fire. Or maybe to the stars.

“We could kiss like this every day,” he said, brushing his lips over Harry’s again. “Not just out here in the dark, hidin’.”

Another kiss, slower this time. A pause to breathe.

“No doors to close. No curtains to pull. Just… a home. Quiet. Ours.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered open just long enough to meet his gaze, then closed again as he kissed him back deeper now. 

Louis’ hand curled at the side of Harry’s face. “We’d wake slow,” he said, mouth ghosting across Harry’s jaw. “No chores. No broken fences. Just you in the kitchen, barefoot and grumblin’ that the firewood’s wet.”

Harry huffed a laugh, low and breathless. “Sounds like paradise.”

“Yeah?” Louis kissed him again. “You leanin’ over the stove, and me behind you, hands around your waist, mouths still tastin’ like sleep.”

Harry tugged him closer with a hand at the collar of his shirt, voice rasping against his lips. “You’d never let me finish cooking, would you?”

“Not a chance.”

They kissed again, deeper this time. Slower. Like they were building the life they were talking about, one breath at a time.

“Evenin’s would be quiet,” Louis murmured. “Readin’ by the fire. Blankets. Maybe a dog if we find one that don’t bark too much.”

Harry tilted his head, brushing their noses together. “I’m not cleaning up after it.”

Louis kissed the corner of his mouth. “I’ll do it.”

Then kissed him again, right where the words had just been.

“Anything,” he said against Harry’s lips. “I’d do anything for that life with you.”

The stars kept watch. The fire burned down. Harry’s breath had gone shallower, not from pain, not anymore, but from closeness. From the weight of Louis’ body now half over his, from the way their kisses had deepened into something less about words and more about knowing. 

Harry shifted slightly beneath him, careful of his side but no longer fragile, no longer holding back. The glow from the embers cast soft light across his face, and his eyes were fixed on Louis. He lifted a hand, fingers brushing along Louis’ jaw, slow and reverent. “Louis,” he whispered, voice barely more than breath. “I want you.”

Louis’ eyes searched his. Not just for permission, but for certainty. And Harry gave it without hesitation. It was in the way he touched him. In the way he leaned up for another kiss, slower now, deeper. Not just desire. Devotion.

“I want it,” Harry murmured between kisses. “With you.”

Louis’ breath caught. “You—?”

Harry nodded, threading his fingers through the back of Louis' hair. “I want you. Properly. All of it. All of you.”

Louis went still just for a second. Not in hesitation, but in awe. Like he was letting the weight of those words settle deep into his bones. The fire cracked softly beside them, the glow catching the curve of Harry’s cheek, the line of his collarbone where his shirt had come slightly undone. Louis’ hand moved instinctively, fingertips ghosting along that same line like he could trace the truth of what Harry was offering.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough. “After everything—after what you’ve been through?”

Harry gave the barest nod, his eyes never leaving Louis’. “I don’t want to go into whatever’s next not having had you.” He leaned in again, kissed Louis with aching softness. “I’ve done this before, yeah,” he whispered, “but never with someone who looked at me like you do.”

Louis let out a shaky breath, his forehead resting against Harry’s. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Harry said, hand sliding down to rest at Louis’ side. “I’ll tell you what I need. I’ll show you what’s good. Just be with me.”

And Louis nodded. Because he would. Because he already was.

Louis kissed him again slower now. The kind of kiss that said thank you and I’m here and I’m yours all at once.

Harry’s hands moved first. Careful, practiced, but still tender. He helped Louis out of his coat, fingers brushing warm across his shoulders. Then his shirt, each button undone with patient ease, like he was unwrapping something fragile. Louis let him, his breath catching when Harry’s hand slid across his bare chest, not possessive, just sure.

Louis responded in kind. He peeled Harry’s layers away slowly, mindful of the wound still healing along his ribs. His hands paused there, thumbs brushing either side bandages. His eyes flicked up. Harry nodded once. Permission, always.

Their clothes pooled beside the bedroll in uneven bundles, the cold night air a brief bite against their skin before the heat between them pulled tight again. Louis lay Harry back gently, the fire casting soft light over the lines of his body.

“You tell me if I need to stop,” Louis murmured, lips trailing down his throat, then lower. “I mean it.”

“I know,” Harry whispered, breath stuttering. “Just—come here.”

Louis came down over him, body lined with his, slow and careful. They kissed again, deeper now, lips parting with breath and promise. Harry shifted beneath him, thighs slowly opening up, guiding Louis’ hand where he wanted it.

Louis followed that guidance, every touch a question, every exhale an answer.

Harry’s breath hitched as Louis’ hand slid lower, his palm skimming across his thigh before settling between them. The fire crackled softly beside them, casting shadows over bare skin, over the curve of Harry’s side where the healing wound still glowed faintly in the light.

“Here,” Harry whispered, his voice low and encouraging, fingers curling around Louis’ wrist to guide him up toward his mouth, easing a few fingers in between his lips.

Louis swallowed hard as he watched Harry's mouth work over his fingers, his heart thudding in his chest like it had never done this before—because it hadn’t. Not like this. Not with someone he loved. He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to Harry’s shoulder, to the hollow just above his heart.

“Spit’s fine,” Harry murmured once he released Louis' hand, breath warm against his ear. “Start slow.”

Louis nodded, breath unsteady. He did exactly as Harry told him—slow, careful. Letting his touch adjust, finding what felt right not just for Harry but for both of them. His fingers slipped lower, slick now, easing into the kind of softness he’d only imagined.

Harry arched slightly as Louis pressed against his entrance, his head tipping back against the blanket, a low sound escaping his throat that was half gasp, half encouragement.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his hand finding Louis’ again and squeezing. 

Louis moved his fingers gently, gauging every twitch of Harry’s body, every shift in breath, listening for any sound that meant too much or not enough. His mouth found Harry’s again as he began a steady rhythm inside him, slow and warm, kissing through it like the world had stopped turning.

Louis pulled back slightly to watch Harry’s face, the way his lashes fluttered, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling with something between pleasure and awe.

“You’re beautiful,” Louis whispered, fingers still moving slow but deeper now. “Christ, Harry…”

Harry smiled through a breathless moan, eyes half-lidded. “You’ve got me,” he said. “Whatever you want, I’m yours.”

Louis kissed him again—this time harder, almost frantic. Full of everything he’d been afraid to want.

Harry cupped Louis’ cheek, thumb brushing slowly across his jaw. His voice was soft and calm, like wind moving through tall grass. “Hey, I'm here” he whispered, “you’re alright. It’s just me.”

Louis closed his eyes for a second. Inhaled. Let the moment hold him steady.

Harry’s voice came again, gentle and grounding. “We’ve got time.”

“You’ll tell me?” Louis asked, barely more than breath.

“Always,” Harry promised. He shifted beneath him, pressing close and lifting his hips up into the movements, keeping their eyes locked even as his breath caught, his hand gripping tighter at Louis’ side. “That’s it. Just—yeah. Right there.”

Louis leaned down, kissing him through it, his mouth soft and searching, hands steady now, moving with more confidence as Harry’s breath started to change. Each sound was quiet, but real. And Louis held every one of them like they were holy.

Harry’s hand moved over his back, up into his hair, pulling him closer. Not out of desperation, but closeness. Need, yes, but not hunger. He was trying to feel every inch of him. Commit it to memory.

“Feels good,” Harry breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re so careful. So—God, Louis—so good to me.”

Louis didn’t answer with words. He answered by holding him tighter. By moving like every second mattered. Like this could be the only time they’d ever have, because in their world, maybe it was.

Harry’s breath caught as Louis’ hands moved with careful purpose, touch reverent and unsure in only the way someone trying their best could be. Louis was listening not just to the words Harry whispered, but to every shift of breath, every quiet sound that escaped his lips.

"So good," Harry murmured, forehead pressed to Louis’, eyes fluttering closed. “Slower, yeah?”

Louis nodded against him, his voice a soft rasp. “Like this?”

Harry’s hand found his, guided it with slow, sure movements, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet his gaze. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Like that. Keep going.”

Louis leaned down again, kissed him like a thank you, like he needed to. Harry kissed back immediately, fingers tightening in Louis’ hair.

They stayed learning each other, breathing each other in. Louis kept moving with patience, with growing confidence, like every second was something sacred he didn’t want to waste. Harry kept his voice low and sure, guiding with murmured encouragement, his body open, welcoming.

Their kisses stretched between words, mouths brushing with every shift, every adjustment. Harry’s skin was warm beneath Louis’ hands, his voice a steady thread between them.

“You take such good care of me,” Harry whispered, the words catching like a secret in his throat. “Don’t stop.”

Louis kissed him again, long, deep, and slow. And everything else fell away. There was only this. Only them.

Then he shifted, bracing himself carefully, and helped Harry ease back fully onto the bedroll. He guided him down gently, one hand tucked behind his shoulders, mindful of every breath, every twitch near the healing wound at Harry’s side.

“You alright?” Louis asked, brushing a lock of hair from Harry’s forehead.

Harry nodded, his voice soft. “More than.”

Louis moved slow. When it came time to draw his hand away, he did it carefully, watching Harry’s face the whole time, like he was afraid to lose even one second of what was passing between them.

Harry exhaled slowly, hands still resting against Louis’ sides. “You’re being so careful.”

“I’ll always be careful,” Louis whispered. “You’re the first thing I’ve ever done right.”

The words hung there, suspended between them, as Louis leaned down once more and kissed him again. 

Louis stayed close, close enough to feel Harry’s heartbeat just under his ribs. His breath was steady now, slow and shallow as he adjusted to lying flat, one hand curled gently at Louis’ back, the other wetting his palm with his tongue before reaching between them. There was no fear in him, just focus. Trust.

Harry’s voice came soft in the quiet, using the wet of his palm to work over Louis' cock. “Go slow.”

Louis nodded, brushing a kiss to his cheek, then his temple. “Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

“I will,” Harry murmured, lips barely moving.

Louis shifted with care. He moved like he was handling something sacred. And in a way, he was.

Harry’s fingers slid into Louis’ hair, grounding him. Guiding. And when Louis started to press his hips forward—carefully, cautiously—Harry tensed, just briefly, then exhaled.

“That’s it,” he breathed, voice thin but sure. “You’re alright. Just like that.”

Louis kissed his jaw. His throat. Whispered quiet things that weren’t quite words, just comfort, just love in the form of sound. His hands never left Harry’s body, one cradling his side just beneath the ribs, the other curled under his shoulder, keeping him steady. Holding him through the first press of his cock inside him for the first time.

Louis stayed still for a breath. Then another.

Harry’s hand was still in his hair, the other gripping lightly at his shoulder, fingertips pressing in not from pain, but to feel. To stay grounded. His legs shifted slightly around Louis’ waist, bracing him. Opening up.

When Louis finally moved again, it was barely a motion, just a slow rocking of hips forward, enough to feel the give of skin and the closeness of something so new, so intimate it stole the air from both of them.

Harry gasped, soft and shaky, his eyes fluttering closed. “God, Louis…”

Louis dropped his forehead to Harry’s, breath caught in his throat. “You feel—” He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t. There weren’t words for it. Just a low, broken sound that slipped from his chest as he moved again like each motion was a question and every exhale from Harry was an answer.

Harry’s legs tightened gently around him. “You’re okay,” he murmured, voice threading through the quiet. “Feels good. So good.”

Louis kissed him, open-mouthed and slow, the kind of kiss meant to be felt everywhere. He moved with such gentleness, like every inch of closeness between them was something borrowed from a world they weren’t sure they’d get to stay in. And somewhere between the quiet hush of breath and the whisper of skin meeting skin, Louis felt it hit him.

Not lust. Not even want.

Love.

It surged up out of nowhere, sharp and soft all at once, catching in his throat like a sob he hadn’t meant to let rise. His whole body stilled, and he pressed his forehead to Harry’s again, their breaths mingling, sweat-slick and warm, heartbeat to heartbeat.

Harry opened his eyes, just barely, sensing it before Louis said a word.

“Hey,” he murmured, hand sliding to cradle the back of Louis’ neck, thumb brushing behind his ear. “You alright?”

Louis shook his head once. Not a no, not really, just the kind of overwhelmed that didn’t fit into a simple answer. His voice cracked when he spoke.

“I’ve never—” He swallowed. “Never felt…”

He couldn’t say it. Didn’t have to.

Harry’s hand stayed steady. “I know.”

Louis blinked fast, tears gathering before he could stop them. They slipped down his cheek slow, warm, unnoticed until Harry reached up and brushed them away.

“It’s alright,” Harry whispered. “You’re alright.”

Louis bent down and kissed him again, trembling and open-mouthed, desperate from the ache of being given something so tender it terrified him.

“I love you,” he breathed against Harry’s lips. “I’m so scared I’m gonna lose you. Or I’m gonna die before—before I can give you the life you deserve.”

Harry cradled his face between both hands now, fingertips soft at Louis’ jaw, and he kissed him again like he was trying to breathe life back into him one kiss at a time.

“You are giving me that life,” Harry whispered, voice catching with his own tears. “Right now. This. You’re here. You stayed.”

Louis’ body shook once, breath snagging in his chest. He moved with care, never rushing, never taking. Just being there, with Harry beneath him, looking up like he was seeing the man Louis had fought so hard to become and not the one Tuck had tried to carve out of him.

“I don’t want this to be the only time,” Louis choked out. “I want more. Wakin’ up with you. Talkin’ over coffee. Fightin’ over the damn dog.”

Harry smiled through the tears slipping down his own cheeks. “Then we’ll have that. You hear me?”

Louis kissed him again softer this time. Slower. “I hear you,” he breathed.

They stayed like that, moving together, slow and unhurried until the rhythm wasn’t about what came next, but about what was already here. Just holding. Just staying.

And when they finally came, when the tension broke and their bodies gave in, it wasn’t loud or frantic. It was quiet. Gentle.

Louis’ breath hitched with his release. Harry’s fingers clenched tight in his hair. They held on to each other like they’d fall apart if they let go, mouths pressed close, skin warm with sweat and tears.

“I love you,” Louis breathed against Harry’s cheek, again and again. Like a vow. Like a promise he was making with every beat of his heart. “I love you, I love you—”

Harry whispered it back between shaky breaths, barely able to get the words out through how full he felt. “I love you too. I love you so much.”

When they stilled at last, their breathing ragged but slowing, Louis rolled gently to his side, careful not to pull away entirely. He held Harry close, their legs tangled, arms wrapped tight around one another like they could anchor time. They just touched; hands soft against cheeks, along jawlines, brushing through hair and down arms. Mapping each other like they might not get the chance again.

—

Morning came slow. Soft light filtered through the trees above, gold and grey and gentle, like even the sun knew not to disturb them too quickly. The fire had burned down to ash, barely a whisper of warmth left in the makeshift ring of stones. Blue stood nearby, still and quiet, occasionally shifting his weight with the slow patience only horses knew. The world was still for now.

Louis woke. Or maybe he hadn’t really slept. Just drifted. Floated. Kept one arm tight around Harry the whole time like letting go might undo something sacred they’d just built.

Harry lay against him, breathing deep and even, one hand curled under Louis’ shirt like he’d reached for him in his sleep and forgotten to let go.

Louis didn’t move at first. He just looked at him. At the messy dark hair curled against his chest, at the fading bruise under his jaw, the faint lines of tension still tucked around his eyes even in rest. 

He brushed his thumb along Harry’s temple, slow and feather-light. “You’re still here,” he whispered, like he wasn’t quite sure the night hadn’t been a dream.

Harry stirred. A small hum. He didn’t open his eyes at first, just shifted closer, nestling into Louis’. “M’not going anywhere,” he murmured sleepily. “Stop staring. You’re making it hard to pretend I’m still asleep.”

Louis huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re terrible at pretendin’.”

Harry cracked one eye open, barely. “Mm. And you talk too much in the morning.”

“Just waitin’ for you to start bossin’ me around again.”

“Give it five minutes.”

They lay in the quiet a little longer, wrapped up in each other, the bedroll beneath them half-kicked out of place, but neither of them caring. It wasn’t cold anymore. Not with Harry’s skin against his. Not after what they’d shared.

Harry finally rolled onto his back with a quiet groan, one hand rubbing at his eyes like the weight of the world could wait just a little longer. His other hand stayed on Louis’ chest, fingers idly tracing the line of a scar there like it grounded him.

Louis watched him. His boy. Still battered, still healing, but here. Alive. Real.

“How’s it feel?” Louis asked softly. “This morning, I mean.”

Harry yawned, stretched carefully, only wincing a little at the movement. “Like I didn’t sleep much. Like someone kept kissing me into the early hours.”

Louis smirked. “Sounds like a good problem.”

“It is.” Harry let his hand settle over Louis’ heart again. “Hurts a little. But in a good way. If that makes sense.”

Louis nodded. “It does.”

There was a long pause. Then Harry asked, quieter, “You still scared?”

Louis didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled through his nose, eyes on the trees above them. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Still am.”

Harry turned his head to look at him. “Of him?”

Louis shook his head. “Of losin’ this. You.”

Harry gave him a tired smile. “You’re not gonna lose me. Not when we’re this close.”

“Close to what?” Louis asked, voice barely a whisper.

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Home. Whatever we make of it.”

Louis swallowed hard. Then he turned toward him, resting his forehead against Harry’s for a long moment.

“You talk like that again,” he murmured, “and I’m gonna marry you in the woods with a horse for a witness.”

Harry chuckled. “Better hope Blue approves, then.”

They stayed like that a moment longer, wrapped in quiet laughter and the hush of morning wind, before Louis shifted, pressing a kiss to Harry’s temple. “Let’s eat,” he said. “We’ve got a road to finish.”

Harry nodded, already reaching for his shirt.

But before they moved too far from the blankets or the soft quiet of the morning, Louis leaned in one last time and kissed him. Just once, soft and slow and full of the kind of love that didn’t need explaining anymore.

Then they started the fire again, brewed weak coffee, and watched the sun rise furhter in the sky together—two men who’d nearly lost everything, still holding on to the one thing they hadn’t.

The sun was higher now, late morning, maybe, though it was hard to tell with the clouds rolling in low over the hills. The wind had picked up, but not in a cruel way. Just enough to rustle the tall grass and keep Blue’s ears twitching as they rode.

Harry sat in front of Louis again, wrapped up in his coat and pressed against his chest, arms resting lightly on the saddle horn. His head leaned back against Louis’ shoulder, eyes half-lidded, quiet like he was listening to the world breathe.

Louis held the reins loose in one hand, the other around Harry’s waist. Every step Blue took was careful, like even the horse knew this stretch of road carried ghosts.

They’d been riding in silence for a while when Harry spoke, his voice low, almost like he didn’t want to break the peace. “What kind of fight do you think it’s gonna be?”

Louis didn’t answer right away.

Harry turned his head slightly, cheek brushing against Louis’ collar. “With Tuck, I mean.”

Louis’ jaw tensed just a little. “ Might be a hard one.”

“You think he’s waitin’ alone?”

Louis shook his head once. “No. That ain’t his way. He don’t do anything without a show. If he’s where he says he is, back where he left me bleedin’ all those years ago? He’s makin’ a statement.”

Harry frowned faintly. “What kind?”

“That he’s still the one who decides how the story ends,” Louis said. “He wants to pull me back into it. Where he left me. Where he thinks I belong.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Harry asked, quietly, “And you? What do you want?”

Louis’ voice was quiet, but sure. “To end it. Whatever that looks like.”

Harry shifted in the saddle just slightly, reaching down to adjust the blanket over his legs. “You think we can just...walk away when it’s done?”

“I’m countin’ on it,” Louis said. “I’m not bringin’ you all this way just to bleed out beside him.”

Harry gave a small nod. “Alright then.”

Harry was quiet again for a stretch, the steady rhythm of Blue’s hooves filling the space between them. The sky was turning grayer by the minute, clouds dragging across it like they had somewhere to be. The wind carried the scent of rain.

Then, quietly, Harry said, “You think taking out Tuck… ends the rest of it too? His crew.”

Louis’ jaw worked. His grip on the reins didn’t tighten, but his hand on Harry’s waist did.

“That depends,” he said finally. “On how much they’re followin’ him outta loyalty… and how much they’re followin’ him outta fear.”

Harry nodded a little, thoughtful. “You think they’ll scatter?”

“Probably,” Louis said. “Most of ’em don’t stay close. That’s Tuck’s way; keep ‘em spread out, so no one can get strong enough to stand against him. Makes ‘em feel like they’re trusted, independent. But truth is, he keeps ‘em starved. Just enough work, just enough fear. That way they need him.”

Harry frowned. “So they’re not a gang. Not really.”

“No,” Louis said. “They’re a storm. He just happens to be the one holdin’ the lightning.”

He was quiet a second longer, then added, “Most of the ones worth a damn left or died years ago. What he’s got now? Men who gave up their names a long time back. Men who follow orders because they’re too far gone to make choices.”

Harry leaned back into him again, quiet. “He’s not gonna run, is he?”

Louis shook his head. “No. He’ll wait. That’s what this is all about.”

“Pride?”

“No,” Louis said. “Legacy.”

Harry let that sit. Let it settle between them like dust.

Then: “Let’s make sure it ends with you, not him.”

Louis squeezed him again. “That’s the plan.”

They rode on, the trail winding through a narrow valley now, the hills pulling in around them. The sun had slipped behind the cloudbank for good, casting the land in a soft gray light that made everything feel too still.

Louis could feel the tension rising the closer they got. Not fear. Not exactly. Just that quiet kind of readiness, the kind that lives in a man’s bones when he knows a reckoning’s coming.

Harry had gone quiet too. Still leaned back against Louis’ chest, his head moving gently with the rhythm of the horse. But Louis could feel him thinking.

Then Harry stirred.

“Y’know,” he said, voice light but a little rough from the wind, “I’ve been thinking.”

Louis looked down at him. “Mm?”

“If we die out there, I’m gonna be real annoyed.”

Louis raised a brow. “That right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked grin. “’Cause last night was too bloody good to only happen once.”

Louis blinked then let out a quiet laugh, the kind that shook through his chest.

Harry smirked. “I’m serious. I did not survive getting shot just to have one night of excellent romance and die before the sequel.”

Louis leaned in and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll keep that in mind when the bullets start flyin’.”

“You better.”

There was a pause. Then, more quietly, Harry added, “I want that again. Not just once.”

Louis’ voice was low. Steady. “We’ll get there. One more storm, then it’s done.”

Harry settled back against him again, a little heavier, a little more relaxed. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve got plans for you. And most of them require you still breathing.”

Louis smiled into his hair. “Guess I better stay that way then.”

For a while, the only sound was Blue’s hooves meeting the packed dirt, steady as breath, steady as time. The wind had softened. The land stretched wide and open ahead, but something behind Louis still pulled.

Harry must’ve felt it. That shift in his silence. He spoke again, voice quieter now, more careful. “Can I ask you somethin’? About back then.”

Louis’ fingers tightened in Harry’s as they rode, his jaw set but his eyes distant. Back when he was younger, when Tuck was everything and nothing, when lines hadn’t been drawn yet.

He exhaled, voice low. “You askin’ dangerous things.”

Harry nudged his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much.”

Louis shook his head, dark smile tugging at one corner. “No. You deserve it.”

He drew in a breath. “Back in the day, before I left, there was a run we pulled near Silver Ridge. Tuck had a man double-cross us—leave supplies out in the open, lead the law right on top of us. I was new then. Green. We lost half our stock, nearly lost a horse or two.”

He glanced down at Harry. “I took blame for it. Lied to Tuck. Said I misread the terrain, got careless. That bought time for the others to slip away. He didn’t punish me then. Trusted me more.”

Harry’s fingers curled tighter. “So, you saved lives.”

Louis’ smile was bitter. “Maybe. But it wasn’t mercy. It was fear. He feared if he punished everybody, no one would stick around.”

The wind shifted again, brushing against them like it was listening too.

Louis went on, softer this time. “Another time we were holed up in this abandoned post, middle of nowhere. We’d just pulled a job, small one, but clean. Tuck got it in his head one of the boys had skimmed from the take. No proof. Just a gut feelin’.”

He paused, jaw clenching before he spoke again. “He lined us all up. Made us draw straws. Said whoever got the short one was the thief and that he’d deal with ‘em himself.”

Harry’s breath hitched, just barely. “What happened?”

“I stepped forward,” Louis said. “Told him it was me. It wasn’t. I just knew he’d kill whoever it landed on. Didn’t matter if they were innocent.”

Harry shifted slightly, turning to glance up at him. “What’d he do?”

“Stared at me a long time. Then he laughed, beat my ass. Said that’s why he kept me close, ‘cause I was loyal to a fault.” Louis shook his head. “But that wasn’t loyalty. That was survival. For them, not me.”

Harry was quiet for a long stretch after that, the sound of Blue’s steady hooves and the distant rustle of wind through brush filling the space between them. His hand stayed wrapped around Louis’ arm, though.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Thoughtful. “You ever think about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t stepped forward?”

Louis let out a breath, slow and even, like he’d asked himself that same question a hundred times. “Yeah. I do.”

“And?”

“I think someone would’ve died for nothin’,” Louis said. “And I’d have stood there watchin’ it happen, knowin’ I could’ve stopped it. And maybe that’s not better. Maybe it’s still broken either way. But I could live with the bruise. I couldn’t live with the blood.”

Louis shifted slightly in the saddle, adjusting the reins with one hand while the other stayed steady around Harry’s waist. The trail curved west, dipping into a stretch of open grassland that rolled gently under the late-morning sky. The clouds had begun to thin, letting pale sun filter through in ribbons.

He gave a quiet sigh, more breath than sound, and then pressed a light kiss to the crown of Harry’s head.

“We’ve got a long day ahead,” he murmured, voice low against the breeze. “Think it’s your turn to talk for a while.”

Harry tilted his head back to look up at him, brow lifting slightly. “Oh? You wanna hear about my gritty, lawless past, do you?”

Louis chuckled, the sound rumbling through both of them. “Not unless you robbed florists and led turf wars over marmalade.”

Harry smirked. “Tempting offer, but no. I was a bore, mostly. Read too much. Drank coffee I couldn’t afford. Got into arguments about poetry in pubs with men twice my age.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Louis teased.

Harry smiled, but it faded a little as he settled back into Louis’ chest, eyes turning out toward the horizon. “I miss it sometimes,” he said softly. “London. The fog in the mornings. The way the street looked when it rained. There was this old bookstore, smelled like dust and ink. I spent hours there. Just… being. Not needing anything. Just wandering between the shelves.”

Louis listened in silence, his thumb brushing absent across Harry’s side where his coat had slipped.

“There was my mum's garden,” Harry went on, “Just a patch of gravel and dead grass, but I used to stay out there late at night. Sit under the stars with a blanket and a cup of tea.”

Louis rested his chin lightly on Harry’s shoulder, breath warm against the shell of his ear. “Sounds like it suited you.”

Harry hummed. “It did. In pieces. I liked being out in the night. One soul in a million. Nobody asking questions, nobody expecting answers.” He paused, then added, quieter, “’Course, I was lonely as hell and didn’t admit it.”

Louis’ arm tightened around his waist instinctively. “Yeah. I know the feelin’.”

Harry smiled faintly, eyes still on the horizon. “I think I was always waiting for someone to notice. Not in a big way. Just… to see me.”

Louis didn’t say anything for a second. Then he kissed just behind Harry’s ear, a soft press of lips that said what words couldn’t.

“I’d have noticed you,” he said.

Harry blinked slow, eyes stinging. He tilted his head just enough to glance back at him, smiling despite it. “You did.”

They rode in silence for a while again, the wind picking up in gentle waves, rustling through the tall grass and low scrub brush. The land felt vast out here, untouched. Like they were the only ones for miles.

Louis finally broke the quiet, voice low. “If we make it through this, maybe you show me that garden.”

Harry laughed softly. “It’d take a hell of a map and a miracle to get back there.”

Louis smiled. “Then you’ll just have to find me another one. Something lush. Closer to the stars.”

“I could do that.”

“Tea and all?”

“Of course,” Harry said.

The day stretched long and quiet across the plains, the sun sinking ever so slowly through its arc above them as they rode. Hours passed in the sway of Blue’s gait and the hush of wind through dry brush. Neither of them talked much, they didn’t need to. The quiet between them had settled into something easy now. Companionable. Laced with the kind of comfort that only came from knowing the other person would still be there, even after the silence ran out.

They stopped once midday at a crooked tree line where a narrow stream twisted between rocks like it’d been trying to escape the heat for decades. Louis helped Harry down, steadying him with both hands, brushing the sweat from his temple with a thumb before they crouched to drink from the clear water. Blue drank deep beside them, grateful for the pause.

Harry let his boots rest in the water while Louis passed him a piece of jerky, both of them chewing in tired peace, leaning shoulder to shoulder in the shade.

Louis looked over. “How’s your side?”

“Achy,” Harry admitted. “But manageable. I’ll survive.”

Louis gave a quiet hum, eyes flicking briefly to Harry’s ribs, where the bandages still lay beneath his shirt like a quiet reminder of just how close he’d come to losing him. But he didn’t press. He just passed over another piece.

“You’re stubborn, y’know,” he said as Harry ate. “Half-dead, barely sittin’ on a horse, and still actin’ like you’re ready to run a mile.”

Harry smirked, mouth curving against the rim of the canteen. “If I act tough or not, you’ll stop worrying about me?”

Louis snorted. “Not likely.”

They lapsed into silence again after that, watching the current snake past the rocks, lazy and clear. The shade rustled above them, casting dappled shadows across Harry’s face, softening the hard edges.

After a while, Louis leaned back against the tree, arms draped over his knees, head tilted toward the sky. “We’ll reach that town by sundown, if we keep pace.”

Harry sighed, dipping his fingertips in the stream again. “Can’t wait to sleep in a real bed.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Louis warned. “In towns like that, the mattresses are half dust and the other half springs.”

Harry chuckled. “Sounds like heaven.”

They lingered a little longer, enough for the sun to shift and the air to cool slightly before they mounted up again. Louis was careful helping Harry into the saddle, the ease of it speaking to how natural their rhythm had become. Like the ride was an old song they both remembered the words to.

By the time the town’s crooked rooftops came into view on the horizon, the light had gone golden again, casting long shadows across the land.

Harry shifted in the saddle, leaning back into Louis’ chest. “Bed,” he sighed dramatically. “Bathe, if I’m lucky. And food not carried in your coat pocket.”

Louis tightened his arm around him just enough to say he heard him. “I’ll do what I can.”

And when they finally passed beneath the weathered wooden sign at the edge of town, Harry glanced back with a tired smile. “Promise me we get a door that locks.”

Louis raised a brow. “Plannin’ on sleepin’ that hard?”

Harry smirked. “Planning on not being interrupted.”

Louis grinned, low and fond. “Then I promise.”

The town was hushed as they rode in, the kind of quiet that only came when most folks had already put their lanterns out and turned in. Dust curled lazily in Blue’s wake, and a few oil lamps still flickered in the windows of buildings that leaned a little with age but held on anyway.

The inn stood at the end of the main stretch. A shingle hung crooked above the porch, the paint long since faded, but the windows glowed warm and yellow like they were still trying.

Louis helped Harry down from the saddle, one arm tight around his waist as Harry winced and grumbled under his breath. “Nearly there,” Louis murmured, and Harry only nodded, jaw clenched tight against the pain.

Inside, the lobby was dim and empty, just a few mismatched chairs, a counter with a dusty bell, and in the corner, an upright piano that had definitely seen better days but still held its dignity like an old gunslinger. Its keys were yellowed, a few chipped at the corners, but the lid was open like someone had played it not too long ago and hadn’t the heart to close it again.

Louis crossed to the counter, rang the bell, and waited.

Behind him, Harry didn’t speak. Didn’t complain. Just drifted slowly toward the piano and sat down on the bench like it called to him more than the promise of a bed. He didn’t play at first, just sat there, catching his breath, fingertips hovering above the keys without pressing down. His coat hung open now, shirt wrinkled and half untucked, curls a mess from the long day’s ride. But his hands… they looked like they remembered.

Louis turned around just in time to see it.

Harry pressing one note—soft, low. Then another. Then a chord. It wasn’t a song. Just pieces. A feeling.

Louis stepped away from the counter without thinking. The bell hadn’t summoned anyone yet, and right now, the only thing that mattered was the way Harry’s shoulders had finally dropped for the first time all day.

He crossed the room slowly and eased down beside him on the bench. Didn’t speak. Just watched his hands move, tentative but sure, like they were searching for something familiar in the quiet.

Harry glanced sideways at him, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “Thought you were getting a room.”

Louis shrugged. “Figured the piano had better company.”

Harry went back to the keys, the notes blending into something softer now, less scattered. It still wasn’t a song. But it was something. Maybe just the sound of the day falling off their shoulders.

"I miss the night we went out dancing," Harry whispered, nudging Louis' shoulder with his.

"Me too," Louis murmurred, the memory feeling like a lifetime ago.

“My mum used to play,” Harry said after a while. “Mostly old hymns. Simple ones. I learned watching her.”

Louis nodded, eyes on the keys. “She’d be proud.”

Harry gave a soft snort. “She’d say I’m playing too slow and my left hand’s lazy.”

Louis smiled. “Still proud, though.”

The notes kept coming, uneven and thoughtful. Louis didn’t recognize the tune, if it was one. Maybe it was just for tonight. Just for them.

“You hurtin’?” he asked gently.

Harry nodded, just enough for Louis to catch it.

“Little,” he said, almost like he didn’t want to admit it. His eyes stayed on the keys, fingers still moving lightly, aimless now. “Ribs are tight. Saddle didn’t help.”

Louis watched him another moment, the way his shoulders curved in a little, the way his left hand had stopped playing altogether, just resting limply on the edge of the keys. Brave face, Louis thought. Too brave sometimes.

“Alright,” Louis said softly, standing. “That’s enough.”

Harry blinked up at him. “What?”

“You’re done bein’ tough for the day.” Louis’ voice stayed gentle, but sure. “C’mon.”

Harry hesitated. Like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t. He just gave a small nod and let his hands fall from the piano.

The innkeeper had shown up sometime during the song, an older man with kind eyes and sleep still in his beard. Louis slipped a few bills across the counter and gotten a room key. He tucked it into his coat now, then bent down in front of Harry, hands steady at his sides.

“Arms ‘round my neck now,” he said quietly.

Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “Louis—”

“No back talk.”

Harry stared for a second longer… and then did as he was told. Slowly. Carefully. Arms draped over Louis’ shoulders, body leaning into him with all the quiet trust of someone who didn’t need to prove anything anymore.

Louis lifted him with ease; not rushed, not showy. Just strong and sure, like he’d been made for this. Harry let out a soft breath and tucked his face against Louis’ throat.

“You don’t have to carry me,” he murmured.

“I know,” Louis said. “But I want to.”

The room was upstairs, down a narrow hallway with creaky floorboards and peeling wallpaper, but Louis didn’t stumble once. Didn’t falter. He shifted Harry’s weight just enough to keep from jostling his side and carried him like he was something worth more than gold.

When they reached the door, he set Harry down just long enough to unlock it, then helped him inside. The room was small, barely more than a bed, a chair, and a window, but it was clean, and the bed had real linens. White, worn, but fresh.

Louis guided him to the edge of it, kneeling down as Harry sat. “Alright?”

Harry nodded, cheeks pink. “Yeah.”

Louis reached out, brushing his fingers lightly through Harry’s curls. “Your hair’s gotten long.”

Harry huffed a tired little laugh. “Haven’t exactly had a reason to trim it.”

Louis smiled, brushing it gently back from his forehead, then smoothing it behind his ears. “Looks good on you.”

Louis stayed close, crouched at Harry’s side with one knee to the worn wooden floorboards, his hands still curled gently in that mess of dark curls he hadn’t been able to stop touching since the moment they walked in. His fingers ghosted through the strands now, slow and careful, like if he kept steady enough, he could will the pain out of Harry’s body with just a touch.

Harry leaned into it, his weight folding in on itself little by little, like he was letting go in pieces. Like the day had stripped him raw, and now there was nothing left but trust.

Louis watched him. Really watched him. The lines beneath his eyes, the healing gash along his ribs, the faint bruise blooming above his hip where the saddle had pressed wrong. But more than that—he saw the way Harry breathed. The way he let Louis near. The way he didn’t flinch.

It undid him a little. He let his palm settle along Harry’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly across the ridge of his cheekbone.

“You get some sleep tonight,” Louis murmured. “We’ll head out late morning. No rush. Just a little ride. One last stretch.”

Harry’s lashes fluttered, but he didn’t open his eyes. “To him.”

“Yeah,” Louis said quietly. “To him.”

Harry didn’t speak, and Louis didn’t press. He just helped him out of the rest of his shirt, working carefully around the fresh bandage, letting his fingers linger in small ways; a thumb along his collarbone, knuckles at the base of his neck, tracing the tension until it gave.

Louis pulled the blanket back and eased Harry down slow. When Harry hissed through his teeth, Louis murmured soft apologies into his hair, tucking the quilt around him like he’d done it a hundred times. When Harry was finally settled, Louis sat on the edge of the bed, one hand still resting on Harry’s chest, the rise and fall of his breathing grounding them both.

“We’ll go back after,” Louis said. “To the ranch. Just long enough to settle things. Say goodbye to Maggie proper. Pick up what we need, leave what we don’t.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Just lay there, eyes half-lidded, looking at Louis like he didn’t want to miss a single word.

“Then we go north,” Louis continued, voice soft. “Cabin, river, dog with a dumb name you’ll hate. A porch big enough to watch the rain. I’ll build it with my own hands just for you.”

Still nothing from Harry.

Louis reached up and brushed the hair from his forehead again, something tender and protective in the gesture. “You won’t have to worry anymore. No runnin’. No watchin’ your back. Just time. Just us.”

That’s when Harry spoke. Quiet. Small.

“Don’t.”

Louis blinked. “Don’t what?”

Harry’s eyes flicked up to meet his. And they were scared. Not of Tuck. Not of pain. But of hope.

“Don’t talk about after,” Harry whispered. “Not yet.”

Louis stilled. “Why not?”

“Because,” Harry breathed. “If you… if you don’t make it, I won’t know how to live with it. Live with dreaming past tomorrow. If I start building a life in my head and then—”

He broke off, voice cracking around the edge.

Louis’ chest went tight. He reached down and took Harry’s hand again, lifted it, kissed the knuckles slow. “You listen to me,” he said, voice low, steady. “I will make it. I’ve survived every goddamn thing Tuck ever threw at me. I’ll survive this, too.”

Harry shook his head weakly. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” Louis agreed. “But I know this—I’ve got somethin’ I never had before. I’ve got a reason. I’ve got you. And that’s the difference.”

Harry squeezed his hand, but the fear was still there in his eyes. “Promise me,” he said. “If it turns bad, if it gets... Don’t die just trying to prove something.”

Louis leaned in, pressed their foreheads together.

“I ain’t stayin’ to prove anything,” he said. “I’m stayin’ because I want that porch. I want your tea. I want you in my bed in winter, and your hands on my back in the morning. I want years of you rollin’ your eyes every time I track mud into the cabin.”

He paused, breathing in close.

“And I’m not gonna let him take that from us.”

Harry’s eyes closed, a tear slipping down the side of his face. Louis caught it with his thumb.

“You can be scared,” Louis whispered. “I am too. But don’t stop dreamin’. Not now. Not when we’re this close.”

Harry nodded, slow. Fragile.

Louis kissed his forehead again, then moved to lay beside him, curling around his body, careful not to press too close to the wound.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “Tomorrow we finish it. And after that… we start again.”

Harry’s head moved just barely beneath Louis’ chin, a soft shake against his collarbone.

“Not yet,” he whispered, voice low and thick. “Just a little longer. Talk to me.”

Louis didn’t move at first, just breathed in the weight of those words. Harry sounded tired, stretched thin to the bone, but not from pain. From the quiet. From all the silence that had been too loud for too long. And now, he was asking for something to fill it. Something soft. Something real.

Louis shifted a little closer, careful not to jar Harry’s side, one arm curling snug around his waist, the other slipping under the pillow behind his head. His mouth found Harry’s temple, brushing there like a secret.

“What d’you want me to talk about?” he murmured. “A story?”

Harry nodded, the motion feather-light. “Yeah. Something good. Something true.”

Louis was quiet a long moment, like he was sifting through dust in his own memory. Then, finally, his voice came low, rough with affection.

“When I was a kid,” he started slowly, “maybe nine, we had this old barn out behind the pasture. Saggin’ thing. Leaned to one side like it was tryin’ to escape the wind. My mum used to say it’d collapse the first time a storm looked at it wrong.”

Harry smiled faintly against him, and Louis took that as permission to keep going.

“There was a hawk that nested up in the rafters,” he said. “Mean bastard. Sharp as hell. I named her Nora.”

He paused, smiling against Harry’s hair.

“She used to dive at my brothers if they got too close, but she never came after me. I’d sit up in the loft sometimes, on this old feed sack, and she’d just watch me. Like she was tryin’ to figure out what kind of creature I was.”

Harry murmured, “You were probably too stubborn to be worth eating.”

Louis huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe. But I liked her. She felt like mine.”

There was a quiet moment between them, the kind that hummed with memory.

“Anyway,” Louis went on, his voice gentler now, “one day I found her down on the ground, one wing crooked, feathers all wrong. Couldn’t fly. Could barely move.”

Harry shifted slightly, listening closer.

“I carried her back to the barn,” Louis said. “Built her a little box outta scrap wood and a horse blanket. Told my pa I found an orphan fox so he wouldn’t come lookin’. I fed her scraps from the table for weeks. Took me a while to figure out what she’d eat. She wouldn’t touch nothin’ unless I held it first.”

He paused, his thumb rubbing absent over the back of Harry’s hand.

“She got better. One day she was gone. No noise. No mess. Just...empty.”

Harry whispered, “You think she made it?”

“I think she let me help her long enough to remember how to fly,” Louis said. “And I think… maybe I needed her just as bad.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment after that, their breath mingling in the hush between thoughts. Louis could feel him tracing slow circles with his thumb against the inside of his arm, like the rhythm kept the fear at bay.

Then, voice rough and small, Harry asked, “Was I your hawk?”

Louis blinked at the ceiling above them, his chest tightening like something had cracked open inside it. His instinct was to say yes, to offer the softness back, but the truth… the truth sat deeper than that. He turned his head and kissed the crown of Harry’s curls, breath shaking just slightly.

“No,” he said softly. “You weren’t mine.”

Harry tensed ever so slightly, not enough to pull away, just enough to brace.

Louis curled his hand around the nape of Harry’s neck, grounding him.

“You were never broken like that,” he murmured. “Not really. You got hurt, yeah, and the world’s been cruel to you. But even when you couldn’t stand, you still fight. Still looked out for me. You kept walkin’. You didn’t need me to remember how to fly.”

He paused, letting the next words fall slow, careful.

“I did.”

Harry shifted slightly, enough to look up at him, eyes catching in the low light. Louis met them without wavering.

“I was the one grounded,” Louis said. “The one who forgot what it meant to move without a leash. And you—you looked at me like I was worth more than the blood I’d spilled. You held out your hand and didn’t ask me to be anythin’ but who I already was.”

His voice dropped, rough around the edges. “So no, you’re not my hawk.”

He brushed his thumb gently across Harry’s cheek.

“I’m yours.”

Harry’s throat bobbed on a swallow, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and ache. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to, not with the way his fingers curled in tighter at Louis’ shirt, like he was holding on to something more than fabric.

Louis leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You saved me,” he whispered. “For sure. But I'm not flyin' away. Don't think I ever could.”

They lay like that for a long while, still wrapped in each other, still tucked beneath the quiet weight of everything they’d survived.

Louis held him close, and for the first time in years, felt light. Not because the road ahead was easy but because it finally led somewhere worth reaching.

Chapter Text

The thin light filtered through the lace-curtained window in soft streaks, gold bleeding into the folds of the sheets and casting gentle shadows across the room’s worn wooden walls. The air smelled faintly of dry linen, dust, and the cooling embers from the stove down the hall. The kind of things that didn’t demand anything of them yet.

Louis stirred, not because of the sun, but because he could feel that sense of being watched, of being known. The weight of it wasn’t heavy. It was warm. Like being seen and not judged for once.

His lashes lifted slow, eyes still blurry with sleep. Harry was there, already awake. And he was smiling. Not wide. Not teasing. Just that soft, small kind of smile Louis never got tired of. TLouis’he one he only ever saw first thing in the morning or last thing at night. The one that didn’t need to be earned.

Harry’s head was propped on one bent arm, pillow half-kicked down beneath him, curls wild from sleep and shadowed golden by the morning light. His other hand was splayed gently over Louis’ chest, fingertips gliding slow across one of the long, pale scars that ran just beneath his collarbone.

Louis blinked up at him, lips parting, voice rough with sleep. “Mornin’.”

“Hey,” Harry whispered, like he didn’t want to startle the quiet away. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Louis gave a small shake of his head, eyes still on Harry’s face. “Could do worse than wakin’ to you starin’ at me.”

Harry huffed a laugh, soft and low. “I wasn’t staring.”

“You were.”

“I was admiring.”

Louis hummed, one hand lifting to brush a lock of hair off Harry’s forehead. “That right?”

Harry didn’t answer with words. He just leaned in a little closer, fingertips still tracing tht old scar, then drifting lower to another. Not with heat. Not this time. With something steadier. Something reverent.

“You have so many,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over a rough patch just above Louis’ ribs. “Each one’s got a story, I bet.”

Louis nodded faintly, eyes on the place where Harry’s fingers touched him. “Some I’d rather forget.”

Harry’s hand paused, then moved again. “Not me,” he said quietly. “I don’t wanna forget a single piece of you. Even the ones that hurt.”

That hit Louis somewhere deep. He let out a slow breath, leaned into the pillow a bit more. “That why you’re lookin’ at me like I’m a map?”

Harry smiled again, even softer. “Maybe. Maybe I’m trying to find all the places I wanna kiss next time you let me.”

Louis grinned despite himself. “You could start now.”

But Harry shook his head gently, running his fingers up through Louis’ hair instead. “No rush,” he murmured. “Just wanna look at you a little longer.”

Louis closed his eyes at the touch, something warm blooming behind his ribs. No one’s hands had ever felt like they weren’t trying to take or fix or claim. 

“Don’t think anyone’s ever done that,” he said after a moment, voice quiet.

“What? Looked?”

Louis opened his eyes, catching Harry’s gaze again. “Looked like they wanted to stay.”

Harry didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink. “I do,” he said. “I wanna stay.”

Louis felt it settle somewhere deep. Solid. Real. Then he caught the shift in Harry’s smile a second before he spoke, the glint of mischief sneaking through the softness, like sunlight through cracks in a wall. Dangerous in the gentlest of ways.

“My side’s feeling much better this morning,” Harry murmured, voice low and lazy.

Louis raised a brow. “That so?”

Harry nodded, dragging his fingers lightly down Louis’ stomach, like he wasn’t trying to make a point at all. “Not too sore anymore. Might be fit for some mild activity. Light movement. Carefully supervised.”

Louis let out a quiet snort. “You flirt like you ain’t got half a dozen stitches holdin’ you together.”

Harry didn’t argue. He just tilted his head back into the pillow a little more, exposing the long line of his neck, the faint stubble along his jaw, the soft rise and fall of breath. “I flirt like a man who knows what he wants.”

Louis rolled his eyes, but it didn’t hold. It crumbled easy under the grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “And what is it you want this mornin’, exactly?”

Harry’s lashes lowered. “Guess I wouldn’t say no to a...proper good morning.”

Louis leaned in without another word, burying his smile against the warm skin of Harry’s neck. He kissed slow, open-mouthed, more tease than promise. He could feel Harry’s pulse flutter under his lips, could hear the breath catch in his throat when Louis scraped the edge of his teeth just enough to make a point. He smiled into the curve of Harry’s throat, the sound of that breathy hitch feeding something quiet and certain in his chest. He kissed lower, just under the jaw now, lips brushing over the soft skin there like he was leaving behind words he didn’t know how to say out loud.

Harry’s fingers tightened in his hair; not pulling, just holding. Like he wanted Louis close. Like he needed to keep him there.

“Not exactly a doctor’s recommendation,” Louis murmured, letting his nose trail along Harry’s collarbone. “But I reckon you’ve always been a terrible patient.”

“Never claimed to be a good one,” Harry said, voice rougher now, laced with sleep and something warmer. “Especially not when I’ve got you hovering over me like this.”

Louis pulled back just enough to look at him, face flushed from sleep and pleasure, eyes half-lidded and so full of affection it made Louis’ chest ache. He reached up, brushing Harry’s hair behind his ear with the same touch he might use to settle a spooked horse; gentle, patient, sure.

“You’re trouble,” Louis whispered.

Harry smiled, slow and smug. “Your trouble.”

Louis kissed him then, slow and deep like a promise. He didn’t move to push things further, didn’t rush the moment. He just lingered in the taste of him, in the warmth of the bed, in the truth that they’d made it to another morning together. That Harry was still here, still his, still looking at him like that.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the quiet hum of the morning. No rush, no noise, just the soft give of sheets beneath them and the weight of what they’d made between them. Something real. Something that had survived.

Louis rested his forehead against Harry’s, both of them breathing the same air, not quite smiling but not needing to. His hand slid down to where Harry’s was still resting low on his hip.

“Can’t believe you’re still flirtin’ with me,” Louis said, voice rough with fondness. "Thought you'd grow tired of me someday."

Harry tilted his head slightly, mouth brushing close again. “You act like I’m not gonna keep flirting with you every morning I get.”

Louis’ chest went tight. Warm. “I hope you do,” he said. “Hope I wake up to your mouth on mine, your hands in my hair, your bad jokes and worse breakfast, for the rest of my damn life.”

Harry’s fingers squeezed his. “Then we better survive today.”

Louis nodded, jaw clenched just a little. “We will.”

They didn’t need to say it again. What was coming. What they were walking into. Instead, Louis leaned in and kissed Harry once more. Because they’d made it to another morning.

The sun had climbed higher by the time they stepped out of the general store, the light clearer now, harder, catching on the dust that swirled lazily around their boots. The sleepy quiet of morning had given way to something more watchful, more awake; doors open, the low murmur of townsfolk passing along the porch behind them, a couple of kids darting past on the opposite side of the street with a rope and a dog too excited for its own good.

Louis adjusted the small sack of supplies over his shoulder, the contents simple but enough: a tin of beans, a pouch of coffee, a spare roll of bandage, and a box of cartridges that clinked faintly when he moved. It wasn’t much but it was what they needed. What they might need.

Harry stepped down from the last plank of the porch, slower than usual, hand braced briefly at his side. His coat was buttoned tight against the breeze, and his hat sat low over his curls, but he still looked like sunlight. Like someone who’d survived more than he’d ever admit.

“Still time to turn back,” Louis said, though his voice lacked the weight of warning. It was just habit. Just a form of care.

Harry looked up at him, steady and sure. “There isn’t, really.”

Louis nodded once, jaw tight.

They crossed the dusty roadside by side, every footstep echoing louder than it should’ve in a town this quiet. Blue waited where they’d tied him earlier, chewing lazily on something dry and thorny near the hitching post, flicking an ear as they approached. Louis stowed the supplies in one of the saddlebags, gave Blue a firm rub along the neck, then turned back to Harry.

“Up front, now,” he said gently, already holding out a hand to help him mount. “Keep pressure off that side, darlin'.”

Harry didn’t argue. Just reached for him, trusting, like always.

Louis swung up after him, settling in behind and wrapping an arm instinctively around his waist as Harry leaned back against him. The familiar weight of him settled there like it belonged.

And then they rode. Out of town. Past the last barn, past the split in the road where the prairie took over again. The sun hung high now, casting long shadows across the wide stretch ahead, dust trails curling up from Blue’s hooves, the wind soft but steady at their backs. The land before them stretched wide and open, the trail to Dawson’s Hallow little more than a scar in the grass. It curved gently through the hills, then dipped down where the rocks rose up in crooked fingers, where the trees thickened and the sky started to feel heavier.

Harry didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Neither did Louis. They both knew what lay ahead.

Louis felt every breath Harry took against his chest. It was the same rhythm he’d grown used to across days and nights. Steady now, but not easy. Not yet. His hand rested over Harry’s ribs, right where the healing still lived, fingers curled light as if afraid to do more harm. He wasn’t sure when the instinct had settled in him, this need to protect, to shield, but it sat in his bones now, unshakable.

The land started to change the closer they got. The grass grew taller, golden and brittle in the wind, and the trees took on a different shape all thin and twisted, like they remembered fire or hunger. The birds were quieter here. Even the sky dimmed slightly, clouds creeping in like they knew what was coming and wanted to shield it from view.

Louis knew this stretch. Every turn in the trail. Every broken fence post and half-buried stone. He hadn’t been back in years. Not since that last night where he had his own blood on his hands, dust in his mouth, and nothing left of the man he thought he was.

Harry shifted slightly in front of him, just enough to draw Louis back from the edge of his memory. He didn’t speak. Just leaned his head back, letting it rest against Louis’ shoulder.

Louis dipped his chin against Harry’s curls, breathing him in like that could keep the past at bay a little longer.

“You alright?” he asked, voice rough.

Harry didn’t answer right away. Then, soft: “Mhm. Just thinking.”

Louis let the silence hold for a beat before asking, “’Bout what?”

There was a pause. Then Harry said, “How close we are now. To the end of it. I keep expecting it to feel further.”

Louis’ grip tightened just slightly. “Me too.”

The road narrowed ahead. Rocks rose sharp on either side, high enough to echo sound back at them, to muffle whatever came next. Louis remembered the sound of gunfire in this canyon. It had a way of folding in on itself, coming from everywhere at once. He reached down, brushing his hand lightly along the saddlebag to feel the edge of the revolver tucked beneath the flap. The weight of it didn’t comfort him. Not really. But it was something. And sometimes, something was all you had.

Harry’s voice came again, softer now. “Do you think he’ll be waiting? Like you said?”

Louis stared ahead, into the thinning trail. “If I were him, I would.”

Another long pause. Then Harry asked, “And if it goes bad?”

Louis’ jaw clenched. “Then I keep you alive.”

Harry didn’t push back. He just exhaled, slow and shaky. And Louis knew it wasn’t fear of dying that sat heavy in Harry’s chest. It was fear of losing. Of what might be taken before it had time to bloom.

The canyon opened slightly as they passed through, the wind sharpening, tugging at their clothes like fingers trying to turn them around. But Louis didn’t stop. Not this time.

Ahead, the road bent hard to the left. Just beyond it Dawson’s Hallow waited. Empty or not. Ready or not. And Louis kept his hand on Harry’s chest the whole way.

The road narrowed again as the canyon gave way to open land, dry and brittle. A long plain stretched out before them, and in the distance, Dawson’s Hallow rose from the earth like a memory.

Time had taken most of the town. Only a few buildings still stood in full; weather-beaten, their paint long gone, their bones gray with age. Others had caved in entirely, roofs sunken like broken spines, windows hollow and gaping. The silence here was thicker than it had been on the trail. Even the wind moved different, slower, like it didn’t want to disturb the dust.

But the church was still there.

At the far end of the road, beyond the skeletal remains of the saloon and the burnt-out shell of the old trading post, it rose stubborn and intact. Faded white wood, bell tower leaning slightly, cross still upright on its peak. Like it had waited. Like it had known.

Louis felt Harry shift again, a soft intake of breath. “That it?” he asked.

Louis nodded once. “Yeah.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. As they approached, Blue’s hooves slowed on their own like even he remembered. Louis dismounted first, boots hitting the dirt with a quiet thud.

Harry looked at the building. “You were left here?” he asked.

Louis nodded again, slower this time. “Right there,” he said, tipping his head toward the front steps. “Bleedin’ out. Didn’t think I’d make it through the night.” He stayed still for a second longer, eyes sweeping across the skeletal outline of Dawson’s Hallow, every broken window, every shadow between slats of leaning wood.

The place was too quiet. Too still. He kept one hand on the butt of his gun as he turned, helping Harry down with his other. His grip was steady, but his gaze never stopped moving. Watching. Listening. Harry’s boots met the earth with a soft crunch. He winced faintly, hand brushing his ribs, but stood tall beside him.

Louis scanned the rooftops. The church’s belltower. The alley between the saloon and what used to be the blacksmith’s shop.

Nothing. No movement. No sound but the wind and the slow flap of a torn curtain from a window above.

Too quiet.

His jaw clenched. “This don’t feel right.”

Harry followed his gaze. “You think he’s got people around?”

Louis didn’t answer. Just glanced around once more, hand resting heavy on the grip of his revolver. Then he stepped forward and reached for Blue’s reins.

“You stay here,” he said, low but firm. “With Blue. I’ll go in, check it out. If it’s clear, I’ll call for you.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Louis—”

“No.” Louis turned to face him now, eyes hard. “This ain’t up for debate. If he’s got men tucked away somewhere, I need you outta their line. You’re still healin’. You take a shot to that side, and—”

“I said no,” Harry interrupted, softer, but sure.

Louis blinked, caught off guard by how calm it sounded.

Harry stepped forward, until they were nearly chest to chest. He didn’t touch him, just looked, voice even. “I came here with you,” he said. “I’m going in with you. And I’m coming out with you.”

Louis stared at him, breath caught behind his ribs. He could’ve argued. Should’ve, maybe. Could’ve said Harry didn’t understand what kind of weight lay in that church. Could’ve reminded him what Tuck was capable of. That the air around here didn’t just feel quiet, it felt wrong. Like it had teeth.

But Louis didn’t say any of that.

Because he’d seen the look in Harry’s eyes before—when he was bleeding in David's hpme in the middle of nowhere, and still reached for Louis’ hand. When he’d faced down gunfire for a man he barely knew.

Louis exhaled, slow and steady, like he was letting go of something old.

“Alright,” he said again, quieter this time. Not surrendering, agreeing. He reached out and took Harry’s hand, fingers lacing tight, grounding. “You stay close. You listen to me, no matter what. Got it?”

Harry nodded, unwavering. “I’ve got you.”

They walked in silence, boots crunching through the brittle dust. The town watched them, hollow-eyed and crumbling, like it remembered the last time Louis bled on its dirt and wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t do it again.

The church stood ahead, tall and waiting. Louis could see the front steps now. Could see the patch of dried wood where his blood had stained the porch all those years ago. Could feel the echo of that pain in his bones. And something else, too. Not fear.

A reckoning.

He tightened his grip on Harry’s hand just once, then let go.

Drew his revolver.

And stepped up toward the door.

The hinges groaned as Louis pushed the church door open, slow and steady. It gave way with the sound of time itself shifting; old wood, rusted metal, and air that hadn’t moved in years. Dust swirled in the streaks of morning light pouring through the warped windows, catching on the worn red of the carpet and the splintered backs of the pews.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Louis stepped in first, gun low but ready, his boots landing soft on the warped floorboards. Harry followed behind him, slow and steady, hand resting at the small of Louis’ back, not for protection, just presence. The air was still, thick with heat and memory. The altar stood ahead, bare and abandoned. Behind it, a cross hung crooked on the wall, shadowed and splintering.

And then—“Took you long enough,” came a voice, low and gravel-worn.

Louis moved slow. Not out of fear. He’d spent too long carrying the weight of this moment in his chest like a second heart to be afraid now. But there was something about the air here. About the way dust hung like breath held too long. About the way the light hit the altar wrong, like the church itself was bracing for something.

He kept his gun low, but ready, stepping down the center aisle like he was walking toward something sacred and rotten at the same time.

Tuck didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But Louis saw everything.

The way his frame sat too loose in the pew, shoulders sagged under age and something else; weariness or pride, Louis couldn’t tell. His coat hung off his body like it belonged to someone else. The edges were frayed, and there were stitches at the seams that hadn’t been there before.

And his hands.

Louis’ steps slowed just a fraction as he took them in.

Tuck’s right hand rested on the wood, sprawled and easy, like he still thought he was the king of something. But the left was tucked closer to his side. Three fingers missing. Just two stubs where the rest had once been.

“Time ain’t been kind to you,” Louis muttered, voice flat as his boots creaked on the floor.

Tuck smirked. “Wasn’t expectin’ kindness.”

Louis stopped when he reached the second pew. Now he could see it fully—Tuck’s face. Older, sure. Skin sunken tight around the bones, mouth pulled thinner than Louis remembered. Wrinkles like cracks in dry stone. But it wasn’t just age that had changed him. His left eye was gone. Just a sunken, puckered hollow where it used to sit, half hidden behind a patch of leather strapped tight across his temple. The skin around it was mottled and scarred like it had been taken from him not by time, but by violence.

Louis stared. And Tuck smiled wider.

“Looks worse than it is,” he said casually, tapping the edge of the patch with the two fingers he had left. “You oughta see the other fella.”

Louis didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. He just raised the gun slightly, enough for Tuck to notice. But Tuck didn’t react. Didn’t flinch or reach. Just sat there, relaxed like a man sittin’ on a porch with nothing left to gamble.

“You gonna shoot me where I sit, son?” he asked. “Ain’t exactly poetic, is it? Thought you’d at least wanna talk first. Ask your questions. Get your closure.”

Louis’ jaw worked tight. “I didn’t come for poetry.”

He took one more step forward, the final space between them closing like a door shut behind him. Harry stayed just behind, silent, watchful. Louis looked down at the man who made him. Broke him. Left him.

Tuck shifted slightly on the pew, the old wood creaking beneath him. He glanced past Louis, eyes catching on Harry’s shape behind him, still and silent in the aisle, a shadow that hadn’t been there before.

“That him?” Tuck asked, voice casual but clipped at the edges. “The boy David told me about?”

Louis didn’t answer.

Tuck tilted his head. “He’s pretty. Bit soft around the eyes. Didn’t figure you for the sentimental type.”

Louis’ hand tightened on the grip of his gun. “You don’t get to talk about him.”

Tuck held up what was left of his left hand in mock surrender. “Easy. Just makin’ conversation. Man sits in a church long enough, starts to wonder how folks turned out. How the story went after he left.”

Louis took another step forward, boots echoing now in the high, empty space of the chapel. His voice dropped low. Controlled. “You want a story? Fine. David’s dead.”

That made Tuck go still. Not shocked. Just still. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Tuck leaned back in the pew, one corner of his mouth curling faintly. “Well. Guess you’re more like me than I thought.”

Louis didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. “Don’t you ever say that.”

Tuck smiled wider, crueler now. “I sent him to rattle your cage, that’s all. You were gettin’ comfortable. Complacent. Thought maybe a ghost would remind you what this life cost.”

Louis’ jaw clenched. “You sent him after Maggie.”

Tuck shrugged with that same, worn arrogance. “She always was soft. Always liked you more than she ought’ve. Figured if David couldn’t shake you loose, maybe she would.”

Louis’ mouth twitched, not with surprise, but rage. Contained, for now. Contained because Harry was still behind him, and this wasn’t over yet.

“You used her,” he said. Quiet, flat. “Sent a man to play family with her just to get under my skin.”

“She was part of the game,” Tuck said. “Same as you.”

“No,” Louis said. “You made me part of your game. But she was never in it. You don’t get to say her name like she was a piece on your board.”

Tuck exhaled slow, almost like he was tired of pretending to care. “Everyone’s a piece, Louis. Some just don’t know they’re bein’ moved.” Tuck leaned forward now, elbows resting on his knees, his ruined hand hanging limp between them. The light from the crooked windows caught the edge of his patch, the hollow where an eye used to be, but it didn’t make him smaller. If anything, the emptiness made him sharper, like a knife ground down to its last edge.

“Well?” he said, voice quieter now, but no less pointed. “You gonna do it or not?”

Louis didn’t answer. He didn’t lower the gun, either.

Tuck laughed once, dry and joyless. “You come all this way just to stare at me? Say your peace? I know why you’re here.” His one eye flicked up to Louis’, unflinching. “You came to kill me. That was always the plan. You came to end it, like a story’s got some clean finish. But there ain’t one. Not for you.”

Louis’ jaw ticked.

Tuck straightened slightly, that same lazy posture creeping back in like he couldn’t help but reclaim it. “You think if you put a bullet in me, that makes you clean again? That you get to walk outta here with your little pet behind you and live on a mountain somewhere, forgettin’ what you did? What we did?”

Louis’ fingers twitched on the grip.

Tuck leaned forward again, his voice low and cruel now. “You remember the Ridge job? That boy with the busted arm cryin’ for his ma? You remember what you said to shut him up?”

Louis’ chest tightened.

“You don’t walk away from that,” Tuck went on. “You don’t outlive it. You carry it. You carry me. I’m under your skin, and I always will be. That’s the price.”

Silence rang out around them like a shot. Louis didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He felt Harry behind him, still and watching, waiting but not afraid. He could feel the weight of that faith like a hand at his back.

“You ain’t under my skin,” Louis said finally, his voice steady. Dead calm. “You’re just a wound that’s almost done bleedin’.”

Tuck tilted his head, the smile flickering but still there. “You think killin’ me changes who you are? Then get on with it.” His smile curved mean and slow. “Go on. Be the son I raised.”

Louis stared at him. Long enough that the dust in the air seemed to still. Long enough that the creak of the wind against the old church doors felt like thunder. His gun was still raised, steady as ever—but something behind his ribs had started to shake. Not fear.

Revulsion. Not at Tuck. At what Tuck wanted him to become.

Slowly, Louis lowered the gun. His finger stayed curled near the trigger, but the barrel dipped, just an inch, just enough. Enough to make Tuck narrow his eye.

“What’s this?” Tuck sneered. “Cold feet?”

Louis didn’t answer the sneer. Not at first. He just looked at Tuck. At the man who’d once been the whole damn sky to him. The center of the world, the sun and the fire and the storm. Now he was just… small. Tired bones in a shadowed pew, clinging to power like it hadn’t already crumbled between his fingers. Louis let out a slow breath. Let it settle deep.

“You wanna know what you gave me?” he said, voice low, calm in a way that made Tuck’s one eye narrow. “I wake up early most days now. Earlier than I have to. I like the way the sky looks when it’s just startin’ to lighten. Pale blue, like it’s stretchin’ out after a long sleep. There’s this rabbit that comes by sometimes, hops along the fence line. Doesn’t do much. Just watches. Thinks she owns the place. I let her.”

He paused, the corner of his mouth curling—not in mockery. In memory.

“Got this thing for mint now. Real mint. Just… it makes the place smell like somethin’ fresh. Somethin’ good.”

Tuck’s expression didn’t change, but Louis saw something flicker. Confusion, maybe. Or doubt.

“I sit out on the porch in the evenings,” Louis went on, “with a mug of tea I don’t sweeten. Watch the light fall on the grass. Watch the wind move like it’s got a place to be. I listen to the quiet. Don’t rush through it.” His voice dropped a little, something tender beneath the steady. “I learned how to fix things. Real things. Fence posts. Saddles. A roof that leaks when it storms. Ain’t glamorous, but there’s peace in knowin’ I can make somethin’ right with my own hands.”

He looked Tuck in the eye now, dead on. “And that life? The one with mint and rabbits and silence that don’t bite? That’s what you gave me. Not ‘cause of what you taught me. Not ‘cause of what you did. But because you left me to die. Because you walked away.”

Louis took one step closer, calm and solid as stone. “You bled me out on those church steps and thought you ended me. But you gave me a second life. One without you in it. And it turns out, that’s where the good starts.”

Tuck didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Louis stared at him for one long moment more, then added, softer now, “You didn’t make me. You buried me. And I climbed out without you.”

Tuck shifted again on the pew, slow and deliberate. That empty eye socket caught just enough shadow to look endless. His voice came quieter now, like the edge of a blade instead of the swing. “What’s his name?”

Louis didn’t answer.

Tuck didn’t repeat himself. He just let the question hang, heavy in the thick, sun-dusted air between them.

After a beat, he sighed. “Don’t need the history. Just the name. Can’t address a man if I don’t know what to call him.”

Louis’ jaw clenched, teeth grinding behind it. Still, he didn’t speak.

Tuck tilted his head, that familiar false patience creeping in, the way he used to when someone tested his temper too long. “Fine. Doesn’t matter.” Then he turned his head just enough to look past Louis toward Harry, who stood steady behind him, back straight, shoulders squared.

“You,” Tuck said. “Outside. This bit’s between me and him.”

Harry didn’t move. Not a twitch.

“I said—”

“No,” Harry said. Just that. Quiet, firm, resolute.

Tuck’s face didn’t change. But his voice did. “If you want your sweetheart to walk out of here breathin’,” he said, flat and cold, “you’ll take yourself outside right now. You won’t speak again. And you won’t look back.”

The silence that followed snapped taut like a wire.

Louis’ eyes flicked back, caught Harry’s wide and burning, lips parted just enough to protest.

“Harry,” Louis said, calm but urgent. “It’s alright.”

Harry didn’t move.

Louis took a breath. “Go on, now. Just… go careful. Door’s open.”

Their eyes held for one second longer, two.

Then Harry nodded once. He turned, slow, his boots nearly silent against the worn boards. He didn’t look back. Didn’t say a word. The church door creaked as it opened again. And then he was gone. The silence that followed Harry’s exit was thick, pressing.

Louis listened to every step as it faded down the old church steps. Then it was just the two of them again.

Tuck and Louis. The man who raised him like a weapon and the boy who learned how to walk away.

Tuck leaned back against the pew, slow and smug. The leather strap of his eyepatch creaked as it shifted slightly on his temple. “That one’s got fire,” he said, like it was a compliment. “Too pretty to last long, but he’s got grit. I see why you’re sweet on him.”

Louis didn’t answer. His jaw was set like stone.

Tuck huffed a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “Don’t worry. I ain’t got anyone to lay a finger on him. Never did have much taste for pretty boys. But I needed to know if you’d flinch. If you’d crack.”

Louis took a step forward, slow and certain. “I don’t crack.”

“No,” Tuck said, tilting his head. “You don’t. That’s the thing, ain’t it? You were always the one I couldn’t break all the way. Could bend you to hell and back, and you’d still hold a piece of yourself behind your teeth. Always keepin’ it hidden.”

He leaned forward again, hands clasped, his ruined fingers twitching slightly against his thigh.

“You got a plan, Louis? Somethin’ clever you cooked up on the ride in? Gonna drag me out into the sun and string me up for the buzzards? Gonna preach about how you turned out better than me and ride off into whatever dust dream you got settin’ in your head?”

Louis said nothing. He just watched.

Tuck smiled wider. Crueler. “You ain’t gonna do it. Because deep down, you know this ends one way. You were mine before you ever knew your name. And I’ll be in your blood long after you try and wash it out.”

Louis raised the gun again. Steady. High now.

“No,” he said, quiet and sure. “You’re not in my blood. You’re not in my name. You’re just a man sittin’ in a church, tryin’ to talk his way out of bein’ alone at the end of it.”

Tuck’s smile faltered, just for a flicker.

“You want me to kill you,” Louis went on, “because that’s the only way you’ll still matter.”

He took another step, boots hitting the floor with finality. “But I already made peace. You lost.”

He stared down at him, gun unwavering. “You don’t die by my hand, Tuck,” Louis said, voice like a cold wind. “You die by your own.”

Louis’ breath was slow and even as he held the weight of it—years, blood, and all the silence in between. Then he turned the gun. Grip-first. Held it out. Not like an offering. Not like surrender.

Like a mirror.

Tuck looked at it, that old Colt revolver worn smooth at the handle, the steel dulled by a thousand touches but still lethal. Still final.

“You wanna go out like you mattered?” Louis said, voice like dust through a cracked window. “Then do it yourself.”

Tuck didn’t move at first. Just looked at the gun. Then up at Louis. One eye hard, unreadable. The mask he’d worn all his life slipped slightly, but not enough to show the man beneath. Only enough to show the fear.

Louis didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. He just waited. And after a moment, Tuck reached for it. Slow. Deliberate.

His mangled hand trembled around the grip. Louis stepped back, quiet and steady, eyes never leaving him.

Tuck turned the gun once in his lap. Checked the cylinder like a man who’d done it a thousand times. Maybe he had. Maybe that gun knew him better than anyone ever had. Then he looked up again. That same smirk trying to crawl back onto his lips, brittle as old wood.

“You think this makes you clean?” he asked.

Louis just stared. “I don’t need to be clean. I just need to be free.”

That hit something. Tuck’s eye narrowed. His jaw clenched like it hurt. And for the first time since Louis walked in, the silence didn’t feel like waiting. It felt like ending.

Tuck went still for a moment.

Then he laughed.

Low at first. Dry and rasping, like it scraped up from somewhere hollow. Then louder. Harsher. The sound echoed off the warped rafters, filled the cracked bones of the church like it had been waiting for something to break the silence.

Louis didn’t move. Didn’t lower his guard. He knew that laugh. Knew what came after.

Tuck leaned forward again, one eye glinting with something too sharp to be regret.

“You really thought this was it?” he asked, voice rising with the madness behind the grin. “You thought you’d come in here, hand me a gun, walk out a free man with your sweetheart at your side, like a storybook?” He shook his head slowly, like Louis was some kid who just didn’t get it. “Boy, you don’t get to walk out of this life. You don’t get free.”

Louis took a half-step back, eyes flicking toward Tuck’s grip on the revolver.

And then Tuck’s hand snapped up, not at Louis—

But past him.

To the stage at the head of the chapel.

He fired.

A shattering roar split the church like thunder cracking open the sky. The blast hit before the sound even registered. Something on the old pulpit—some rigged canister or fuel or trap long laid in wait—erupted in fire and splintering wood, sending a shockwave through the entire chapel. Louis felt himself thrown backward—lifted off his feet and slammed hard against the aisle. Wood and dust exploded around him, heat licking up his coat as smoke swallowed the air. His ears rang high and sharp. The floor shook under him. The ceiling groaned.

Tuck was screaming. Or laughing. Or both. Louis couldn’t tell.

He tasted blood. Smoke. The sharp bite of gunpowder. His head swam as he dragged in a breath through the thick haze and tried to roll onto his side. Somewhere beyond the smoke, something was burning. The church—what was left of it—was coming down around them.

Suddenly, Tuck was over him and landed a blow to Louis’ jaw that spun his vision. Louis grunted, swung back, drove his knuckles into the side of Tuck’s face—once, twice—before they rolled again, smashing into the edge of a shattered pew.

Everything hurt. The smoke stung his eyes. The fire was crawling up the walls, choking the air. But Louis didn’t let go. Couldn’t. Tuck’s hand went for something in his coat, a flash of steel catching the firelight, and Louis grabbed his wrist, slammed it hard into the floor. They struggled, breathless, until—Tuck got loose.

The blade swung. Louis jerked back just a second too late. The flash of steel caught the light and then came down fast, instinct met fire, but not fast enough.

Pain lit up his hand like lightning.

He shouted, half fury, half shock, stumbling back as his knuckles hit the scorched floorboards. His hand was slick, hot, wrong but he didn’t look. He couldn’t. Knew if he did his steadiness now would falter. The smoke and heat and Tuck’s ragged breathing swallowed the moment whole.

Tuck lunged again, blood and soot streaked down his face, one eye wild. “Now you’ll remember me,” he snarled, voice breaking under the strain.

Louis staggered, vision blurring at the edges, the world spinning between the glow of fire and shadow. But he didn’t fall. Didn’t run. He caught Tuck’s wrist again with his good hand, forced it sideways, and slammed his shoulder into him, driving him backward into the half‑collapsed pew. The knife clattered out of reach, lost somewhere under burning debris.

They went down hard, both gasping for air, both shaking from pain and smoke. Louis’ body moved on instinct; training, rage, survival. His knee pressed into Tuck’s chest, pinning him, and his good hand went to the man’s throat.

“Enough,” Louis rasped, voice shredded.

Tuck clawed at him, but his strength was gone. The old fire was still in his eye, but his body was failing him, the years and wounds catching up all at once.

“Go on,” he rasped, wheezing against Louis’ grip. “Finish it.”

Louis didn’t move. Didn’t loosen, didn’t press. Just stayed there, shaking, smoke curling around them both as the church began to come apart.

“I already did,” he said finally, voice low. He released Tuck and staggered back, clutching his injured hand against his chest. The building groaned, beams cracking overhead.

Tuck tried to laugh, tried to rise, but the sound broke in his throat, swallowed by the roar of collapsing timber.

Louis shook his head slowly, like he was tired down to the bone. Tired of running. Tired of being pulled back into the fire by the same hands that had built it. “You did this to yourself,” he said.

Tuck froze, just for a breath. Louis took a shaky step back toward the front of the chapel, the fire casting long, warping shadows across the broken pews and crumbling altar.

“You could’ve left here back then, made something of yourself like I did. Could’ve had family,” Louis went on, voice rough, cracked. “You had it all in your hand, and you ruined it. ‘Cause you couldn’t stop takin’. Couldn’t stop breakin everythin’ you touched.”

He glanced down now at his ruined hand, blood streaking across his palm, where two of his fingers should’ve been.

“But I’m not yours anymore.”

The roof groaned again, and this time, part of it gave way—sparks flying, ash filling the air like snow. Louis turned, stumbling for the doors, the heat at his back now.

"You can burn here,” he said without looking back. “Alone, just like you left me. So, choose to crawl out and do better like I did or suffer knowing you died a failure.”

Behind Louis, the chapel let out a long, splintering groan as another beam gave way and crashed to the floor in a burst of flame. The ground trembled beneath it, coughing up soot and smoke like the building was exhaling its final breath.

Louis didn’t stop. He didn’t turn to see whether Tuck moved, whether he reached for salvation or sank into the ruin he made for himself.

He’d said what needed saying. Every step toward the door felt like it cost something; blood trailing behind him, lungs raw from smoke, his hand pulsing with a pain that would follow him for the rest of his days. But he was walking forward.

Into the light.

Into his life.

And behind him, the fire kept burning.

The moment Louis stumbled out of the collapsing church, the light hit him, blinding and harsh after the smoke, a blur of gold and gray and wind. He barely felt his boots hit the dirt before a pair of arms were on him, catching him as he fell forward.

Harry. Sweet Harry.

“Louis—” His voice cracked, breaking into a sob as he dragged him away from the flames, pulling him down onto the dusty ground, away from the heat and falling ash. “God—Louis, stay with me.”

Louis coughed, hard and rough, his body trembling under Harry’s hands. Blood streaked his chin, his shirt, his ruined hand pressed weakly against Harry’s chest. The fire behind them roared, swallowing what was left of the church, of Tuck, of the past.

He tried to speak, his voice a rasp, every breath shuddering. “Harry—hey. Don’t cry, now.”

Harry shook his head, tears cutting clean lines through the soot on his cheeks. “You’re hurt, love, you’re—Christ, your hand—just hold on, I’ll get you help—”

Louis shook his head faintly, eyes struggling to stay open. He caught Harry’s face with his good hand, thumb brushing a streak of dirt from his cheek. “No more runnin’, you hear me?”

“Don’t you start saying goodbye—”

Louis managed a small, tired smile. “Ain’t sayin’ goodbye.” His voice softened to almost nothing. “Sayin’ it’s time. Time we go north, nice and slow.”

Harry let out a broken laugh that fell straight into a sob, pressing their foreheads together. “You idiot,” he whispered. “You bloody idiot.”

Louis coughed again, the sound rough and wet, but his hand stayed where it was, steady against Harry’s face. His eyes found Harry’s and held them.

“I love you,” he murmured. “You’re the best thing I ever did.”

“Louis, please,” Harry whispered, his voice cracking. “You’re gonna be fine, you hear me? We’ll fix it, we’ll—”

Louis smiled faintly, eyes fluttering. “Then we hurry up, yeah? Got a lot left to see.”

His body sagged, heavy in Harry’s arms, the fight finally leaving him. But even as his eyes slipped shut, there was peace in his face. Behind them, the church burned.

And Harry held him tighter, rocking him gently, whispering into his hair like a prayer.

“We’re going north,” he said through the tears. “You hear me, Louis? We’re going north.”

Louis felt the world tilting sideways. Not fast, just gradually, like a slow collapse. Like the church coming down beam by beam, quiet and inevitable. The pain was still there, sharp and burning, but it had started to dull at the edges. Too much blood. 

Harry’s arms stayed around him, solid and shaking all at once. Louis leaned into them, teeth clenched, legs barely working beneath him. The smoke was behind them now, the heat lessening, but his knees kept buckling. He wasn’t sure if his boots were even hitting the ground anymore or if Harry was dragging him.

“Just a little further,” Harry breathed, one arm tight around Louis’ back, the other clutched beneath his knees as they stumbled forward. "Blue's waiting."

Blue was straight ahead. He could see the shape of him now, tied to a broken post, ears flicking, patient like he understood this was bigger than anything else they’d asked of him before.

Louis blinked slow.

Then slower.

The sun was too bright. His shirt clung wet and heavy to his side. His hand didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore. The pain had gone numb. That scared him more than anything.

“I—” he tried to say, but his voice didn’t come out. Just air. Just smoke and nothing.

Harry’s grip tightened.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re alright, love. Stay with me.”

Louis wanted to. God, he wanted to. But the ground swayed again, and this time he couldn’t hold on. His legs gave fully. The sky tilted.

And everything went dark.

—

Light.

That’s what Louis noticed first. Not pain, not the weight in his limbs, not even the slow throb in his hand. Just light. Soft, warm, and golden. It filtered through something gauzy overhead, like sunlight caught in lace. It made the room glow pale and quiet, made everything look like it was underwater.

His eyes drifted open slow, sticky with sleep or something heavier. He blinked once. And there he was.

Harry.

Sitting beside the bed, backlit by the morning sun streaming in through a window behind him. His curls were soft and freshly washed, a halo around his face. His eyes were puffy, like he’d cried, but he was smiling. That soft, small smile that Louis had only ever seen up close. The kind he wasn’t sure he deserved but was always given anyway.

Louis blinked again, chest rising unevenly. “Am I—” His voice cracked. Dry. Weak.

Harry leaned forward, and his fingers threaded gently into Louis’ hair, smoothing it back from his forehead with quiet reverence.

“You’re alright,” Harry murmured, voice like honey warmed over the stove. “You’re safe.” His fingers traced through Louis’ hair again, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet that had finally settled over them. His other hand was resting lightly on Louis’ chest, grounding, soft. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered.

Louis let out a shaky breath. His whole body hurt, but it was far away. Like his bones were tucked in under quilts and time and the steady beat of Harry’s voice.

He blinked slow, the ache behind his eyes dull but present, like the echo of something awful, just far enough away not to touch him. He swallowed, throat raw. Then, quieter this time, “Where are we?”

Harry smiled softly, thumb brushing over his temple. “We’re back at the ranch.”

That took a second to land. Louis’ brow furrowed faintly. “The ranch? Like...my ranch?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Maggie’s downstairs. She hasn’t left since we came through the door. Keeps threatening to kill me if I let you sit up before she says so.”

Louis huffed a breath, barely a laugh, barely a sound. “Maggie…”

Harry’s voice stayed gentle. “The Halloways are helping. Cleaning up loose ends. Patching fences, moving the cattle. Said to tell you not to worry about a damn thing.”

Louis let that settle. Let it sit in the hollow of his chest, warm and foreign and almost too much. “We’re really back,” he whispered. "You got us back."

He stared past Harry for a moment, eyes unfocused like he was trying to make sense of it all; the bed beneath him, the soft light on the curtains, the faint smell of coffee and hay drifting in from the open window. It didn’t fit with what he remembered. Fire. Smoke. The sound of the roof screaming as it fell. His breath hitched, and slowly, he lifted his right hand, the one that still ached deep in the bones. He turned it palm-up in the light.

Two fingers gone. The bandages were clean, new, carefully wrapped. But the sight still hit him hard, like a phantom pain, like something stolen.

Harry’s hand was there immediately, covering it gently, like he could hide it from both of them.

Louis looked at him, and his voice came out small. “Guess he got one last piece of me.”

Harry’s jaw trembled; he blinked fast, but a tear still broke loose and slid down his cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it away, just tightened his grip around Louis’ hand, careful but firm. “Doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “He didn’t win.”

Louis studied him for a long moment, his thumb brushing the edge of Harry’s wrist. “He make it out?”

Harry hesitated. The kind of pause that said he’d already run this question through his head a dozen times. His throat worked before he finally spoke, low and steady. “No,” he said. “There’s no way. Roof came down not thirty seconds after I got you out. Whole place went under. If he made it past the fire, he didn’t make it far.”

Louis nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the window now. The wind outside carried the soft sound of the fields, the low hum of life going on. He let the thought sit, heavy but clean.

They sat like that a while, wrapped in quiet. The kind that didn’t ache anymore.

After a minute, Louis exhaled slow, eyes fluttering shut. “Feels strange,” he admitted. “Not carryin’ it. Him. All that weight.”

Harry nodded into him. “That’s ‘cause now you’ve got room for the rest of your life.”

Louis cracked a faint smile. “Always got a way with words, don’t you?”

“Just saying what you won’t,” Harry said, voice light now, even fond. “Like how you love me.”

Louis huffed, low and tired, but the corner of his mouth lifted more. “Did I forget to say that again?”

Harry kissed his shoulder, lips barely touching skin. “You said it.”

“Good,” Louis whispered. “’Cause I do. So much it hurts.”

Harry smiled against him. “Then when you’re strong enough, we’re leaving. North. Cabin. Porch. Dog.”

“You pickin’ the dog?”

“Already got a name.”

Louis opened his eyes, slow. “That so?”

Harry nodded. “You’re gonna hate it.”

The door creaked open just enough for the smell to drift in first; warm bread, something stewed with herbs, probably from the little garden Maggie kept by the porch. Harry glanced over his shoulder, not bothering to wipe the grin off his face.

“You’re in for it now,” he murmured to Louis.

Maggie stepped in, carrying a tray with one bowl and a pitcher balanced like she’d done it every day of her life. “I hope you're hungry Harry, you've barely had a bite today,” she started to scold—then stopped dead.

Her eyes locked on Louis. For a second, she didn’t move. Then the tray hit the little table with a soft clatter, and she was across the room before either of them could say a word.

“Jesus, Mary, and every damn saint—” she breathed, voice cracking as she knelt beside the bed. Her hands hovered just above his shoulder, his chest, like she didn’t know where it was safe to touch him.

Louis blinked, already a little overwhelmed. “Hey, Mags.”

She let out a breath that was half a sob and half a laugh, and then she leaned in, wrapping her arms around him careful as anything, burying her face into the side of his neck.

Louis froze just a second—surprised by the sudden warmth of her—but then his good arm came up around her, pulling her in as best he could.

“I thought we lost you,” she whispered, voice shaking. “He came back carryin’ you like you were already gone.”

Louis swallowed hard, suddenly blinking fast himself. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She pulled back just enough to cup his face, brushing his hair from his forehead like she’d done when they were younger. Her hands trembled, eyes full and shining. “Don’t you ever do that again, Louis Tomlinson,” she said, half stern, half broken. “You hear me? Don’t you dare.”

Louis nodded. “I hear you.”

Maggie lingered for a moment, still cupping his face like she was trying to reassure herself he was real—flesh and breath and heartbeat beneath her palms. Then she sat back just enough to glance at Harry.

Her voice went softer. “He didn’t leave your side. Not once.”

Louis followed her gaze, and Harry gave a sheepish little smile, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that truth.

Maggie looked between them, something deep and warm flickering behind her eyes. “You should’ve seen him when we brought you in. God, Louis. I’ve never seen someone look that gutted. Like the world ended. Like he didn’t know how to keep breathing without you.”

She sniffed, wiping at her face, but her voice held firm.

“You scared me,” she said again, “but seein’ him that close to losin’ you? I think that was worse. I don’t care what the law says or what stories you’ve lived through. You two… you need each other.”

Louis couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even blink for a second. His chest ached, not from the wounds, not from the pain, but from the way those words hit. Coming from her. From Maggie. The woman who’d had his name on paper. Who knew what it meant to watch a man unravel. And she’d said it without bitterness. Without blame. Just truth.

Louis swallowed hard, something thick caught in his throat. He reached out with his good hand, fingers brushing her wrist where it rested against his blanket.

“I love you, Maggie,” he said softly. Steady. Not out of habit. Not out of history. Just truth.

Maggie didn’t hesitate. Her eyes brimmed again, but she smiled through it—gentle, tired, full of something solid. “I love you too, Lou.”

And this time… it felt different. Not like it used to. Not like a promise they were still trying to keep or a past they couldn’t let go of. It felt like a gift. A kind of love that could finally set both of them free.

She leaned in and kissed his forehead then rested her hand over his heart for a moment, like sealing something in.

Then she stood.

Letting go without losing anything at all.

Harry slid back into the chair beside the bed, like he was meant to be there, like he never truly left. He reached for Louis’ good hand, lacing their fingers carefully, thumb brushing soft over the back of it.

Then his eyes flicked down toward the bandaged one, and a smirk tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he said, feigning thoughtfulness, “you were always a bit grabby. World probably safer with two fewer fingers.”

Louis let out a soft, raspy laugh, just a breath of one. “Gonna take a swing at you in a minute.”

Harry leaned in a little, grinning. “Not if you can’t count to five anymore.”

Louis groaned, resting his head back against the pillow. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love me.” He squeezed Louis’ hand once more, then reached for something off the bedside table; a worn mug, steam curling gently from the rim. “Also,” Harry added, lifting it carefully, “already two steps ahead of you.”

Louis blinked at the cup. “What’s that?”

Harry held it closer, that proud little look in his eyes. “Mint tea. Been makin’ it every day. Figured when you woke up you’d be nauseous; nerves, blood loss, existential rebirth, take your pick.”

Louis huffed a soft breath, lips twitching. “You and that damn mint.”

“Saved your life, probably.”

Louis took the cup with a slow, unsteady hand and sipped. It settled something in his stomach, in his chest, all at once.

His eyes met Harry’s again. “Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “Reckon it did.”

Harry watched him drink, eyes soft, fingers still curled around Louis’ like he couldn’t bear to let go. The mug lowered, slow and careful, and Louis leaned back into the pillows again; still pale, still aching, but more alive than he’d felt in a long time.

For a while, they just breathed together.

Then Harry broke the quiet, voice low but steady. “So… what’s next?”

Louis didn’t answer right away. He looked out the window instead, where the morning was creeping in gentle, gold-edged. The sound of chickens carried from somewhere out back. Wind through dry grass. Somewhere downstairs, Maggie was probably already setting a second tray. He let out a slow breath, eyes still turned toward the open sky.

“Well,” he murmured, his mouth twitching up at one side, “suppose you better start workin’ on your hammer swing.”

Harry raised a brow. “My what?”

“You said we’re goin’ north,” Louis said. “Cabin don’t build itself.”

Harry blinked at him before that slow, crooked grin broke across his face like sunrise. The kind of smile that didn’t need fanfare, didn’t ask for attention. Just was, deep and sure and full of every inch of hope they hadn’t dared speak until now. “So I’m the labor,” he said, squeezing Louis’ hand.

Louis’ eyes slid back to him, a lazy, tired smirk tugging at his mouth. “Figure you’ve got the back for it. And the stubbornness. And a few more fingers.”

Harry gasped, scandalized, clutching his own hand to his chest like Louis had mortally offended him. “That’s low,” he said, lips twitching. “I am wounded.”

Louis raised a brow, the edge of a grin curling wider. “You wanna talk wounded?”

Harry leaned in close, voice a touch more smug. “Guess I’ll have to do all the heavy lifting while you supervise from your rocking chair, huh? Yelling at me with your stumpy hand.”

Louis didn’t even pretend to hide his laugh this time, raspy and hoarse but real. “You’re beggin’ to be left out there with a hammer and a black bear for company.”

Harry grinned and kissed the back of his hand. “Long as the bear’s less grumpy than you, I reckon I’ll manage.”

Louis looked at him then. At the dimpled smile, the dirt still caught at the edge of his jaw, the way his curls fell forward when he leaned close like that. His voice had gone all quiet in his chest now, like something full and aching had settled behind his ribs and didn’t know how to be anything but soft.

He squeezed Harry’s hand, slow and sure.

Harry didn’t say anything, just held on tighter, his thumb brushing slow over the back of Louis’ hand like he could memorize the shape of it, even the changed parts. Especially the changed parts.

“You’ve got the right hands for it,” Louis said again, quieter now. “For buildin’. For stayin’. For me.”

Harry looked at him, eyes shining in that way Louis had only ever seen when the world was real quiet, like right now, like right after a storm passes and everything is still wet and golden and breathing.

Harry leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere, Louis. Not ever.”

Louis’ throat worked around the swell of feeling, too thick to swallow. He blinked slow, letting his gaze travel over Harry’s face; every freckle, every line that laughter or worry had carved deep over the years. And still, somehow, he looked like something new. Something that’d waited a long time to bloom.

“I love you,” Louis murmured, steady and sure. “So much it don’t make sense half the time.”

Harry smiled like he’d been waiting years to hear that again, even if Louis had already said it a hundred times. “Then I guess we’ll just have to build something that does.”

And Louis nodded, because for the first time in his life, he could see it.

Not just a cabin.

A home.

Chapter Text

The water ran slow this time of year, lazily folding over polished stones like it had all the time in the world. The river didn’t rush, didn’t churn or snap. It just moved, soft and certain, like a breath through sleeping trees. Like it knew it belonged here.

Louis sat on a flat rock a few feet up from the bank, one knee bent. He held a chipped enamel mug in one hand—warm tea, mint and honey—and watched the light catch on the surface of the water below. Watched him.

Harry was down in the river, half-submerged, curls wet and slicked back, sun catching golden on his shoulders as he dipped beneath the water and came back up slow. He moved like the river itself; graceful, unrushed, comfortable in his own skin. The way he always did when he thought no one was watching.

Louis watched anyway. Hadn’t stopped watching, really. Not for a year now. Not since the world tipped on its side and landed them here, on a patch of quiet land high in the hills, where the wind came steady and the sky looked like it went on forever. Their land. Their home.

The cabin stood behind him, backlit in soft morning light, half-finished when they’d first come up the trail last spring, now fully standing and fully theirs. Harry had built most of it with his own hands, stubborn and smiling, shirt soaked through with sweat and sawdust and pride. Louis had helped where he could with lighter things, steadier things. When his hand hurt, Harry would take over without a word. Just kissed his temple, handed him a glass of water, and kept hammering.

The roof didn’t leak. The porch didn’t creak. The chimney puffed smoke in clean little curls on cold mornings, and a dog named Clover chased rabbits she’d never catch through the tall grass like she was the queen of the whole damn world.

But this was Louis’ favorite part of all of it. He sipped from his mug, let the taste settle on his tongue. Mint and honey. Bright and slow. God, everything was slower now. He hadn’t realized how fast his blood used to run, how hard he’d held himself together like a man constantly bracing for the next blow. But up here, the days unraveled gentle. The wind sang through the trees like it had a melody just for them. 

And Harry? Harry was golden. Not just in the light, not just in the way his skin glowed when he tilted his head back and laughed at something dumb Clover did, but in the way he was. Soft and good and bright from the inside out.

Louis used to think peace would come like a bang. A moment. A single breath when the fight finally ended. But it hadn’t. It had come like this. Slow mornings. Hot tea. A man laughing in a river with water to his hips and sunlight on his back.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d carried a gun. The last time he’d dreamt in blood. Most nights now, he just curled into the soft dip of Harry’s body beneath the quilt and slept straight through, waking only to the sound of birds or the smell of bread rising in their little stove.

This was the life they’d bled for. This was the end of the long ride.

Louis set his mug down and leaned back on his hands, squinting at the water below. Harry was coming toward shore now, shaking the water from his hair like a dog, curls sticking to his temples and neck. He was still naked and unbothered as always and Louis let his eyes wander. The stretch of his back, the cut of his waist, the scars on his shoulder and waist Louis had kissed a thousand times now. His whole body held the ease of a man who knew he was safe, who belonged. Louis still hadn’t quite figured out how to hold all of that. How someone like him ended up with mornings like this. With a love like Harry’s. It didn’t make sense. But it was real.

Harry spotted him on the rock and grinned, wide and easy. “You just gonna sit there ogling me, or are you coming in?”

Louis raised a brow. “Water’s cold.”

Harry shrugged. “So am I. C’mere and warm me up.”

Louis smirked, but didn’t move. “I like the view from here.”

“Pervert.” Harry stepped out of the river, bare feet squishing into the soft mud of the bank, droplets trailing lazy down his legs.

Louis just tipped his head back and laughed, raspy and easy, the kind of laugh that came without effort now.

Harry came to stand over him, shirt now hanging damp in his hands, curls dripping onto his shoulders. “Alright,” he said, mock-serious, “I’ll bite. What’s going through that head of yours?”

Louis squinted up at him, shading his eyes with one hand. “Just thinkin’ you look like somethin’ out of a storybook.”

Harry raised a brow. “A very naked storybook?”

“The best kind.”

Harry rolled his eyes but grinned anyway, then tossed the shirt over his shoulder and sank down beside him on the rock, close enough for their knees to brush. Louis leaned into him without thinking, head finding the dip of Harry’s shoulder like muscle memory.

For a while, they didn’t speak. The river murmured. Clover barked faintly in the distance. They stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder while the world moved gentle around them. The river hummed on like it always had, and the wind stirred the tall grass, cool against their sun-warmed skin.

It’d been just about a year since they first rode north, Harry limping slightly in the saddle, Louis stitched and half-healed, their lives packed into saddlebags and stubborn hope. They’d found the land by accident after weeks of camping and town hopping. It was a patch of cleared field and old stone footing tucked high above the valley with a view that reached all the way to the ridge. Nothing on it but a few rotting beams and a stubborn blackberry bush that refused to die.

They’d made it theirs. That first spring, they built the frame of the cabin with bare hands and borrowed tools, swearing at crooked boards and Harry singing to himself when he thought Louis wasn’t listening. Louis had helped where he could, even when the healing hand ached something fierce. He relearned the rhythm of lumber and nails, the patience of leveling, the comfort of standing next to a man who never made him feel less for needing a break.

By summer, there was a porch. By fall, a chimney.

The house was full of green. Harry had taken to planting like he was born for it. First it was herbs, mint, obviously, and basil and thyme. Then tomatoes. Then something new every week: marigolds in tin buckets, ivy trailing from the loft, a lemon tree he swore was going to survive the frost.

Now, there wasn’t a room in the cabin that didn’t hold something living. Something soft. Something Harry grew.

Louis never said it out loud, not in so many words, but he’d started sleeping better once the plants took over. There was something about waking up with the smell of mint in the air and sunlight streaming through vines curling over the window frame. Something about how Harry would talk to the leaves like they were old friends, brushing soil from his fingers onto the floorboards and humming tunelessly as he moved from pot to pot. Like it was second nature. Like it was survival.

Louis used to think survival was bleeding and running and fighting harder than the day before. Now he thought maybe it was keeping a basil plant alive through the winter. Maybe it was waking up with someone warm against your back and the soft weight of a dog curled against your legs. Maybe it was pouring two mugs of tea without asking and knowing which one had more honey. Maybe it was silence that didn’t hurt.

That winter, Harry taught Louis how to make bread. It was messy and uneven and half-burned the first three times, but they ate it anyway, laughing with flour in their hair. Louis taught Harry how to trap and skin a fish without flinching, and Harry only gagged once. They stacked firewood shoulder to shoulder. They kissed in the doorway like there was nothing waiting beyond it. And nothing ever was.

Maggie’s letters came once every few weeks, always in her no-nonsense handwriting, a little crooked from speed, often smudged at the edges like she wrote them in a rush between baking and saddling horses. She’d sold the ranch in the spring, just like she said she might, and taken off farther west with the Halloways. Said it was time for new roots. Said she missed the land, but not the ghosts.

Said there was a man, one of the Halloway sons, the one who’d gone off to see the Pacific and came back with sunburned cheeks and stories for days. She didn’t say much about him at first, just little details in the margins. Then he brought her coffee in bed on Sundays, built her a chair that rocked right, made her laugh without trying.

Louis didn’t need her to say more. He recognized the tone. Knew the way it felt to be quiet around someone and still feel full.

Harry wrote back to her each time, more poetic than necessary. He’d tuck little hand-sewn sachets into the envelopes, each one stitched with uneven care, stuffed with mint, dried lemon balm, rosemary. Whatever they had on hand that smelled like home. Maggie said she kept them in her kitchen drawer, her saddlebag, under her pillow. Said it made her feel like they weren’t so far after all.

Sometimes Louis would scribble a line or two himself, at the bottom. Just “Glad you’re happy” or “Tell him he better treat you right” or “Miss you, Mags.” He didn’t write often, but when he did, she always replied to him first.

Harry and Louis just kept choosing it. Every morning, every quiet moment, every late-night ache soothed by touch instead of words. They fell into love like it was a rhythm, not a lightning strike. Slow. Constant. Steady as the creek. They kissed like people who knew what it meant to lose, and held each other like they’d survived something together. Sometimes Louis would just stare at him across the garden, hair half-tied back and hands dirty from soil, and feel it rise in him, quiet and crushing: God, he’s mine.

And Harry never said “I love you” the same way twice.

Sometimes it was through soft touches, like when he rubbed circles into Louis’ back during a thunderstorm, or when he stayed up fixing a draft in the window just so Louis wouldn’t wake up cold. Other times, it was obvious. Sloppy forehead kisses, teasing bites on Louis’ shoulder, the way he’d grin and say, “Can’t believe you’re stuck with me,” like he didn’t know Louis had chosen him every single day since he rolled up with nothing but a horse and the will to work.

They made their way into town once every month or so, down the winding trail and across the flat land. The closest town wasn’t much, just a few buildings, a general store, a sleepy saloon with one old piano that hadn’t been tuned in decades. They’d gotten the late night crowd on their feet one night, same as the way Harry did all those days ago. Folks there were kind. Kept to themselves. Didn’t ask about the scar on Louis’ face or the limp in Harry’s gait. Just nodded, offered fresh eggs or news, and smiled when they saw Clover trotting along beside them like she owned the road.

Harry took to chatting with the shopkeeper’s wife, who gave him cuttings from her lavender bush and once gifted him a book on wild herbs “for the strange one who won’t stop planting mint.” Louis just smiled, let him talk, let himself be known in the smallest, safest ways.

And then first winter came. It came slow, and then all at once with winds colder than anything they’d known, white frost creeping over the windows. The first time it snowed, Louis had stepped out onto the porch and just stared, mug in hand, while flakes spun down in quiet spirals.

Harry ran out barefoot.

“You’ll freeze to death,” Louis shouted, but he was laughing real, open laughter that echoed off the pines.

Clover was already out there, bounding through it, tongue lolling, catching snowflakes like she knew what joy was. Harry fell backward into the drift, arms out, curls turning white in minutes. “Come on!” he yelled. “It’s soft!”

Louis rolled his eyes, but he came. They stayed out until their fingers were numb and their faces red from cold and laughter. They built something that resembled a snowman, then promptly tore it down. Louis kissed him breathless, the chill making them cling harder. Lips chapped. Hearts warm. That night, they curled beneath thick quilts, fire crackling low, Clover snoring at their feet. Louis held Harry close, Harry his nose into the crook of his neck.

“First snow,” Harry murmured, almost asleep.

Louis kissed his forehead. “First of many.”

Their love wasn’t just quiet mornings and slow laughter. It was full-bodied, consuming, just as physical as it was emotional. They explored each other with the kind of reverence only earned through survival. Through time. Through trust. And God, did they take their time.

There were days when it was soft. sun-drenched and lazy, Harry’s fingertips dragging slow down Louis’ spine, lips mouthing promises into the curve of his shoulder. Mornings when they didn’t leave the bed for hours, when the cabin filled with the scent of tea and the sound of breath hitching under warm hands.

But there were other days too. When Louis would catch Harry grinning over his shoulder in the garden, mud on his knees and nothing but sunlight on his skin, and something would snap. When they’d stumble back inside, breathless, half-laughing, mouths finding each other like they were starving for it. When Louis would press him into the kitchen table or the half-finished wall of the barn, and Harry would say his name like a prayer he didn’t want answered.

Louis used to think he was getting too old for this kind of fire, this kind of want that lasted all night and into the next. But Harry was tireless in ways that defied reason, and Louis, for all his grumbling, kept up. Barely.

“You tryna kill me?” Louis would mutter, panting, fingers fisted in the sheets or braced against the mattress frame.

Harry would just smile eyes wild, lips pink and bitten and say, “You started it.”

But Louis gave as good as he got. Had Harry begging in ways he never expected—under him, over him, riding the edge with nothing but Louis’ hand in his and a whispered command in his ear. They learned each other’s bodies like the land they’d claimed; every rise, every mark, every scar kissed soft or bitten hard. They found new ways to burn. And in every touch, every gasp, every tangled heartbeat, they made something whole. Something holy. Something that felt like coming home over and over again.

Love like theirs wasn’t quiet behind closed doors. It was loud. Messy. Alive.

Harry was still damp beside him, sun drying the last of the river from his skin, steam curling gently off his shoulders in the cool morning air. Their legs were tangled now, warm against the flat rock, skin pressed to skin in the kind of closeness that didn’t need permission anymore. Louis shifted just slightly, turning toward him, and Harry met him there like he always did.

The kiss started lazy. Harry’s lips tasted like mint and riverwater and sun, and Louis drank him in, one hand braced behind himself on the rock while the other found the slope of Harry’s jaw. They kissed like men who had time. Like there was no urgency, no gunfire waiting around the bend, just mouths meeting and parting and finding one another again, softer every time.

Harry smiled into it, teeth brushing against Louis’ lip as he deepened it for a beat, then pulled back just enough to murmur, “You gonna drag me into the water?”

Louis shook his head, thumb brushing across the curve of Harry’s lower lip. “Temptin’, but no.”

Harry’s brow arched. “No?”

“I’ve got a surprise,” Louis said, sitting up straighter now.

Harry gave him a long, playful look. “That so?”

“But you’ll have to come back inside with me. Dry off. Get dressed.”

Harry huffed, mock offended. “You’re making me put clothes on?”

“Briefly.” Louis leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Just trust me.”

Harry grinned. “Always do.”

They stood together, slow and easy, stretching under the morning light. Naked and sun-kissed and smiling. Clover barked in the distance, probably off chasing butterflies again, and the river kept moving like it had all the time in the world.

Louis bent, grabbed their scattered clothes, and handed Harry his trousers with a smirk. “Come on, then. Can’t surprise you if you keep dawdlin’.”

Harry tugged the shirt over his head, curls flopping wildly, and followed him barefoot up the path toward the cabin, hand brushing his, step for step.

Louis was quiet, but not in the heavy way he used to be, just thoughtful. He kept glancing toward the cabin like it held something he couldn’t quite wait to show. Harry noticed, of course. He always noticed.

“What’s this about, then?” he asked, grinning as he nudged Louis’ shoulder. “You find a way to rig the bread oven to spit out biscuits on command?”

Louis scoffed. “Better.”

“Better than biscuits?” Harry said, mock shocked. “What, did you finally train Clover to milk the goats?”

“Don’t tempt her,” Louis muttered, biting back a smile. “She’d take it too far.”

The cabin came into view, tucked quiet into the hill like it’d always been there. Vines crawled up one side, the porch painted new that spring. The door was cracked open just enough to let the breeze through, the scent of herbs and wood smoke floating out.

Louis led the way inside, Harry close behind, eyes sweeping the room out of habit though nothing had ever threatened them here. Not once. It was instinct, but it was fading.

Everything inside was exactly as they’d left it: mugs on the table, folded quilt on the couch, Clover’s bone tucked behind the woodstove like she was hiding it for later.

Louis set the clothes down on the bench by the door and crossed to the small cabinet near the fireplace. Harry watched as he opened it, pulled something out wrapped in old cloth, and held it behind his back as he turned.

“You gonna tell me what this is,” Harry asked, stepping closer, “or do I have to guess?”

Louis didn’t answer. He stepped forward and gently pressed the bundle into Harry’s hands. Harry blinked down at it, curious. He unfolded the cloth slowly, fingers brushing over the rough linen—then stopped.

Inside was a small, leather-bound book. Worn around the edges. Clearly handmade. Inside, pages of rough paper with some blank, some already filled with careful ink. And tucked into the front cover, a sprig of dried mint, pressed flat like a signature.

Harry looked up, eyes wide and shining. “What is this?”

Louis shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Figured you needed somewhere new for your garden notes. Tea blends. Whatever else you’re dreamin’ up next. Made the cover from some of that old saddle leather. Maggie helped me with the stitching before she left last time.”

Harry opened the first page. Louis had written something in small, careful script:

 

For the right hands that make things grow, and the heart that taught me how.

—L

 

Harry didn’t say anything right away. He just stared down at it like he’d been handed something holy. Then, slowly, he looked up. “You made this for me.”

Louis nodded. “Wanted to give you somethin’ you could fill up. Like you’ve done with me.”

Harry stepped in close and kissed him. Slow and deep, all thanks and love and wonder. “You sap,” he whispered against his mouth.

“Yeah,” Louis whispered back. “But I’m your sap.”

And Harry laughed, pulled him in tighter, and said, “Damn right you are.”

Harry didn’t let go for a long moment, his arms wound tight around Louis’ waist, the little book still pressed between their chests. His cheek rested against Louis’ shoulder, breath warm, steady. “You keep this up,” he murmured, “I might start expecting gifts every week.”

Louis huffed, low and fond. “This ain’t that kind of house.”

Harry grinned. “Mm. I dunno. Between you and the garden, I’m feeling real spoiled lately.”

Louis pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, thumb brushing along the edge of Harry’s jaw. “Good,” he said. “You should be.” Harry’s expression softened, but before he could say something else, Louis shifted slightly, still holding onto him but a little looser now. “I got one more surprise,” he said.

Harry’s brow arched, playful suspicion lighting up his face. “Another one?”

Louis nodded. “Don’t roll your eyes till you see it.”

“Oh, I’m reserving judgment.”

Louis stepped away, still shirtless, still barefoot on the worn wood floor. He went to the far side of the cabin, where the windows caught the morning light just right, and opened a small drawer near the bookshelf. The same drawer where they kept matches and old maps and a piece of chalk Clover had somehow claimed as her own.

He reached in and pulled something small out, then turned, hiding it in his palm as he crossed back to Harry. Harry watched him like he couldn’t quite figure out what was happening, lips quirking like he was trying not to smile.

Louis stopped just in front of him again, palm still closed, shoulders drawn up like he was bracing for something bigger than either of them could name. He looked at Harry, and for a second he didn’t speak. His throat worked around the words like they were caught on bone. Then he opened his hand, just enough to show the small silver ring resting in his calloused palm. It was simple. A little worn. But it gleamed softly in the morning light, warm and quiet like everything they’d built here.

“I never did this before,” Louis said, voice low and thick. “Not with Maggie. We just… signed papers in a law office and got on with it. Didn’t think much of it then. Thought that was all it was.”

Harry was still, eyes fixed on him, wide and open and already glassy.

Louis huffed a soft breath, smiled a little, sad and sure all at once. “Ain’t no law gonna see us. No preacher neither. Not out here, not the way we are. Not in a world that don’t see it right.”

He looked down at the ring, turned it once between his fingers, like it carried more than it weighed.

“But I don’t care,” he went on, voice steadying. “I don’t need a paper, or a priest, or a room full of folks. I just need this. You. Me.”

He stepped in closer again, the ring between them now, caught in the space where breath met breath.

“You’ve been mine for a long time,” Louis whispered. “But if you want it, this can be somethin’ we call more. Somethin’ that lasts. Just ours. Just between us and the wind and the dog and whatever stars keep watch.”

Harry didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, maybe. His jaw worked like he was trying, but nothing made it past his lips but a breath.

Louis smiled, and lifted the ring just enough. “So. What do you say?”

Harry’s whole face crumpled, gorgeous and undone all at once. He let out a quiet sound, almost a laugh, almost a sob, and reached for Louis like he couldn’t stand not to be touching him anymore. “God, you—yes. Yes, of course.”

Louis held him there, heart hammering. Relief, love, something bigger than words moving through his chest in slow, staggering waves.

Harry pulled back just enough to look at him again, eyes wet and shining. “You think I wouldn’t want that? That I’d ever say no to forever with you?”

“I just—” Louis started, then broke off, shaking his head, smiling. “Wanted to do it right.”

“You did,” Harry whispered. “You do everything right. Even when you don’t.”

Louis slid the ring onto Harry’s finger, slow and careful. It wasn’t polished. Wasn’t fancy. But it looked right there, like it belonged. Harry stared at it, then at Louis, and his breath hitched again. Louis leaned in, their foreheads pressed together, the space between them nothing now. “Guess that makes you mine, officially.”

Harry let out a laugh that was mostly a gasp, brushing his nose against Louis’. “Was yours the moment you looked at me, you stubborn bastard.”

They kissed like they had all the time in the world. And somewhere outside, Clover barked once, chasing off some wild thing that didn’t belong while the wind slipped through the trees.

Louis pulled back just enough to take one long look at Harry all flushed and grinning, eyes glassy, his finger now wrapped in silver like it had always been meant to be there.

Then Louis’ hands slid low, firm over Harry’s waist, and in one smooth motion, he lifted him clear off the floor.

Harry let out a startled laugh, legs automatically hooking around Louis’ hips. “What the hell are you doing?”

Louis grinned, breath warm against Harry’s jaw. “You’re overdressed again.”

Harry laughed louder, hands clutching at his shoulders. “You just proposed to me.”

“And now I plan to celebrate properly,” Louis said, starting toward the bed, step by slow step. “So unless you’ve got objections—”

“I have so many,” Harry said, already breathless, “but I’d rather save my energy for yelling later.”

They giggled into each other, sloppy kisses exchanged between each teasing word, Louis nudging open the door to the bedroom with his shoulder. The morning light poured across the quilt-covered bed, soft and golden.He dropped Harry onto it with a bounce, crawling in after him, their mouths already finding each other again.

Between kisses, Harry whispered, “This what married life’s like?”

Louis smirked against his lips. “Every damn day.”

Harry laughed against his mouth, breathless and flushed, then suddenly pulled back, eyes sparkling with something mischievous. “Wait,” he said, grinning. “Hold on. I got a surprise too.”

Louis blinked up at him, dazed and still chasing after the kiss. “What the hell kind of surprise are we talkin’ about here?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slid off the bed and padded across the room, completely bare and unbothered, rummaging through the small drawer on his side of the dresser.

Louis propped himself up on his elbows, brow arched. “If you pull out a plant, I swear to God—”

“Better,” Harry said with a wicked little grin, turning around. And in his hand—something small. Leather-bound. Tied with twine.

Louis blinked again. “What’s that?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just crossed the room slow, then climbed back onto the bed, straddling Louis’ hips with practiced ease and settling there like he belonged—because he did. With one hand, he pushed Louis gently back down onto the mattress. “Stay,” he said, mock-stern.

Louis huffed, but laid back, palms resting lightly on Harry’s thighs. “You givin’ me orders now?”

Harry smiled wider at that. “Guess I am.”

Then he held the little bundle up, the twine falling loose, and opened it.

Inside was his old notebook—half full, pages creased at the corners and covered in handwriting. Harry set it down on Louis’ chest and leaned in, nose brushing his. “Been writin’ things down. Since last year, in between all my plant ramblings Every stupid thing you said that made me laugh. Every night you made me tea. Every time I looked at you and thought, ‘God, I hope I get to keep him forever.’”

Louis didn’t breathe.

Harry kissed his cheek, soft and slow. “You gave me a ring. I’m giving you a record.”

Louis reached up, touched the edge of the book with shaking fingers. “You—”

Harry just smiled. “So. You still think your surprise was better?”

Louis looked up at him, heart cracked wide open. “You straddle me naked with a handwritten love story and expect me to win?”

Harry tilted his head. “So… I win?”

Louis pulled him down by the hips, lips already finding his again. “Every damn time.”

Harry leaned down, barely a breath away, lips brushing Louis’ jaw. “I also learned something else.”

Louis blinked up at him, suspicious. “Why do I feel like this is gonna be somethin’ stupid.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Just grinned; lazy, warm, infuriating in that way that meant he was about to say something completely ridiculous and probably charming. His nose brushed against Louis’ cheek, lips barely a whisper from his ear now. “Turns out,” Harry murmured, “when you wear another cowboy’s hat…”

Louis narrowed his eyes.

“…you owe him a ride,” Harry finished with a flourish, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Louis barked out a laugh, too quick and sharp to stop, head tipped back against the pillows, eyes crinkling, chest trembling beneath Harry’s bare thighs. “You’re unbelievable.”

Harry just looked down at him, grinning like he was proud of himself. “You’re just mad I remembered.”

“I never told you that rule,” Louis said, still breathless. “You wore my hat and I barely implied it once. How the hell’d you even—?”

Harry leaned down again, smile pressed close to his mouth. “Had my ways.”

Louis raised a brow, skeptical. “That so?”

Harry nodded, curls brushing against Louis’ temple. “…Maggie might’ve helped connect a few dots.”

Louis groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You got Maggie involved in your cowboy flirting?”

“She thought it was romantic,” Harry said, mock-defensive. “Said I oughta make an honest man out of you. I told her I was trying, but the hat rules were confusing.”

Louis just stared at him, trying not to laugh again. “You’re a fool.”

“A fool who,” Harry added, eyes sparkling now, “apparently owes you…a lot of rides. Love that hat.”

Louis arched a brow. “Yeah? You overdue?”

“Oh yeah,” Harry whispered, brushing their noses together. “Backlogged.”

Louis smirked, tilting his chin up just enough to kiss him slow and sure. “Well,” he murmured between kisses, “better get started, then.”

Harry grinned against his mouth. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Louis inhaled sharply, but Harry stopped him with a thumb pressed to his jaw. “Hey,” Harry whispered. “Easy.”

Louis forced a breath out, chest rising beneath Harry’s hands. “You’re teasin’ me.”

“I’m buildin’ tension,” Harry corrected, grinning.

Louis laughed quiet, helpless. “You’re doin’ a damn fine job.”

Harry kissed him again, and again, each one deeper, longer, the kind that melted thought and time and everything that had ever hurt either of them. His hands slid over Louis’ chest, gentle, sure, touching like he was memorizing every bit of skin he’d already known a hundred times over.

Louis’ grip tightened at Harry’s hips, not pulling, just holding. “Harry,” he murmured, voice gone soft, wrecked. “Come here.”

Harry smiled against his mouth. “Already am.”

He rocked forward once, just enough to make Louis’ breath hitch and his eyes flutter shut. Harry kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, tracing each hinge of tension with lips soft as a prayer.

“I love you,” Harry whispered, voice warm and steady. “More than this house, more than the river, more than every damn plant I ever grew.”

Louis opened his eyes at that, something in his chest tightening and loosening all at once. “Harry—”

Harry kissed him quiet. Not to silence him. Just to say it again with his mouth. Harry’s mouth was warm against his, softening every word Louis might’ve tried to say. The kiss wasn’t pushing toward anything sharper. It wasn’t rushed, or hungry, or trying to tip them over some edge. It just held. Slow. Steady. Full. Louis’ fingers slipped from Harry’s hips to his waist, gentling their grip without even thinking about it. All that heat in the room shifted. Didn’t vanish, just changed shape. Broader. Deeper. Something that wrapped around them instead of pulling them forward.

Harry pulled back by a breath, their foreheads resting together, curls brushing Louis’ cheek. His thumb stroked once across Louis’ jaw, the touch feather-light and sure at the same time.

“You okay?” Harry murmured.

Louis let out a breath that trembled on the way out. “Yeah.” His hand rose, cupping the back of Harry’s neck, thumb brushing just under his ear. “Just…sometimes you hit me with somethin’ and I need a second to catch up.”

Harry smiled at that. A soft, secret thing. “Which part this time? The love? The plants? The… tension-building?”

Louis huffed out a laugh. “All of it.”

Harry leaned down and kissed the tip of his nose, light as a promise. “Good.”

There was no teasing in it now. No flourish, no wink, just warmth. The quiet kind he only ever used on Louis. The kind that made Louis feel like the only damn person in the world worth lookin’ at. Harry shifted his weight, easing down until he was stretched along Louis’ body, their chests pressed together, their legs tucking into one another like they’d been carved to fit that way. Louis’ arms slid around him instantly. Reflex, maybe. Or instinct. Or home.

He kissed Louis again slow, lingering, a kiss that didn’t need to go anywhere except exactly where it was. Louis answered it in kind, steady and sure, hand sliding up to cradle the back of Harry’s head. The world outside—river, wind, Clover barking faintly in her sleep—faded until there was nothing but breath and warmth and the creak of the quilt beneath them.

Harry settled his weight even closer, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. “We can take our time,” he whispered against Louis’ lips. “We’ve got all day.”

Louis kissed him once more, thumb brushing Harry’s ring, that small gleam of silver warm between them.

“We’ve got more than that,” he murmured. “We’ve got forever.”