Above, willows wept leaves onto their heaving bodies. Jasper’s rhythm grew jagged, breath hot against Owen’s throat. He came with a choked groan, spilling his sperm inside Owen, who clenched around him, shuddering through his own release.
They lay gasping, mud-caked and tangled. Jasper’s thumb wiped a smear from Owen’s cheekbone. "Flood’s worse than I thought," he rasped, laughter in his voice. Hooves clattered faintly uphill. Jasper tensed. "Hank’s gelding." He rose, pulling Owen up. "Time to go."
He tossed Owen his torn shirt. "Wear mine." Jasper stripped his own mud-stained shirt off, pressing it to Owen’s chest. It smelled of sweat and sage. As Owen pulled it on, Jasper traced the fresh hickey purpling his shoulder. "Keep that hidden," he ordered.
The truck headlights cut through twilight as they drove back. Jasper’s hand rested on Owen’s knee, thumb stroking the inseam. "Tonight," he said, eyes on the darkening road. "My cabin.
Bring whiskey."
The flatbed rattled into the ranch yard, headlights slicing through violet dusk. Jasper killed the engine, silence crashing in — only the creek’s distant rush and Owen’s heartbeat thudding against his ribs. Mud caked Owen’s borrowed jeans; Jasper’s torn shirt hung open, exposing the shadowed hollow of Jasper’s bite on his collarbone.
Jasper’s knuckles brushed the mark as he leaned over, breath hot. "Remember," he murmured, thumb pressing the bruise. "Whiskey. My cabin." He slid out, boots crunching gravel, and vanished toward the barn without a backward glance.
Owen lingered in the truck cab, the scent of sage and Jasper’s sweat clinging to the flannel. Distant laughter spilled from the lodge — supper underway. He slipped through shadows to cabin seven, peeling off the mud-stiffened shirt. Cool air prickled his skin. He scrubbed hastily at the creek pump, icy water shocking the day’s grime from his limbs. The hickey on his shoulder stung under the spray, a secret brand.
Inside, he uncorked Hank’s best bourbon — the bottle Jasper had nodded at yesterday, "For courage." Amber liquid glowed in the lantern light. Owen poured two tin cups full, the bite of oak and smoke sharp in his nostrils.
Footsteps approached — deliberate, familiar. The door creaked open. Jasper stood silhouetted, washed clean, wearing only low-slung jeans. Moonlight caught the water droplets trailing down his sternum.
He stepped inside, latch clicking shut. His gaze swept Owen — barefoot, shirtless, cups in hand — and a slow smile curved his lips.
"Took your time," he rasped, taking a cup. Fingers brushed, deliberate. He drank deep, throat working, eyes never leaving Owen’s. The silence thickened — charged with creek mud, bourbon heat, and the promise Jasper had carved into Owen’s skin.
Jasper set his cup down with a soft clank. He closed the distance, palm flattening over Owen’s heartbeat. "Still racing?" he asked, voice rough. Before Owen could answer, Jasper’s mouth crashed onto his — whiskey and winter creek and hunger. Owen gasped, fingers tangling in Jasper’s damp hair as Jasper backed him toward the bunk.
The tin cup tipped, bourbon pooling on the floorboards, scent sharpening the air. Jasper’s knee nudged Owen’s thighs apart, denim rasping against bare skin. "Quiet," Jasper growled against his mouth, hands sliding down to grip Owen’s hips. "Walls are thin." Outside, an owl cried. The creek murmured on.
Owen pushed him away. Jasper’s arm tightened around his waist. Owen swallowed. "Where’s this heading?" The words hung between them, louder than the owl’s call. Jasper stilled. Owen pressed. "When I leave … what happens?"
Jasper shifted, rolling onto his back. The silence stretched, thick as creek mud. He stared at the cabin’s low ceiling, moonlight catching the faint tremor in his jaw. "Sunrise Meadow ain’t forever for guests," he finally said, voice stripped bare. "You knew that."
Owen propped himself on an elbow. "But this?" He gestured to the narrow bunk, Jasper’s arm still curled around him. "You grabbing me against fences? Pinning me in creek mud?" His voice cracked. "Was it just … filling time?"
Jasper’s hand slid up Owen’s spine, fingers tangling in his hair. He pulled Owen down until their foreheads touched. His breath hitched.
"Not just filling time," he rasped. "Never that." He pressed a rough kiss to Owen’s temple. "But I got roots sunk deep here, Owen. Deeper than creosote posts." His thumb brushed the fading hickey on Owen’s collarbone. "You got a life … out there."
The truth landed like a thrown stone. Owen closed his eyes. The ache wasn’t physical this time. It burrowed deeper. Jasper’s calloused palm settled over his racing heart. "So that’s it?" Owen whispered. "A week of … this … and then I’m just another rider gone?"
Jasper’s grip tightened almost painfully. "No." The word was clipped, fierce. He rolled, pinning Owen beneath him again, eyes black pools in the dim light. "You ain’t ‘just another rider’ to me." His thumb traced Owen’s bottom lip. "But wanting … and having … they ain’t always the same damn thing." He dropped his forehead against Owen’s. "Give me tonight," he breathed. "Just tonight."
The plea undid Owen. He surged up, kissing Jasper hard — a clash of teeth and desperation. Jasper met him with equal ferocity, hands roaming Owen’s skin like he was mapping terrain he’d soon lose. They moved against each other, slower this time, every touch weighted with unspoken endings.
Jasper’s lips trailed fire down Owen’s throat, lingering on the fading bruises he’d left. "Mine," he whispered against Owen’s pulse point. "For now."
Owen arched as Jasper’s hand slid between them, rough fingers wrapping around him. The rhythm was different — deliberate, almost reverent. Jasper watched Owen’s face as he stroked, studying each hitch of breath, each flutter of eyelashes. Owen tangled his fingers in Jasper’s hair, pulling him closer. "Show me," he gasped. Jasper captured his mouth, swallowing Owen’s moans as his pace quickened.
Release washed over Owen in shuddering waves, spilling his hot load over Jasper’s fist. Jasper followed, grinding against Owen’s hip, a low groan tearing from his chest. They lay tangled, sweat cooling, hearts pounding in tandem.
Outside, the creek’s murmur seemed louder. Jasper pressed a kiss to Owen’s sweat-damp temple. "Dawn comes early," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion. His arm tightened, holding Owen against the inevitable. Owen closed his eyes, memorizing the feel of Jasper’s calloused palm splayed over his ribs. The night felt brittle, precious. He breathed in sage and sweat and Jasper.
The stars wheeled unseen beyond the cabin roof. The ache settled deep — a quiet bruise on the soul.
Dawn painted the window gray when Jasper stirred. His arm tightened reflexively around Owen’s waist, fingers digging into his hipbone as if anchoring him against the tide pulling them apart. Jasper’s lips brushed the nape of Owen’s neck, rough and sleep-warm. "Stay," he rasped, voice thick with reluctance. "Sleep in."
Owen turned in the circle of Jasper’s arms. Moonlight lingered in Jasper’s eyes — dark, unguarded. Owen traced the line of Jasper’s jaw, stubble scratching his fingertip. Jasper caught his wrist, pressing Owen’s palm flat against his own pounding heartbeat. The silence screamed what words couldn’t hold.
Hooves clattered outside, sharp in the still air. Hank’s voice cut through the thin walls: "Jasper! Yearling’s loose!" Jasper’s body tensed against Owen’s. He rolled away in one fluid motion, pulling on jeans without looking back. At the door, he paused, silhouetted against the brightening light. His gaze raked Owen — tangled in the blanket, Jasper’s scent clinging to his skin — and something fierce flickered in his eyes. "Don’t move," he ordered. The latch clicked shut.
Owen lay suspended in the bunk’s hollow. Outside, shouts echoed — Jasper’s voice sharp, commanding the gelding, the frantic whinnies of the panicked foal. Footsteps pounded past the cabin window. Owen rose, pulling on Jasper’s discarded flannel shirt. It hung loose, smelling of sage and creek mud.
He stepped onto the porch. Cold air bit his bare legs. The eastern sky bled orange. Jasper stood in the corral’s center, sweat gleaming on his bare back as he calmed the trembling yearling, one hand firm on its halter, the other stroking its sweat-darkened neck. The rising sun gilded his shoulders.
Ben approached, holding out a steaming mug. "He’ll be hours gentling that fool colt," he sighed, nodding toward Jasper. "Saw you ride fence with him yesterday. Handy." He eyed the flannel shirt swallowing Owen’s frame. A knowing grin touched his lips. "He’s particular about that shirt."
Owen gripped the hot mug, warmth seeping into his palms. Jasper’s head lifted. His gaze locked onto Owen across the yard — a silent, searing brand. The yearling nudged Jasper’s shoulder, trusting. Jasper’s hand lingered on its flank, but his eyes never left Owen’s.
The air crackled with unfinished things. Owen raised the mug slightly — a salute to the dawn, to the man holding ground, to the brutal beauty of a borrowed morning. Jasper’s chin dipped, almost imperceptibly. A promise. A farewell. The sun climbed higher, indifferent.
Inside cabin seven, the scent of bourbon and sex clung stubbornly. Owen folded Jasper’s flannel shirt with deliberate care, placing it atop the bunk like an offering. His own clothes felt strange, constricting after days of sun and skin. He laced his boots slowly, the leather stiff.
A knock. Hank stood silhouetted in the doorway, holding a grease-stained paper bag. "Bus leaves at ten," he grunted, thrusting the bag forward. Inside, thick slices of sourdough layered with salty ham. "Jasper said feed you." Hank’s gaze flicked to the folded shirt, then away. "That filly’s settled. He’s walking her now. Won’t be back ’fore you’re gone." The words landed heavy, final.
Owen shouldered his pack. The creek’s murmur drifted through the open door, a constant counterpoint to the hollow ache blooming beneath his ribs. He walked toward the main lodge, gravel biting his soles. Guests lingered over coffee on the porch, laughter bright and careless. Owen avoided their eyes.
At the lodge steps, he paused. Jasper stood at the far end of the corral, the chestnut yearling pacing calmly beside him. Sunlight caught the sweat on Jasper’s shoulders as he murmured to the animal, his hand resting lightly on its withers. Owen’s throat tightened. Jasper didn’t turn. Didn’t wave. He simply stood, a rooted figure against the vast sweep of pasture, giving Owen the clean break neither truly wanted.
The bus engine coughed to life. Owen boarded, taking a window seat facing the ranch. Dust swirled as the bus pulled away. Through the grimy glass, he watched Sunrise Meadow shrink: the cabins, the barn, the willow thicket by the creek. Jasper remained beside the yearling, a solitary statue growing smaller, then vanishing behind a curve of pine.
Only then did Owen let his forehead press against the cool glass. The imprint of Jasper’s teeth on his collarbone throbbed faintly beneath his shirt – a ghost touch, a map of territory surrendered. The highway stretched ahead, empty and long.
Back at Sunrise Meadow, Jasper’s knuckles tightened around the yearling’s lead rope. He didn’t watch the dust plume marking the bus’s path. Instead, he focused on the filly’s warm flank beneath his palm, the tremor fading into steady breath. Hank approached, silent for once, handing Jasper a tin cup of coffee thick with sugar. Jasper drank it scalding, the sweetness clashing with the bitterness coating his tongue.
Inside cabin seven, sunlight striped the bare bunk where Owen’s pack had lain. Jasper’s folded flannel shirt rested atop the rough blanket. He picked it up. Sage, creek mud, bourbon, and the sharp, clean scent of Owen’s sweat – the fabric held the ranch’s wild poetry and the man who’d briefly woven himself into it. Jasper buried his face in the softness, inhaling deeply until the ache behind his ribs threatened to crack open. He tossed it onto the bunk, unfinished.
The creek bank felt different under Jasper’s boots that afternoon. He knelt where the floodwater had gouged the earth, fingers sinking into cold mud beside the willow roots. Their imprints from yesterday were still there – two depressions side by side, already blurred by the water’s edge. Jasper traced the outline of where Owen’s hip had pressed into the silt. A dragonfly, iridescent blue, darted low over the spot, its wings humming.
Jasper closed his eyes. The memory of Owen pinned beneath him, gasping, mud slicking skin, the desperate heat – it flooded back, visceral and sharp. He scooped a handful of wet earth, cold and heavy, then let it slide through his fingers. Gone. Just impressions left behind.
That night, the whiskey tasted like ash. Jasper sat alone on his porch step, the bottle dangling between his knees. The Milky Way blazed, indifferent and vast, just as he’d promised to show Owen. The silence pressed in, thick with absence. He tipped the bottle back, welcoming the harsh burn down his throat. It didn’t fill the hollow. It only carved it deeper.
Above the creek’s murmur, an owl’s low cry echoed – a solitary sound in the immense, star-scattered dark. Jasper didn’t move. He just drank, and remembered, and let the vast night swallow the echo of a man who was already halfway to somewhere else.
Two days later, the ache settled like dust. Jasper worked the north pasture fence line, shoulders burning under the midday sun. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the post driver echoed across the empty meadow. Each blow jarred his bones. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the horizon where Owen’s bus had vanished. Beside him, Ben grunted, wrestling a stubborn cedar post into its hole. The scent of freshly split wood and hot creosote hung thick in the air.
"Damn posts are fighting harder than that chestnut filly," Ben panted, wiping his brow with a stained bandana. He glanced sideways at Jasper’s grim silence. "Heard from him?" The question hung bluntly between hammer blows.
Jasper slammed the driver down, the metal clang sharp as a gunshot. Dust puffed around the post. "Nope." He didn’t look up. His knuckles, white on the handle, were the only betrayal. The silence stretched, broken only by the buzz of flies and the distant nicker of a horse. Jasper spat into the dirt. "Guest left. End of story."
He grabbed the next post, hefting its rough weight onto his shoulder. The bark scraped his sunburned skin. He focused on the bite of woodgrain, the sting of sweat in the raw crease of his elbow – anything but the phantom press of fingers against his ribs, the whiskey-soft murmur of "Jasper" in the dark.
That night, Jasper saddled Daisy bareback under a sliver of moon. He rode hard, not toward the creek or the hilltop, but deep into the shadowed pines beyond the north pasture. Branches whipped at his bare arms, leaving thin red welts. He pushed Daisy until her flanks heaved, her breath ragged in the cool air.
Deep in the woods, he slid off, leaning his forehead against her sweat-lathered neck. The silence here was absolute, pressing in like a physical weight. He closed his eyes, inhaling damp earth and pine resin, trying to drown out the lingering ghost of sage and skin. Daisy shifted, her soft muzzle nudging his shoulder.
A small sound escaped Jasper’s throat – half sigh, half swallowed curse – lost instantly in the indifferent forest. He stayed there, unmoving, until the moon climbed high and cold overhead, the ache in his chest a dull, familiar companion beside the scent of horse and solitude.
Morning dawned brittle and bright. Jasper worked the stud barn, mucking stalls with savage efficiency, the rhythmic scrape of his shovel echoing hollowly. Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight, catching the lingering ghost of Owen’s scent on his skin – bourbon and creek water and something uniquely him.
Jasper paused, leaning heavily on the shovel handle, knuckles white. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the memory flooded in anyway: Owen pinned against the shower tiles, trembling under Jasper’s mouth, the desperate heat. Gone.
The crunch of boots on gravel snapped his eyes open. Ben stood in the doorway, holding a coiled rope. "Rogue bull’s back," Ben announced, his voice flat. "Tore through the wire near Three Pine Gulch. Again."
Jasper nodded curtly, tossing the shovel aside. "Saddle Buckshot." His voice was gravel. The distraction was brutal, unwelcome, but necessary.
They rode hard into the gulch’s steep terrain. The bull was a hulking silhouette against the scrub oak, tossing its head defiantly, a torn strand of barbed wire dangling from its flank. Jasper studied it, the raw power radiating off the animal resonating deep within his own coiled tension. He swung down from Buckshot, handing the reins to Ben. "Keep him steady." Jasper moved low and deliberate, his focus narrowing to the beast, the rope in his hands slick with his sweat.
The bull charged with a roar, dust pluming. Jasper stood his ground, a statue until the last possible second. He pivoted, rope whistling through the air, the loop settling neatly over the horns.
The sudden jerk slammed Jasper backward, boots skidding in the dirt, the rope biting deep into his palms. Pain lanced up his arms, sharp and clarifying. He dug in, muscles screaming, tendons straining against the bull’s raw fury. Dust choked him. He tasted grit and blood where his teeth cut his lip. The bull bellowed, dragging him inches across the rocky ground. Jasper roared back, a raw sound ripped from the hollow place Owen had left, pouring every ounce of frustration, every unspoken ache into the battle with flesh and bone. He hauled back with savage force, the rope singing taut. Hold. Or break.
Ben spurred Buckshot forward, looping his own rope expertly around the bull’s hind legs. The beast crashed down, kicking impotently. Jasper stood over it, chest heaving, rope burns bleeding onto his wrists. Ben’s gaze flicked to Jasper’s bleeding palms, the wild fury still simmering in his eyes. "Easy, boss," Ben murmured, low and wary.
Jasper didn’t reply. He stared at the pinned bull, the trembling fury in its dark eye, and saw only the echo of his own untamed heart, thrashing against an invisible fence. The victory felt hollow, dust settling on a battlefield that wasn’t the one he needed to fight. He spat blood onto the dirt.
Back at the ranch, Jasper plunged his bleeding hands into the trough. Cold water stung the rope burns, washing away grit and bull sweat, but not the phantom ache beneath his ribs. Ben wrapped Jasper’s raw palms with rough bandages, his silence heavy. Hank stomped by, barking orders about mending the gulch fence.
Jasper spent the afternoon driving iron staples into splintered fence posts, the hammer’s rhythm a numb counterpoint to the throbbing in his hands. Each strike jarred his bones, a dull punishment. The ghost of Owen’s hip pressing into creek mud haunted him, sharper than the pain. At dusk, Jasper walked past cabin seven. The door hung open, stripped bare. Only the faint scent of bourbon lingered, already fading.
He saddled Daisy under a bruised purple sky. He rode not to the hilltop, but deep into the shadowed coulee behind the north pasture, where the creek narrowed and the pines crowded close. Dismounting, Jasper knelt by the water’s edge. Moonlight silvered the ripples where he and Owen had crashed together, gasping and slick.
He plunged his bandaged hands into the icy flow. The cold bit deep, a shocking clarity. He scooped water, drinking deeply, washing the taste of dust and defeat from his mouth. The chill seeped into his bones, a temporary anchor against the memory of Owen’s warmth.
Daisy nudged his shoulder, her soft muzzle warm against his neck. Jasper leaned into her solid flank, closing his eyes. The creek’s murmur was the only sound, a constant, indifferent flow. He stayed there, unmoving, long after the moon climbed high, the ache settling into a familiar, heavy silence within him.
Dawn was a pale smear on the horizon when he finally remounted, turning Daisy’s head back toward the barn. The day’s work waited, relentless and real.
Hank intercepted him near the tack room, coffee mug steaming in his calloused hand. "Got a new hand comin' in," he announced, voice rough as gravel. "City kid. Needs breaking in." He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dust near Jasper’s boot. "Figured he could shadow you. North pasture fence ain't gonna mend itself." Hank’s gaze lingered on the frayed bandages wrapping Jasper’s palms, a silent commentary on yesterday’s bull.
Jasper grunted, barely a sound. He kept walking, stripping Daisy’s bridle with practiced, painful movements. The leather felt slick against his raw skin. A new hand. Another body needing instruction, slowing him down, filling the space where … He shoved the thought away, focusing on the buckle’s cold metal bite.
Hank followed him into the dim tack room. The smell of oiled leather and dust was thick. "Stage gets in around three," Hank offered, leaning against the doorjamb.
Jasper didn't turn. He ran a bandaged thumb over a worn stirrup leather, tracing the grooves worn by countless rides. The phantom press of Owen’s thigh against his own flickered behind his eyelids — warm, demanding, gone. He inhaled sharply, the scent of leather failing to mask the bourbon-and-sweat memory clinging to the rafters.
"Fine," he rasped, the word scraping his throat raw. He grabbed a bucket and brush, pushing past Hank without a backward glance. The job would get done. That was all that mattered.
The afternoon sun hammered the ranch yard when the dusty stagecoach groaned to a halt. Jasper leaned against the barn’s shaded side, ostensibly checking a hoof pick’s edge, his gaze fixed on a knot in the weathered pine plank beside him. Boots scraped on gravel. Hank’s voice boomed a greeting, hearty and false.
"Welcome to Sunrise Meadow." A pause. "This here’s Jasper. He’ll show you the ropes."
Jasper finally lifted his head.
The new hand stood beside Hank, squinting against the sun. City-cut trousers, boots too clean, shoulders tense beneath a crisp cotton shirt. Then the man turned slightly, the light catching familiar angles – the stubborn set of his jaw, the hesitant curve of his mouth, and those eyes, wide and holding the entire vast, terrifying hope of the open sky.
"Owen?" Jasper breathed, the hoof pick clattering to the dirt. He straightened as if pulled by a wire, dust motes swirling wildly around him.
Owen closed the distance, gravel crunching softly under his new boots. He stopped an arm's length away, smelling faintly of train smoke and city soap, yet carrying the ghost of creek water and bourbon Jasper knew deeper than his own scars. "Couldn’t stay away," Owen said, his voice rougher than Jasper remembered, scraped raw by distance and decision. "Wrapped things up back in the city. Permanently." His gaze swept past Jasper to the barns, the pastures, the distant hilltop where sunset kisses had burned into memory. "This … feels like home."
Jasper didn’t hesitate. He crossed the final step in one stride, his bandaged hands catching Owen’s face – careful, deliberate – thumbs brushing the sharp line of his cheekbones. The raw skin on Jasper’s palms screamed protest against Owen’s stubble, but he didn’t care. Jubilation, fierce and bright, surged through him, hotter than the afternoon sun. A low, ragged sound escaped Jasper’s throat, part laugh, part sob, lost instantly in the space between them. His forehead dropped against Owen’s, breath mingling, sharing the dust and the impossible truth.
"Home," Jasper echoed, the word thick with whiskey and relief.
Hank cleared his throat loudly. "Well," he grunted, shifting his chaw. "Guess introductions are done." He spat into the dust near their boots, a gruff dismissal. "North pasture fence, Jasper. Still waitin'." He stomped off toward the tack room, muttering about "sentimental fools" and "wasted daylight."
Jasper ignored him. His thumbs traced Owen’s jawline, his gaze drinking in every detail – the determined set of Owen’s shoulders beneath the unfamiliar shirt, the faint sunburn already blooming across his nose, the way his eyes held Jasper’s, steady and sure. "You walked away," Jasper murmured, the memory of the bus’s dust plume sharp in his mind. "Got on that damn bus."
"And got off," Owen countered, a small, defiant smile touching his lips. His hands came up, covering Jasper’s bandaged ones where they cradled his face. "Couldn’t breathe back there." His fingers tightened slightly, pressing Jasper’s roughened palms against his skin. "Couldn’t breathe without … this." He meant the ranch, the sky, the ache, him. Jasper heard it all.
The jubilant fire in Jasper’s chest banked into a fierce, steady warmth. He leaned in, his lips brushing Owen’s temple – a vow, a welcome, a claiming as solid as the earth beneath their feet. "North pasture fence," he murmured against Owen’s skin, the words vibrating with promise. "You dig deep now, Owen. Shallow roots won’t hold."
Owen’s answering smile was sunrise breaking over mountains. "Teach me," he breathed, fingers tracing the frayed edges of Jasper’s bandages. The touch was reverence and resolve. Jasper pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, seeing not the hesitant guest from weeks past, but a partner etched with the same wild longing that carved his own soul. "Always," Jasper rasped, the word rough as creek stone.
They walked side by side toward the barn, gravel crunching a new rhythm underfoot. Jasper’s hand found the small of Owen’s back, possessive and grounding. The familiar scent of hay and horse sweat wrapped around them, but now layered with Owen’s city-fresh soap and the lingering tang of train dust — a tapestry of past and future weaving together.
Inside the tack room’s cool dimness, Jasper tossed Owen worn leather gloves. "Start with these," he instructed, his eyes lingering on Owen’s hands as he pulled them on. "Save those city palms." The ghost of Owen’s touch against his bandages still burned, a sweet counterpoint to the rope-sting.
Outside, the late sun gilded the north pasture fence line. Jasper handed Owen the post-hole digger, their fingers tangling deliberately on the worn handle. "Deep," Jasper repeated, voice low.
Owen drove the blades into the earth, muscles straining with newfound purpose. Jasper swung the sledgehammer beside him, each resonant thud not just driving wood into rock, but driving roots down deep—roots meant to last. Sweat streaked Owen’s temple, dust clung to his new boots, and when he looked up, meeting Jasper’s gaze across the splintered cedar post, the silence between them thrummed louder than the hammer blows.
Home wasn’t just a place. It was this — the shared labor, the unspoken promise in a glance, the man beside him choosing to stay, choosing to build something that wouldn’t blow away. Jasper’s answering grin was a silent oath: This time, we hold.
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