Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack had been distant this whole trip. Quiet and withdrawn, eyes always wandering to the horizon, never quite landing on Ennis the way they used to. It was subtle, maybe invisible to anyone else, but Ennis Del Mar had twenty years of knowing Jack Twist behind him. Twenty years spent learning and relearning every little detail, every unspoken secret. No amount of time or distance could erase how deeply Ennis knew the man beside him. 

Ennis knew Jack like he knew the land beneath his feet. He could close his eyes and trace every dip and curve of Jack's body with the precision of a cartographer mapping unfamiliar terrain, only there was nothing unfamiliar about it. He knew the faint lines that framed Jack's eyes, knew exactly how they'd crinkle just before laughter spilled out of him, knew the precise way his lips curled, carving deep dimples into his face. Christ, if he tried hard enough, Ennis reckoned he could count every mole scattered across Jack’s face without even opening his eyes.

Yes, Ennis Del Mar knew Jack Twist. And because he knew Jack so well, he recognized, deep in the pit of his gut, the slow unraveling taking place before him. It was like trying to catch hold of dust kicked up from the endless Wyoming plain.

The harder he tried, the quicker Jack seemed to slip right through his fingers. It terrified Ennis, left him wide awake at night staring into the darkness, feeling empty-handed and hollowed out by worry.

Hell, how was he supposed to tell Jack he couldn’t meet up in August, not like they’d planned? How could he break the news, when he already felt the fraying of the invisible thread that had kept them tethered together all these years? It felt like losing a part of himself.

Jack was drifting away, bit by bit, and Ennis felt utterly powerless to stop it. He recognized this feeling all too well. It was the same one that overtook him the day they rode down from Brokeback Mountain, years ago, watching the summer fade behind them. Like falling helplessly head-first into darkness, hands grasping at nothing, knowing full well that the bottom would never come.

All the years of waiting had left Jack bitter, like ripe fruit forgotten on the windowsill too long, sweetness turning slowly to rot. Twenty damn years he'd spent waiting on Ennis, two decades aching with the faint hope that someday something, anything, would change. Maybe Ennis would finally let down those stubborn walls just enough, crack open the door to give Jack even the smallest chance. But that day never came, and Jack had grown weary watching his own hope wither away, drying out like prairie grass in the scorching Wyoming sun.

Randall was fun, Jack couldn't deny that. A temporary distraction, sure. But Randall didn't know him deep down, couldn't understand Jack the way Ennis did without even trying. With Randall, there were no unruly blond curls threaded gently through his fingers in the afterglow, no shared whispers or inside jokes exchanged in the dark. No quiet laughter muffled into shoulders, no long nights spent tangled together, breathing the same air in the warmth of a cramped tent. There was no comforting murmur of “darlin',” the word drifting softly from Ennis’s lips, wrapping around Jack like a favorite blanket.

Randall was easy, a momentary escape from loneliness, but he wasn't Ennis. He could never fill the hollow space that only one man had ever truly occupied. In those quiet moments after the fleeting distractions, Jack understood that he'd never feel whole again unless Ennis Del Mar stood at his side. And he'd finally realized that Ennis might never fully belong to him, not as long as fear had burrowed into Ennis’ bones, spreading its roots and tightening its grip, choking out whatever brave love might have grown there.

Jack's bitterness had finally come out at the trailhead that next morning. They'd both been tired and on edge, moving around stiffly and barely speaking while they loaded gear into their trucks. Jack's words had come first, sharp and accusing, built up from too many years  of disappointment and silence. It hadn’t taken long for Ennis to feel cornered, his anger rising to match Jack’s as they snapped back and forth.

When it was clear there was nothing left to say, Ennis climbed into his old pickup truck, slamming the door harder than necessary. The sound echoed loudly off the mountains around them. He turned the ignition, engine rumbling to life, and glanced briefly in the side mirror before pulling away. He wished immediately that he hadn't.

In the mirror he saw Jack standing alone by his truck, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched tight. Instead of the quiet affection that usually lingered on Jack’s face after they'd spent time together, Ennis saw something else entirely, cold anger, hurt, and resentment written in hard lines around his eyes and mouth. Ennis’s stomach twisted at that look, it wasn’t something he'd ever wanted to see directed at him.

That look stayed with Ennis long after he left the mountains behind.

Neither of them tried to fix it. They both knew this was how it worked, argue, hurt each other, then bury it and wait until next time. After all these years, they were used to fighting and letting silence smooth it over. In a few weeks or months, a postcard would arrive. One of them would write down a date and place, pretending the argument never happened, and the other would show up, pretending exactly the same thing.

Except Ennis couldn’t forget this time.

Night after night in his drafty trailer, Ennis tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, hearing the muffled sound of cars passing outside, replaying their argument again and again. Every detail stuck in his mind, the way Jack’s voice had cracked, eyes bright and fierce with frustration, his hands clenched tight into fists at his sides. Ennis couldn't erase the harshness he’d seen in Jack’s face that morning, the cold anger that had replaced warmth and affection.

Ennis hated it. Even more, he hated how they’d left things at the trailhead, angry words tossed back and forth like knives, wounds still raw weeks later. In the long nights alone in his trailer, he’d replayed that morning endlessly, hearing Jack’s sharp tone and seeing the bitterness etched clearly into his face. Every replay of the memory made Ennis feel more hopeless, made him reach for another Budweiser from the fridge until he was half-drunk and numb, staring blankly out his window at the empty stretch of plains beneath the fading evening sun.

Sometimes, when he was drunk enough, he forced himself to imagine what life might be like without Jack in it at all.

It wasn't a life he wanted to live.

Without Jack, there was nothing to break up the long days except work and occasional visits from his girls, now teenagers who barely had time for him. They'd grown past childhood, busy with their own lives, boys and school dances, and plans that Ennis struggled to follow. His daughters loved him, sure, but he was just a quiet, awkward man who never knew what to say, never had the right words. With Jack, words hadn't mattered as much. Jack had always seemed to understand him, reading between every silence, every look, every hesitant touch.

Without Jack, all Ennis had left were nights like this, sitting alone in his cramped trailer, drinking until the loneliness dulled just enough to let him sleep. Nights spent watching the distant hills turn black against the purple sky, feeling hollow, knowing that a piece of himself was missing, miles away in Texas. Nights that blurred into mornings that felt emptier every time.

Because the simple truth, the one he avoided admitting even to himself, was that he’d left most of himself behind with Jack Twist a long time ago. Without Jack, there just wasn’t much left of Ennis Del Mar worth having.

Ennis couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't stomach the bitter ache gnawing at his chest every time he replayed their fight in his head. It wore at him through a sleepless night, twisted in his gut as he drank bitter coffee the next morning, until finally he decided he'd had enough.

The next day at work, Ennis forced himself forward, shoulders squared as he approached Stoutamire by the barn, hat twisted nervously in his calloused hands. He cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, before finally spitting out the question that had gnawed at him relentlessly ever since he'd driven away from Jack.

“I know we talked already,” Ennis mumbled, his voice hesitant as he struggled to hold eye contact. “But… reckon there's any way at all I could still get that time in August?” He shuffled, swallowing hard against the pride sticking painfully in his throat, forcing himself to keep talking despite the embarrassment it cost him. “It’s, uh… real important. Family thing,” he added quietly,

And damn if that hadn’t been all it took.

Old man Stoutamire folded quick as a house of cards, just nodded and gave Ennis a knowing look softened with sympathy. Stoutamire had always been a sentimental old goat when it came to family business, Ennis knew he wouldn't ask any more questions. And sure enough, Stoutamire had just clapped him lightly on the shoulder, said, “All right then, Del Mar. August it is.”

Ennis hadn’t wasted any time. After work, he climbed into his old pickup and drove straight into Riverton, tires crunching over gravel and pavement, heart thudding loud as thunder inside his chest. He bought a postcard, one with a simple picture of the Tetons on the front,  from the rack inside the Riverton post office, scribbled down a short note, simple and careful, hands trembling slightly as he tried not to smudge the ink. When he finally dropped the card into the mailbox, relief washed over him, warm and sharp at the same time. Relief, mixed with shame at how easy it had been to move heaven and earth, once he thought he might really lose Jack.

As Ennis drove back home from Riverton, the absurdity of it all struck him hard. All these years spent denying Jack, pushing back and holding himself away, and yet here he was scrambling, making plans, desperate to hold tight to the only good thing he'd ever known. It wasn’t lost on him how fast he'd jumped to action, once the fear of losing Jack got under his skin. He'd never made such an effort before, not with Alma, not with anyone else. Hell, he’d never tried half as hard to save his marriage. But Jack… just the thought of losing Jack had lit a fire under him like nothing ever had.

The irony wasn't lost on Ennis either, how he'd spent years running from the truth, refusing to acknowledge it even existed, only to find himself stumbling right toward it, headlong, when faced with losing Jack for good.

That was late June. It was now late July, and still nothing from Jack. Just silence. Ennis felt like he was suffocating underneath it, like the quiet pressed down on his chest heavier each day until just breathing became a struggle. At least when Jack was pissed off, it meant he still gave a damn, that he was still fighting. But this silence said something else entirely, something much worse. It whispered to Ennis that maybe, after all these years, Jack had finally stopped caring altogether.

The thought made Ennis sick. It churned up the same gut-twisting dread he'd felt the day they came down off Brokeback, watching helplessly as Jack drove away from Aguirre’s trailer, dust kicking up behind his truck, leaving Ennis feeling empty and hollowed-out. He couldn't stand the feeling anymore.

And so here he was, sweating uncomfortably in a cramped, overheated phone booth just outside the Riverton post office. His shirt clung damply to his back, sweat running in uncomfortable trails down his neck and temples, stinging his eyes. He used his shoulder to pin the greasy receiver awkwardly to his ear, hands shaking slightly as he carefully punched in Jack’s home phone number. He'd dialed this number exactly twice before, once on a drunken, lonely night he barely remembered, and once later on to tell Jack about his divorce from Alma. Each time, the dialing had felt like an act of desperation, something he did when things were bad enough that pride no longer mattered.

It rang endlessly, each shrill tone ratcheting up his anxiety. Just as Ennis was about to slam the phone back down, ready to curse Jack Twist and every damn mile between Riverton and Childress, the ringing suddenly stopped. There was a soft, distant click, and Ennis held his breath, pulse thumping anxiously, waiting to hear Jack’s voice.

God, he needed to hear Jack's voice again, warm, familiar, soothing away the bitterness between them, promising things weren't as ruined as Ennis feared.

But instead, after a pause just long enough to make Ennis’s pulse jump nervously, a gentle feminine voice came through the line.

“Hello?”

Shit. Ennis’s stomach dropped straight to his boots. Lureen. Christ, he’d completely forgotten about her. He’d barely planned out words for Jack, let alone Jack’s wife. Guilt and panic twisted in his chest, his throat suddenly so dry it felt closed up. For a long second, words wouldn’t come. 

Forcing himself to swallow the knot lodged in his throat, Ennis cleared his throat awkwardly, “Uhm…I…lookin’ fer Jack,” he muttered, wincing slightly at how rough and strained he sounded. “He home right about now?”

A soft rustle came through the receiver, maybe papers moving around, followed by a gentle sigh. “No sir, I’m afraid Mr. Twist isn’t in right now. I’m just checking in on Bobby while he and Missus Twist are out.”

Ennis felt his heartbeat slam harder against his ribs, anxiety coiling at the base of his spine. It was like balancing on the edge of a cliff, not knowing what he’d find on the other side if he took another step.

“You, uh…happen t’know when he might be back?” he asked carefully, his tone betraying a hint of desperation despite his best effort to keep steady.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t say, sir,” the woman replied, voice hesitant. “Mr. Twist is in the hospital right now. Been there…oh, reckon about a week now?”

Ennis sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the receiver so tightly his fingers went numb. He tried to steady himself, but the phone booth felt tighter by the second, like the glass walls were closing in. The sour tang of stale cigarettes, sweat, and rusted metal burned his nostrils, making nausea twist sharply in his gut. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out nearly everything else, and he braced himself against the scratched, filthy glass just to stay standing.

“Hospital?” The word tore out of him, barely recognizable even to himself. “Jesus…what happened t’him?”

Another pause hung heavy over the line, and when the woman spoke again, her voice was even softer, cautious and gentle, like someone carefully trying not to deliver too much bad news at once.

“I’m real sorry, sir,” she murmured quietly, genuine regret clear in her voice. “Missus Twist didn’t say much. Just…just that he had some kinda accident. She left here real fast the day it happened, looked awful upset. Said she didn’t know when she’d be back. I been checkin’ in on Bobby while they’re up there.”

Accident.

The word echoed inside Ennis’s head like a gunshot, reverberating painfully, dragging up every nightmare he’d buried over the years, nightmares he’d pushed down deep, tried to ignore, hoping that somehow they’d never come true. But here it was, all those old fears rising violently to the surface, crystal-clear, unavoidable. 

Jack beaten. Jack hurt. Jack left bleeding in the dirt like a wounded animal. Jack alone, broken, and helpless, calling for help that maybe never came.

This was it, the thing Ennis had feared ever since that summer on Brokeback Mountain, when Jack had first whispered dreams of a life together. It was the price they both knew someone might pay. Jack had always pushed the line, always risked more than Ennis dared, always tried to hold onto something dangerous, something Ennis had always feared would catch up to him in the end.

Now it finally had.

Ennis’s breath hitched sharply, ragged enough that the woman on the other end picked up on it instantly.

“Sir, you alright?” she asked quietly, real concern softening her voice.

Ennis squeezed his eyes shut hard, pressing his forehead against the scorching glass wall. His whole body trembled, the nausea and fear nearly overwhelming him. His chest felt like someone had wrapped barbed wire around it, tightening with every shallow breath he forced himself to take.

“Nah, I mean…uh, yeah,” he mumbled hoarsely, voice cracking from the strain. He dragged a shaking hand across his sweat-damp forehead, fighting the dizziness washing over him. “Just, just tell me, what hospital’s he at?”

“Childress Regional,” she provided gently, clearly sympathetic. “Been there since it happened, far as I know.”

Ennis nodded stiffly, even though she couldn’t see it, swallowing around the hard, painful lump lodged in his throat. “Right…alright then. Uh, thank ya.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, just hung up with trembling hands and stood for a long moment, unmoving, feeling the heat pressing down on him, suffocating in its intensity. His knees shook so badly he thought he might collapse right there in the stifling booth, but somehow he stayed upright, one palm pressed against the smudged glass, the other gripping the phone until the plastic dug painfully into his palm.

They got him.

The words echoed in his mind, pounding over and over again until nothing else mattered, until there was no room left in his head for anything but the overwhelming guilt, dread, and urgency that propelled him suddenly out of the booth and toward his truck.

Ennis reached for the door handle of his truck, but his fingers trembled so badly that it took him three tries before he finally managed to grab hold. He swung open the door, nearly stumbling into the seat, heart hammering so fast he could feel it in his throat. He jammed the key toward the ignition, but his hands still shook so violently that the metal scraped uselessly against the steering column several times before finally sliding in.

Once the engine sputtered to life, he lurched forward, yanking open the glovebox and digging through a tangled mess of old gas receipts, cigarette packs, and faded postcards he’d never bothered to throw away. He finally found the battered, folded road map at the bottom, crushed beneath layers of junk. Pulling it out, he quickly spread it across the steering wheel, eyes frantically tracing the route from Riverton to Childress.

How many hours had Jack said it was? Fourteen? Maybe fifteen if the truck acted up or he took a wrong turn. Ennis stared at the thin red lines connecting Wyoming to Texas, his throat tightening painfully as he thought of Jack driving this same endless stretch of road, year after year, just to steal a few days with him.

How many times had Jack made this drive, without ever complaining once? How many days had he spent behind the wheel, chasing after whatever scraps Ennis was willing to give him, never saying a word about how tired he must’ve been, how unfair it was that he always had to shoulder the burden of their time together?

Ennis felt something twist sharply in his chest, guilt, bitter and thick. He’d never once offered to meet Jack halfway. Never even thought about it, if he was honest with himself. He’d let Jack bear the weight of their relationship alone, forcing him to do all the work, taking every mile Jack drove for granted like it was owed to him. For twenty goddamn years, he’d been content to sit back and wait, always making Jack do the heavy lifting.

And now Jack was in trouble, hurt, alone, and too far away. And Ennis was the one who had to drive, finally forced to make the same trip Jack had made countless times without a second thought.

The realization hit him hard enough that his stomach churned with guilt and shame. He’d let Jack do all the giving, while he’d done nothing but take.

He shoved the map aside roughly, gripping the steering wheel tightly, jaw clenched. Fourteen hours stretched out in front of him like a punishment, a reminder of every mistake he’d made, every chance he’d wasted, every unfair burden he’d placed on Jack’s shoulders.

But he’d make the drive now. He owed Jack that much, and a hell of a lot more.

Ennis spread the roadmap out carefully on the passenger seat this time, smoothing it flat with one trembling hand. He studied it for a moment longer, eyes following the thin, faded line of highways leading from Riverton down to Childress, every mile marked by guilt. He exhaled sharply, shoulders tight with tension, and reached for the radio dial, desperately hoping to drown out the voices echoing inside his own head, the bitter reminders of every time he'd failed Jack, every chance he'd refused to take.

He tore his gaze away from the map and reached for the radio, twisting the dial with jerky impatience. A burst of static crackled through before settling into the twang of a steel guitar. And then came that familiar voice, George Jones, like salt in an open wound, the song echoing through the truck’s cracked speakers.

“I’ve had good luck, and bad luck, and no luck, it’s true…”

Ennis let out a harsh exhale, a humorless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Figures. It felt like the universe was giving him a swift kick in the guts, throwing his mistakes back in his face. As though every regret, every moment he’d turned away from Jack, was rising up to mock him now.

“But I always get lucky with you…”

Lucky? Hell, what did luck ever have to do with him and Jack? Luck hadn’t kept Jack safe. Luck hadn't stopped him from getting hurt, hadn't stopped Ennis from taking everything Jack gave him without ever giving back.

Memories surged up; Nights in the mountains, him and Jack packed into that small tent on Brokeback Mountain, whispering things that felt more honest than anything else in his life. He felt the press of Jack’s chest against his, the subtle warmth of Jack’s breath on his neck, and how for a few stolen hours, the world hadn’t seemed so impossible.

But it was impossible. Impossible to keep up, to hold onto without fear tearing him apart. He’d let Jack make all the sacrifices, let Jack do all the driving, let Jack be the one who hoped. Meanwhile, he kept their life in the dark, clinging to caution like it was the only thing keeping him alive. It hurt both of them, and Jack, Jack had carried the bigger share of that pain for years.

Ennis swallowed roughly, jaw tight, knuckles white on the steering wheel. He kept the song playing, the quiet ache of guilt pooling heavy in his chest. He deserved every bit of this. But if luck was on his side at all, maybe Jack would still be alive when he got there.

The truck lurched forward as Ennis pressed on the gas, tires kicking up a cloud of dust as he pulled away from the post office parking lot. He barely noticed. His eyes stayed fixed forward, hands gripping the wheel tightly as if letting go might make him lose whatever thin thread of composure he had left.

He’d spent years ducking responsibility, keeping Jack at a safe distance, always putting up walls instead of knocking them down. He’d let fear dictate every choice, leaving Jack to shoulder all the burden, to chase after something that should’ve been freely given. He’d let Jack drive that lonely fourteen-hour stretch again and again, while he himself stayed safely anchored in Riverton, selfishly protected from having to risk too much.

The shame twisted inside him, heavy and sharp, making his stomach churn as the truck’s tires hummed over pavement. As he accelerated onto the highway, heat shimmered off the asphalt, the road stretching endlessly ahead, flat and unforgiving beneath a sky so clear it hurt his eyes.

Fourteen hours.

He’d never felt time stretch so far and empty before. With every mile that rolled beneath the truck, every passing minute he wasn’t with Jack, the anxious ache in Ennis’s chest grew sharper. He pressed down harder on the gas pedal, hoping to shave off even a few minutes, because suddenly those minutes felt like all the difference between seeing Jack again or being too damn late.

He couldn't afford to lose Jack. Ennis knew, deep down, he was partly to blame. If he’d only met Jack halfway, if he'd only reached out sooner, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way. He blinked hard, swallowed the lump in his throat, and pushed the pedal harder, the engine rumbling beneath him as he sped southward. 

Texas was waiting. And so was Jack.

❖

It was nearing morning by the time Ennis finally pulled into the parking lot of Childress Regional. His old truck sputtered roughly, rattling beneath him as he guided it into a space close to the hospital's brightly lit entrance. The engine gave a final shudder, like an animal finally allowed to collapse after a long, punishing journey. Fourteen hours had somehow become sixteen, stretched thin by endless gas stops, frustrating wrong turns through towns he didn’t recognize, and traffic jams that had left his jaw tight and teeth grinding.

He twisted the key from the ignition, sitting there in the sudden silence, blinking hard to clear the gritty exhaustion that blurred his vision. His whole body felt stiff and sore, muscles aching from the tension of being hunched behind the wheel for so many hours. His shoulders burned, neck cramped, and eyes felt scraped raw from the endless glare of headlights and the dark, monotonous roads that had seemed to stretch forever.

With a weary sigh, Ennis shoved the truck door open, swinging his boots down to the pavement with a dull, heavy thud. He winced at the stiffness in his legs, muscles protesting sharply as he stood, stretching briefly to ease the ache in his lower back. The few brief stops he’d made for gas and coffee hadn’t been nearly enough to keep the soreness at bay, and now his body was paying for it. He moved slowly toward the brightly lit lobby doors, every step feeling heavier and slower than the last.

Inside, the sterile brightness of the hospital lobby hit him like a harsh wave, the fluorescent lights glaring down and illuminating every wrinkle of his rumpled clothes, every shadow under his tired eyes. The sharp, antiseptic smell immediately made his stomach twist uneasily, memories of being in a hospital for Jenny’s birth fifteen years earlier briefly surfacing before fading beneath the heavier anxiety he carried now.

He approached the reception desk cautiously, the worn soles of his boots squeaking faintly on the polished floor, suddenly self-conscious beneath the nurse’s scrutiny. She glanced up from a spread of paperwork, her eyes quickly taking in the disheveled state he was in, the shadowed exhaustion beneath bloodshot eyes, his jacket still smelling faintly of cheap gas station coffee, the deep lines of stress etched into his face.

Her expression softened slightly, shifting from mild suspicion to quiet sympathy as she asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

Ennis cleared his throat roughly, voice emerging hoarse and strained. He reached up and tugged off his hat, fingers gripping it tightly, a quiet gesture of respect drilled into him since childhood. He shifted awkwardly, suddenly aware of how desperate and tired he must look to her.

"Uhm," he started hesitantly, "Lookin’ for Jack Twist. Got told he’s here someplace."

The nurse studied him again for a long moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, as though silently trying to piece together who he was and what he might mean to the patient upstairs. Her gaze made him uneasy, sending a pulse of anxiety twisting sharply in his gut. Before he could dwell too long on what she might be thinking, she reached toward a small stack of visitor stickers at her side.

"And what’s your name, sir?" she asked, uncapping a thick black marker and glancing back up at him.

"Ennis," he answered immediately, and suddenly he was transported back twenty years, the memory clear as day. Jack’s smirk, the amused glint in his blue eyes: “Your folks just stop at Ennis?” The ache in Ennis’s chest tightened painfully, forcing him to clear his throat and quickly add, "Del Mar."

The nurse carefully wrote his name down, her handwriting precise and neat, before peeling the visitor sticker off its backing and handing it to him. She watched him closely as he took it, her eyes lingering on his face for another few seconds, as though she might read the truth of his worry and guilt hidden there.

"He’s upstairs, second floor, room 217," she told him softly, offering a small nod toward the hallway behind her. "Elevators are just down that way."

Ennis nodded silently, pressing the sticker onto his shirt without really looking at it. He mumbled a quiet "Thanks," then turned toward the elevators. 

The elevator ride was short but felt endless. Ennis stood rigid against the cool metal wall, his gaze fixed blankly ahead as the numbers above the door slowly lit up. A quiet ping echoed when he reached the second floor, and the doors slid open, revealing a dimly lit hallway, quiet and still. He stepped out slowly, boot heels clicking softly against the polished linoleum floor, the sound echoing slightly in the hushed corridor.

He moved down the hall, counting off the room numbers silently as he passed them, his heart hammering faster with every step closer. Room 214… 215… 216… And finally, there it was, Room 217. The door was partially ajar, a sliver of pale light spilling out into the hallway. He stopped just short of the doorway, suddenly frozen, a wave of uncertainty hitting him sharply.

He stood there, breathing unevenly, throat tight, hands curled into fists at his sides. After a moment of silent hesitation, Ennis pushed the door open carefully, the soft creak sounding far too loud in the silence. He stood frozen at the doorway, breath coming in short, harsh gasps, eyes wide with disbelief at the scene before him. He’d spent twenty goddamned years preparing himself for exactly this, for the worst-case scenario, but nothing, nothing could have prepared him for seeing Jack robbed of all that life that Ennis had foolishly taken for granted.  He felt as though the floor beneath him had dropped out, sending him plunging into a sickening freefall.

The sight before him didn't look like Jack. It wasn't, couldn't be, his Jack. His chest seized painfully, breath caught sharp in his throat, as a wave of pure, paralyzing horror washed through him.  

Jack lay motionless, skin ghostly pale beneath the harsh hospital lighting, drained of all its familiar warmth and color. The bruises were everywhere, sickening marks covering nearly every inch of exposed skin. His forearms were mottled in livid purples, angry blues, and sickly yellows, colors all blending together. Some bruises looked fresh and dark, others already turning to green and yellow around the edges, evidence that Jack had suffered this for days, alone. Dark bruises circled Jack’s wrists, looking like someone had gripped him tightly enough to leave marks. His left arm was swollen, knuckles scraped raw, fingers curled stiffly into the white hospital sheets, as though he’d tried to fight them off, to defend himself, and failed.

Ennis forced his gaze upward and immediately wished he hadn't. His stomach twisted sharply, nausea rising fast, nearly making him gag. Jack’s face was barely recognizable, swollen and beaten beyond belief. His eyes were puffed shut, deep bruising coloring the skin beneath them, dark purple, streaked with sickly yellow at the edges. One eye looked even worse, blood vessels broken around the socket, angry red bleeding into the surrounding bruises. His lips were split, crusted with dried blood, and a harsh gash ran from his temple down across his cheekbone, the skin raw, swollen, and darkening with fresh bruising.

Ennis staggered backward, heart pounding wildly, blood roaring loudly in his ears. He’d kissed those lips countless times, traced that jawline gently with his fingertips, memorized the exact shape of Jack’s smile beneath moonlight. But now those memories twisted sharply into something painful. 

Who the hell could do this? How could anyone hurt Jack, who had always been gentle, patient, the only person who ever made Ennis feel safe? How could anyone hurt his Jack? 

“No,” Ennis whispered, the sound raw, breaking as panic clawed up his throat. “No, no, no… Jesus Christ… Jack—”

His breathing became sharp and frantic, each inhale growing shorter, tighter, strangling him. The walls of the hospital room felt like they were closing in fast, pressing hard against his chest until he couldn’t breathe at all, panic choking him. His knees nearly buckled entirely beneath the sudden weight of unbearable grief and guilt, forcing him to grab desperately onto the cold metal railing of Jack’s hospital bed to stay standing, knuckles turning white from the strain.

His fingers shook as he reached out, gently brushing Jack’s hand. The skin was cool beneath his touch, the veins dark and pronounced, the IV needle taped carefully in place. Ennis could barely swallow past the knot in his throat. He’d held that hand so many times in secret. Now it felt limp and strange, cooler than it ever should have been. The sense of loss crashed over him, and a harsh sob ripped free from his chest, tears springing to his eyes, blurring his vision until Jack became little more than a shape of bruises and bandages.

Ennis couldn't stop staring, his vision blurred by tears as he took in every detail of Jack’s battered body. Each breath he tried to pull in felt like it barely reached his lungs, shallow and shaky, his chest painfully tight. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady himself, but the sight behind his eyelids was just as bad: Jack lying beaten and pale, covered in bruises that Ennis could never unsee.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from Jack’s battered face, couldn't stop looking at every bruise and scrape that shouldn't have been there. He reached up with his other hand, roughly wiping tears from his eyes with his sleeve. He tried to gather himself, but it felt impossible. Each breath came ragged and shallow, his chest felt squeezed tight, and the room spun around him.

For twenty years, he'd lived with the constant fear that someday this exact thing would happen, that someone would finally punish Jack for who he was, who they were together. He'd seen it before as a child, that ugly violence left out for the world to see, and he’d carried it like a heavy stone inside him every single day since. 

Now, here it was again, real, and horrible, right in front of him.

And Ennis knew exactly whose fault it was. It was his, all of it. His because he'd spent years keeping Jack hidden away, refusing to openly acknowledge who they were. His because he'd made Jack do all the traveling, driving hundreds of miles over and over just to see him, just to keep their secret. He'd let Jack carry the weight alone, putting him in harm's way while Ennis stayed safely hidden. And now Jack was paying the price, lying here pale and beaten, barely recognizable beneath the bruises and swelling.

Ennis reached out with trembling fingers and gently took Jack's hand into his own, his heart clenching at how limp, cool, and lifeless it felt. His own hands shook badly as he slowly lifted Jack’s fingers to his lips, pressing a careful kiss against skin that should have been warm, should have reached out to him, held him back tight like it always did.

"Christ, Jack…" Ennis whispered, his voice rough and cracked, broken by tears and exhaustion. "’M here now. Right here with ya. You hear me?"

He leaned closer, his lips still pressed gently against Jack's bruised knuckles, fighting to hold back another sob.

"I'm so goddamn sorry, darlin’… So sorry I let this happen t'you."

Ennis dragged the chair from the corner of the hospital room over beside Jack’s bed. He sank heavily onto it, every muscle and bone aching with exhaustion, his body finally giving out after the endless hours of driving and worry. He didn’t let go of Jack’s hand, couldn’t bring himself to lose even that small point of contact. He gently rubbed his thumb across Jack’s cold knuckles, desperate for some tiny movement, some sign that Jack could feel him, that he knew Ennis was here now, that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Jack didn't stir. He stayed motionless beneath the sheets, the steady beep of the heart monitor filling the room. Ennis’s eyes moved slowly over Jack’s injuries, stomach twisting sharply with each bruise and scrape he saw. He could barely stand to look at Jack’s swollen face. He swallowed back nausea, squeezing Jack’s hand again gently, desperate for comfort that wasn't coming, and let exhaustion pull at his eyelids until it eventually pulled him under. 

Ennis woke with a start to the sharp rhythm of heels echoing across the hospital’s linoleum floor. He jerked upright in his chair, body protesting with aches and stiffness, mind still hazy from a fitful sleep. The glare of fluorescent lights stung his tired eyes, and when he finally focused, he saw a woman in the doorway, arms crossed beneath a large, leather purse resting in the crook of her elbow. That was Lureen. Had to be.

Her hair was big, bright blonde, teased high with that careful attention you see in glossy magazines. She stood there, posture tense, her gaze sweeping over Ennis with a critical edge that made him want to shrink. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to sit straighter, clinging tight to whatever shreds of composure he had left.

“Who are you?” she asked, her tone wary. 

Ennis set his hat aside, running a clammy palm over his jeans as he got to his feet. Guilt crawled up his spine, making the back of his neck burn. He felt like a thief caught in the act.

“Ma’am,” he began softly, voice uneven. “I’m Ennis Del Mar. Jack’s… I’m his friend, from Wyoming.”

“Ennis,” she repeated, dragging out the name, as if testing it for truth. “So you’re the one he always talked about, huh?” She let out a slow, weary scoff. “The ‘fishin’ buddy’? Or was it ‘huntin’ buddy’? Lord knows he switched that story up a thousand times.”

She spoke in a way that made Ennis’s face flame hot, shame clawing at his insides. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could he possibly say to the woman who had shared Jack’s life for years, not knowing he’d split his heart between them?

“I don’t know how I bought it all for so long,” she continued, letting out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh that made his gut twist. “Fishin’, huntin’, whatever cover story you two came up with. I guess I told myself it made sense ’cause I didn’t want the truth.”

Ennis swallowed, his throat painfully tight, heart pounding so loud it seemed to fill the room. “Ma’am, I…” he started, rasping from the tension building in his chest, but she silenced him with a quick gesture, one manicured hand raised, palm outward.

“Don’t,” she said quietly. There wasn’t anger in her voice, just resignation. “Jack… he told me enough. I knew he was seein’ someone, but I never knew who. Not for sure. Then he let it slip once, your name. I pieced the rest together.” She paused, letting out a bitter laugh. “Hell, I almost wished it’d been another woman. Instead, it was… you.”

Ennis tried to speak again, but his throat seized up. Guilt and fear warred inside him, making it impossible to form a coherent sentence. Jack had told her. He wondered just how much, had Jack confessed everything, or only bits and pieces that Lureen had pieced together over time? Had she wept, screamed, broken things, or just quietly realized she’d never had all of Jack to begin with?

Lureen exhaled slowly, as if whatever fight had been in her was gone, drained out by years of disappointment and things left unsaid. She uncrossed her arms and let them rest lightly at her sides, fingers twitching slightly like she wanted to reach for something but wasn’t sure what.

“You and Jack,” she started, her voice quieter now, less edged than before. She hesitated, her nails tapping absently against the side of her skirt. “I can’t pretend I know how it all started, or how it all went. But I know what he felt for you. That much was plain.”

She let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Lord, he talked about you all the damn time. Every time he came back from one of those trips, it was Ennis this, Ennis that… mountains this, open sky that.” She sighed, tilting her head slightly as if she were sorting through memories she wasn’t sure she wanted. “I told myself he just loved bein’ out there, that he liked the quiet. But I ain’t stupid. A grown man don’t get that excited over fishin’ trips.”

Ennis felt his throat tighten, a sharp sting rising behind his eyes. He bowed his head, gripping the brim of his hat so tightly the fabric warped under the pressure of his fingers. He’d always thought he was doing right by Jack, keeping things as they were, staying careful, staying quiet, but standing here, listening to Lureen say these things, he could see, clear as day, that all he’d done was leave Jack waiting. Always waiting.

“I never wanted any of this,” he managed,  rough with the weight of it all. “Didn’t want nobody hurt. Not you, not Jack… no one.”

Lureen gave a sad little smile, though it barely reached her eyes. She turned her gaze back to Jack, lying still and bruised in the bed, and her expression softened in a way that made Ennis’s chest hurt worse, “Well,” she murmured, “Life don’t much care what we want, does it? We all end up hurtin’ each other, one way or another.”

She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. “Jack and I… we weren’t perfect,” she admitted,  “Barely even fit most days. I think he tried to make it work for Bobby’s sake, for mine, maybe even for his own. But he was always lookin’ somewhere else. And I guess I was always pretendin’ not to notice.”

She paused, tightening her crossed arms as though bracing herself for something. “He loved you, Ennis,” she continued, “Loved you so much he… well, he broke every promise he’d ever made to me. Guess I oughta hate you for that. Maybe I did, for a while. But I ain’t got the energy for that anymore.”

Ennis felt something crack deep inside his chest, a wound he hadn’t even realized was there splitting wide open. He could handle a fight, could handle anger or accusations, but this? This exhausted truth? It knocked the wind right out of him. He swallowed, his throat painfully dry, wishing there was something he could say to make this easier for her, or at least offer some small comfort. But everything about this situation felt beyond fixing.

Lureen lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes, something unreadable there. “He told me once,” she said softly, “That he never meant to hurt me. But he couldn’t…” She broke off for a second, exhaling hard through her nose before continuing. “He said he couldn’t be himself without you. Like he only ever felt right when he was up in the mountains, with you.”

Ennis’s whole body felt like it had been set on fire and left to burn. Jack had told her that. Had said those words out loud to the woman he’d married, the woman he’d built a life with. He couldn’t be himself without you.

Christ.

Ennis squeezed his eyes shut for a second, willing himself to stay steady, to keep from crumbling right here in front of her. When he opened them again, his gaze landed on Jack, still and quiet in the bed. Ennis closed his eyes, a sharp ache blooming in his chest. He thought of the countless times he’d left Jack waiting for a postcard, all the moments he’d refused to give Jack the life he truly wanted.

Yet somehow, in spite of it all, Jack had stayed. Had waited. Had risked everything over and over just to hold onto what little piece of Ennis he was allowed to have. And what had Ennis done? Let him. Let him shoulder all the hope, all the want, all the danger. He’d paid a steep price for it now. He stared at Jack’s face, and wished like hell things had turned out differently, wishing he’d been braver, or kinder, or anything other than what he was.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the ache in his throat. “For what it’s worth,” he rasped, voice barely steady, “I’m sorry. Real sorry. If I’d known…” He trailed off, shaking his head. If I’d known what? That Jack would end up here? That all the hiding wouldn’t be enough to keep him safe? That Ennis would spend the rest of his life regretting every single time he hadn’t given Jack what he needed?

Lureen studied him in silence, her eyes lingering on his face as though trying to memorize every line, every nuance, every piece of him she’d spent years refusing to see. She said nothing at first, didn’t offer any words of comfort, didn’t pretend that this was okay. Because it wasn’t, and there was no use pretending otherwise. The silence between them felt weighted by years of secrets and half-truths, and yet something shifted in that moment. A mutual understanding, free of anger or resentment, passing between two people who had both held Jack Twist in different ways.

She’d spent so long thinking the problem was her, that she hadn’t been enough, that she wasn’t what Jack needed, that his distance and his restlessness were somehow her fault. She’d racked her brain trying to figure out the missing piece: was it adventure? The open road? A different life somewhere else? Maybe just a freedom she couldn’t offer. But she saw now that none of those things had been missing. 

The missing piece was standing right here.

It had always been Ennis.

Jack Twist had never truly been hers, not in the way a wife hopes and prays a husband will be. They’d had a life together, family dinners, shared friends, a child who carried Jack’s eyes, but she understood now that at the heart of it all, there was an emptiness Jack couldn’t fill with her. And maybe he’d tried, maybe he’d wanted to be the man she deserved, maybe he’d wanted to be happy in the role he’d chosen. But some connections run too deep to be overcome by vows and picket fences.

That connection had a name. Ennis Del Mar.

It had a face. This tired, guilt-ridden man who had driven across state lines just to be at Jack’s side.

And it had a love so vast, so painfully obvious in the way he looked at Jack, that Lureen could almost feel it in the air, a tangible ache that told her she’d never stood a chance. She thought back to all the times Jack returned home from Wyoming with a new brightness in his eyes, that energy sparking under his skin. She’d told herself he was just relieved to get away, or that he loved the outdoors, or that maybe he’d caught bigger fish this time. She’d made a thousand excuses because it was easier than facing the truth.

Now, she realized it had never really been her fault at all. Jack’s heart had always belonged to someone else.

It had belonged to Ennis Del Mar since that long-ago summer on Brokeback, when they were still practically boys. Before grown-up responsibilities and mortgages and children, before she’d even come into the picture. No amount of marriage vows or shared holidays or neat, domestic details had ever been enough to eclipse the hold Ennis had on Jack. She understood that now, looking at the way Ennis hovered anxiously by Jack’s side, the way he pressed his lips together like he was fighting off his own collapse.

Lureen let out a shaky breath, turning her attention to Jack, lying so still, so bruised, so far away from the laughing man she’d known in happier days. She pressed her lips together, swallowing the emotions threatening to spill out. Her eyes drifted back to Ennis, slumped under the weight of regret. She didn’t hate him for it anymore. She didn’t even have the energy to be angry. What was the point? The damage was done. They’d both lost Jack, each in their own way. 

“I hope he wakes up,” she said finally, “For your sake.”

Chapter Text

Ennis had spent the better part of a week camped out in Childress, Texas, and for the first time in his life, he was beginning to feel like a fish out of water. He was holed up in a small room at the Childress Inn off Highway 287, a place with thin walls, a humming AC unit stuck in the window, and a musty smell that clung to everything. Lureen had quietly insisted on paying for it, saying she didn’t want him sleeping in his truck while they waited to see if Jack would pull through. Ennis had protested at first, but the truth was, he was getting too old to be scrunched up on a bench seat every night, and his body protested louder than his pride.

He hadn’t slept well. The nights felt too long in that cramped single bed with scratchy sheets, his mind churning with thoughts of Jack in that hospital, bruised and broken, lying still under fluorescent lights. Every morning, Ennis forced himself up before dawn, shrugged on his wrinkled shirt, and tugged on his boots, the routine anchoring him when his stomach was twisted up with guilt and fear.

Today was no different. He stomped his boots against the threadbare carpet, shaking off the lingering drowsiness that clung to his limbs. The plan was the same as always: head to the hospital, spend a few hours in that quiet room, maybe speak a few words Jack couldn't hear, then stare at the walls until he had to leave. Hell, whatever it took to be near him.

He was in the middle of wiping his hands on his jacket when the shrill ring of the motel phone cut through the quiet. It startled him enough that he nearly dropped his jacket on the floor. Lureen was the only one who knew where he was, and he hadn’t exactly kept in touch with anyone back home. He felt a surge of guilt flicker through him at the thought of Junior and Jenny, who probably didn’t know where the hell he was.

He reached over, lifting the receiver with a calloused hand, pressing it to his ear. “’Lo?” 

“Ennis,” came Lureen’s voice at the other end, a little breathless, like she’d been running or crying or both. She exhaled shakily, and he felt his heart squeeze tight. “Jack’s awake.”

“Awake,” he repeated dumbly, like he’d never heard the word before. He could almost feel Lureen’s tired, half-patient smile on the other end of the line.

On the other end of the line, Lureen let out a sharp exhale, almost a shaky laugh, though it didn’t sound particularly joyful. “He came to a few minutes ago. The doctor says he’s really weak,” she added quickly, as though afraid to raise Ennis’s hopes too high. “But his eyes are open. He recognized me, nodded when I spoke. Christ, I never thought I’d see him awake again.”

Ennis swallowed, forcing his numb mind to kick into gear. So many questions fought to get out at once. Was Jack in pain? Did he remember what happened? Did he say anything? But all he managed was a ragged, “He… he talk at all?”

There was a moment of silence, a short hiss of static as the cheap motel phone line crackled, “Only a little,” Lureen admitted. “He’s weak. Can’t say much right now. But he tried… he tried to say your name.” She paused, breath catching before steadying herself. “Told him you’re here in Childress. That you’d be comin’ by soon.”

That small revelation, Jack trying to say his name, hit Ennis like a blow to the chest, robbing him of breath. His throat went tight, tears prickling at the backs of his eyes. He turned away from the mirror’s reflection, as if to hide from himself how badly his lip trembled. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had said he mattered to Jack as plainly as that. Of course, he’d known. But hearing that Jack had asked for him, even in that fragile state… It nearly tore him in two.

“I.. I’ll head over,” he forced out, glancing around the cramped motel room for his truck keys, panic already surging at the thought of any delay. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be there soon as I can, Lureen.”

“Alright.” She sounded tired, but there was a note of relief in her own voice. She hung up quickly, leaving the line dead before Ennis could even remember to say goodbye.

For a long moment, he just stood there, the receiver still pressed to his ear. The dial tone buzzed like a distant alarm, echoing around his muddled thoughts. Finally, he placed the phone back on the cradle with trembling hands, trying to wrap his mind around the shift from stagnant waiting to sudden possibility.

Jack was awake.

A part of him wanted to collapse on the lumpy mattress, overcome by the weight of what that meant, but he shook himself free of the impulse. Jack was conscious and needed him. That was all that mattered. Slipping on his jacket and checking his pockets, he found his keys and burst out the door, nearly forgetting to lock the room behind him.

Outside, the early sun glared off the rows of parked cars, and the heat clung to the still air. Ennis could smell the faint scent of hot pavement, a whiff of diesel from the highway. It all felt oppressive and close, but he didn’t care. He crossed the parking lot in long strides, ignoring the jolt of pain in his back from too many nights on a bad mattress.

He climbed into his truck, yanking the door shut. The heat inside the cab hit him like a slap, but he didn’t bother fiddling with the AC. He just wanted to get on the road. The engine coughed once before it started, and the old vehicle rattled beneath him as he pulled out onto the highway with a little too much speed. He clutched the steering wheel tight, jaw clenched, as the motel shrank in the rearview.

As he pulled up to the hospital’s front entrance, Ennis turned off the engine but didn’t move right away. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears it was hard to think. He raked a shaky hand through his hair, trying to gather himself. What if Jack didn’t want to see him? What if Jack blamed him for everything that’d happened? Or what if he was too weak to talk, to do anything?

But no. Ennis had come this far. He owed it to Jack to be there, whatever lay ahead.

He forced himself out of the truck, boots crunching over the gravel before he found the sidewalk leading to the glass doors. Inside, the smell of antiseptic and floor cleaner flooded his senses. He passed through the lobby with a subdued nod to the receptionist, who recognized him from his daily visits. The elevator ride to Jack’s floor felt interminable, each ding of the passing floors sounding louder than it should.

Finally, Ennis stepped out into the hallway, the harsh fluorescent lights casting everything in a sterile glare. His pulse thundered in his ears as he made his way to Jack’s room, the number now etched into his mind from so many days of pacing these halls.

At the door, he paused, hand hovering near the handle as though he needed permission to enter. He swallowed hard, then pushed the door open.

Jack was sitting upright in the hospital bed, well, more upright than Ennis had seen him in days, his body propped by a stack of flat, clinical pillows. Tubes snaked from the crook of his arm up to half-empty IV bags, the steady drip a reminder that he was still fragile, still hurt. Monitors beeped softly, tracking every uneven beat of Jack’s heart, every breath he pulled in like it might be his last. But Ennis couldn’t see any of it.

All he saw were Jack’s eyes.

Those eyes he’d memorized under the blazing Wyoming sun, eyes that once sparkled with mischief when they were holed up together on Brokeback Mountain. The same eyes that had crinkled in laughter across a campfire, reflecting embers of heat that had burned just as warm between them. Now, they blinked in rapid succession, as if Jack were trying to bring the shape in front of him into sharp focus, to believe that Ennis was actually here.

Ennis’s chest felt tight, like the air had been vacuumed from the room. His breath caught in his throat, every shallow exhale carrying the weight of too many sleepless nights, too many whispered prayers that he wasn’t sure anyone had heard. Jack’s gaze flickered from the open doorway to Ennis’s worn boots, then finally, oh so carefully, up to his face. That moment of recognition slammed into Ennis’s chest like a sledgehammer, nearly stealing what little breath he had left.

He moved forward without conscious thought, the worn soles of his boots squeaking across the white tile floor. He’d stood by this bedside more times than he could count, leaning over Jack’s unconscious form, helpless and angry at the world. But this time was different: Jack was awake. Jack was seeing him. And the realization brought tears burning hot behind Ennis’s eyes. He tried to swallow back the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Hey there, rodeo,” he managed. The nickname spilled out, clumsy but familiar, a scrap of normalcy in a world turned upside down.

Something in Jack’s face twisted, tears welling in those bruised blue eyes. His mouth opened, but all that came out was a broken rasp, the shape of a word without any sound. Ennis recognized the flicker of irritation, that stubborn set of Jack’s jaw he’d seen a hundred times when Jack was cussing out Joe Aguirre or complaining about living off beans. But right now, the anger was fused with desperation, and tears carved wet tracks over the purple and yellow bruises.

Suddenly, Jack lunged forward, and Ennis’s heart lurched. Jack’s free hand shot out, tubes and wires tugging at his skin, monitors beeping in protest. He grabbed Ennis’s shirt front in a frantic grip, fingers twisting in the fabric as though he might fall off the face of the earth if he let go. The effort was clearly draining him, his breath coming ragged and uneven, eyes full of panic and relief all at once.

“Hey, hey,” Ennis murmured, quickly but gently wrapping his own fingers around Jack’s. He could feel the tremble in Jack’s hand, “It’s alright, darlin’, it’s alright. I’m right here.”

But Jack shook his head, a jerky motion that made him wince. He tried to speak again, but only a trembling exhale escaped. Tears slipped free of his eyes, and his grip on Ennis’s shirt tightened so much Ennis worried the seams might tear. It felt like if Jack loosened his hold, he’d lose Ennis all over again.

Ennis’s own tears began to blur his vision. He slid his free hand under Jack’s wrist, careful to avoid pulling at the IV or the tape holding it in place. Slowly, he guided that trembling hand upward until Jack’s fingertips met his cheek, brushing the rough stubble there. “See?” Ennis whispered, leaning in close enough for the faint brush of Jack’s skin against his jawline. “I’m real. I’m here.”

A trembling sob ripped through Jack, tearing free of his chest like it had been caged for weeks. It was a sound of both relief and agony, a cry that made Ennis’s heart clench painfully in his own chest. Jack’s calloused fingers pressed against Ennis’s cheek as if trying to memorize the shape of him, to convince himself this wasn’t a cruel dream.

Ennis closed his eyes, letting that moment wash over him. Images slammed through his mind, Jack coaxing him into a playful tussle in the grass on Brokeback, Jack’s easy laugh in a small tent, Jack’s angry tears the day they’d parted one time too many. All that passion, all that ferocity, was right here, condensed into a man who refused to let go of him now, who refused to surrender to the weakness in his body.

“Easy,” Ennis managed, nearly choking on his own tears. “I gotcha, bud. Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Jack’s chest heaved in another sob, tears streaming down his face, the bruises there even more pronounced under the hospital’s fluorescent lights. He hauled Ennis closer, burying his forehead against Ennis’s shoulder in a clumsy move, his other hand sliding up to grip the back of Ennis’s neck. It was as if he were terrified that if he let go, Ennis would vanish into thin air.

Ennis could feel something tearing loose in his own chest, every emotion he’d locked down during the days Jack was unconscious. Tears finally began rolling down his cheeks, unbidden and unchecked. He pressed his hand over Jack’s, tangling their fingers together, and leaned in, pressing a soft, trembling kiss against Jack’s temple.

“I gotcha,” he murmured, the syllables almost lost against the short strands of Jack’s hair. “I gotcha, darlin’.”

❖

Over the next couple of days, the hospital room became a blur of white coats, hushed conversations, and rattling charts. Jack lay there listening with growing frustration as doctors flipped through x-rays, pointing at cloudy black-and-white images that, to him, looked more like inkblot tests than anything that actually belonged inside his body. They talked about nerve pathways, displacements, and spinal integrity, words that slid off his mind like rain on a tin roof, leaving behind only the unnerving implication that something inside him was broken.

All he truly heard was that his spine had taken a hell of a beating,  not just from the recent attack, but also from years of rodeo, from every bull he’d taken a tumble off, every bronc he’d tried to outlast. They said he was lucky not to be fully paralyzed, that the damage could have been a lot worse. Lucky. Jack swallowed that word bitterly, unsure how a life teetering on the edge of immobility counted as luck.

Then they said it, incomplete spinal cord injury, and in that moment, he felt his stomach drop, like someone had cut the ground out from under him.

“Incomplete,” he repeated, voice flat, his gaze slipping from the messy scrawl of the doctor’s notes to the doctor’s face. A sudden spark of anger lit his eyes, pushing past the exhaustion and the pain. “What the hell does that even mean, doc? Am I gonna be able to walk again? Just talk English, for fucks sake.”

He wanted specifics. He wanted them to look him in the eye and say, You’ll walk again, or You won’t, something black and white, something he could sink his teeth into. But instead, they offered a dozen variables and outcomes, gave him talk about rehabilitation and potential nerve recovery, about therapy and uncertain timelines. He caught a few  words here and there, swelling, nerve compression, partial function, each one chipping away at the life he’d once assumed would continue indefinitely.

His heart hammered painfully in his chest as he stared up at the doctor, trying not to let the fear show in his eyes. But it was there, an icy lump lodged in his throat, making him lash out even as he listened, half-disbelieving, to the doctor’s carefully measured tone.

“There’s a chance,” the doctor said gently, flipping another page in the file. “We can’t promise full recovery, but incomplete means there is still some signal—”

Jack’s hand jerked at the sheets, twisting them in his fist. His breath felt too shallow, too fast. I’m still me, he told himself, still breathing, but the notion that he might never climb onto a horse or walk again without someone’s help made his blood run cold.

He wanted to shout that they were wrong, that this had to be some sort of error. But the look on the doctor’s face told him they’d seen this before, and they weren’t wrong.

“Incomplete,” he muttered under his breath, letting the word settle, bitter on his tongue. “So I’m half-busted. Great.”

That afternoon, when Ennis stepped into Jack’s hospital room, he wore a soft, hopeful smile, one he’d been practicing on his walk through the corridor, determined to bring Jack some kind of positive energy. But the minute he caught sight of Jack’s expression, Ennis’s optimism faltered. Jack wasn’t looking at him; in fact, he seemed to be gazing right past him, eyes distant and rimmed red. The difference between the Jack he’d seen that morning,  hopeful, even cracking a faint joke, and the Jack in front of him now was stark, like a storm had rolled in and wiped away any trace of sunshine.

Ennis pulled the chair over from near the window, dragging it close to the bed, the legs scraping on the floor with a sharp squeak. He sank down heavily, resting his forearms on his knees as he studied Jack’s face. Jack still wouldn’t look at him, and that hurt more than Ennis cared to admit. He cleared his throat softly, not quite sure where to start.

“What’s goin’ on, rodeo?” he asked at last, gentle in a way he rarely allowed himself to speak. He’d used that tone a handful of times in their lives, usually when Jack was hurt or upset, and needed more care than either of them would admit.

Jack’s jaw twitched, and he bit down on his lower lip as if trying to hold something back. For a split second, Ennis thought he might brush the question off like it was nothing, Jack had a habit of hiding his deeper hurts behind a quick barb or roll of the eyes. But this time, Jack’s gaze flicked up, and Ennis saw tears brimming in those blue eyes, tears Jack was fighting like hell not to shed.

“I…” Jack began before raking in a shaky breath, and then forced out a bitter laugh that held no humor at all. “They… Doc came in earlier, said… said there’s a chance I might walk again.”

Ennis inhaled sharply, a cautious sort of relief coursing through him. If there was a chance, that meant hope. He let a small, tentative smile rise to his lips. “Well, that’s… that’s real good news, ain’t it?”

At that, Jack’s face twisted with a frustration so raw it stung Ennis’s chest. Jack’s hands clenched at the bedsheet, knuckles going white. He turned his head away for a moment, as though he couldn’t bear Ennis’s gaze, then snapped back with a sudden flare of anger.

“No!” Jack spat, the single syllable charged with all the fear and uncertainty he’d been bottling up. “No, it ain’t good. It’s just a damn chance. Means maybe I will, maybe I won’t.” He let out a trembling exhale, tears threatening to spill. “What if I never stand on my own again, huh? What if I can’t ever ride again? Hell, I can’t even piss without help.”

Ennis raised a hand, reaching to clasp Jack’s fingers. “Then I’ll be here,” he supplied, “I’ll help you, Jack. We’ll figure it out.”

But Jack snatched his hand away before Ennis could curl his fingers around his. The rejection stung more than Ennis cared to admit, it reminded him of all the times he’d kept Jack at arm’s length, all the times he had been the one to push away. Now the roles were reversed, and it hurt like hell.

Jack’s breath stuttered, and he turned his head, refusing to meet Ennis’s eyes. “Don’t mess with me right now, Ennis,” he whispered, the anger overshadowed by the depth of his pain. “I ain’t in the mood. That’s just… that’s just goddamn cruel. If you’re gonna start talkin’ about us, about some big life together, I… I can’t handle that. Not now.”

Jack was right, in a way, Ennis had spent two decades pretending they could live on scraps of each other’s time, refusing to give Jack the stable, open-armed future he’d wanted. It was no wonder Jack felt whiplash at the sudden offer of unwavering support.

“Jack,” Ennis started, “It ain’t cruel. I’m just sayin’, I’m here. I ain’t runnin’ off.” He swallowed, forcing the next words out even though they came tangled with guilt. “Hell, maybe I shoulda been sayin’ this a long time ago, but… I’m sayin’ it now.”

Jack’s eyes slid shut, and he exhaled in an uneven sigh. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the only sound was the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the low hum of machines. Ennis could see Jack’s throat bob as he tried to steady his breathing, his tears threatening to spill over but never quite falling.

After what felt like an eternity, Jack opened his eyes, still shining with tears, and let his gaze drift to Ennis. There was anger there, yes, but beneath it was a vulnerability that squeezed Ennis’s heart. “I just… I just need to figure this out,” Jack whispered, “Need to figure out how to deal with maybe spendin’ the rest of my life in a goddamn wheelchair. And I can’t do that if you’re feedin’ me some kinda fairytale, y’know?”

Ennis nodded, the sting of shame burning in his chest. “I know,” he said quietly, “I ain’t tryin’ to feed you a fairy tale, I swear. Just… I want to help.”

Jack’s jaw clenched, and he turned his head away again, blinking back tears. “I’m tired,” he mumbled,  “I… can we just… just not talk for a bit?”

Ennis hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll just… sit here a while.”

And he did. He settled in the chair, elbows resting on his thighs, eyes fixed on the faint pattern in the linoleum floor. Every now and then he glanced over at Jack, who kept his own gaze stubbornly turned away, staring at the far wall like he was trying to see through it. The air between them felt thick, each tick of the clock on the wall a reminder of how much time had slipped by in silence.

At some point, the quiet became too heavy. Ennis shifted in his seat, exhaling through his nose before speaking up. He wasn’t used to pushing a conversation, but the words were stuck in his throat, needing to come out.

“Jack?” he ventured softly.

That name, just one syllable, but it felt like a stumbling step off a cliff. Jack’s gaze drifted over, his blue eyes hazy but still watchful. “Ennis?” he replied, though not much curiosity lingered in his tone. He sounded tired, drained.

Ennis cleared his throat again, heart pounding as he tried to pick his words carefully. “Look,” he began, voice scraping raw against his nerves. “I… I been thinkin’. When you talk about us… maybe havin’ a place together, a ranch somewhere. What’s it like in your head, huh?”

Jack let out a scornful breath, immediately turning his face away. The muscle in his jaw twitched, as if he were biting back a dozen bitter retorts. “I told you,” he said, voice edged with anger. “I ain’t in the mood for this. You sure as hell didn’t want me when I had two workin’ legs. How’m I s’pposed to believe you want me now that I might not even walk again?”

His words struck Ennis like a hot poker to the gut. The echoes of every time he’d told Jack no, or later, or We can’t reverberated in his head, dredging up guilt he’d buried under excuses and fear. He squeezed his eyes shut, recalling too vividly all the times Jack’s hopeful gaze had met with his own, only for him to shut it down, to slam the door on what could’ve been.

“You ain’t got no reason to trust me,” Ennis admitted, his voice shaking more than he liked. “But don’t go thinkin’ I’m here outta pity. I…” He hesitated, struggling to corral his thoughts, to force them into something coherent. “I’m here ’cause I wanna be,” he finished quietly.

A cold laugh escaped Jack’s throat, “Now you do?” he tossed a pointed look up at the ceiling tiles, as though addressing anyone but Ennis. “When it’s too damn late to do me any good?”

Ennis swallowed, the sting of Jack’s words pinching at the corners of his chest. Still, he pushed forward. “It ain’t too late, Jack,” he insisted, even though a thread of doubt wove itself into his voice. “Now… you wanna just shut the hell up a minute and tell me how you picture it? The ranch, I mean. Humor me.”

Jack swallowed, the tension in his jaw slowly giving way to a weary kind of resignation. He blew out a shaky breath, eyelids drooping with fatigue. “Fine,” he murmured at last, rubbing a hand over his face as though trying to wipe away the frustration. “You really wanna know?”

Ennis nodded, knitting his own fingers together to keep them from shaking.

Jack let his eyes slide closed, inhaling slow like he was summoning up a dream he’d long ago abandoned. When he spoke, his voice was softer, almost vulnerable. “I see… a small spread. Nothin’ fancy. Enough land for some horses, maybe a handful of cattle. Good pasture. We’d wake up early, crack of dawn, feedin’ stock, fixin’ fences, doin’ all the grunt work.” He paused, exhaling, and Ennis could almost see the worn edges of that daydream in Jack’s mind. “And then, come dusk, we’d be together. Not me in Texas and you in Wyoming. A real place, with a porch, maybe a couple dogs, a barn cat sneakin’ in. We’d share a supper, have some old country music on low, watch the stars come out. And it ain’t just a weekend stolen here or there. It’s… a life.”

The picture Jack painted grabbed hold of something deep in Ennis’s chest, a place he’d locked away for fear of what it meant. It was the same dream Jack had dangled in front of him countless times, dangling it only for Ennis to swat it aside. He could almost taste the regret, thick at the back of his throat. “Sounds… good,” he managed, voice cracking on the last word. “Real good.”

Jack’s eyes snapped open at that, fury sparking bright as a struck match. “Sure it does,” he snapped, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes as he glared at Ennis. “But you never wanted it before. Why now? ’Cause I’m lyin’ here busted to hell? You gonna help me shuffle around on a cane, watch me eat dirt when my legs give out, help me up off the damn floor? That the big plan you got all of a sudden?”

Ennis’s jaw tightened. The anger was understandable, hell, he knew he deserved every bit of it. But it still cut deep. “Dammit, Jack,” he rasped. “I’m tellin’ you I wanna try, alright? I ain’t runnin’ from you anymore. If you still think I’m lyin’, I—I can’t change that overnight, but—”

“Twenty years.” Jack shot back, tears threatening to spill. “For twenty years, I been beggin’ for a chance. Now I’m half-crippled, and you’re sayin’ you’re ready to give it a go? ‘Course I don’t believe you!”

Ennis’s jaw flexed as he fought the urge to snap right back. He willed himself to breathe, to remember that Jack wasn’t angry just to be cruel. He was hurt, in every sense of the word, and Ennis had sure as hell contributed to that pain.

He let out a controlled breath, fingers curling against the bed’s guardrail. “I get that,” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “I know I never gave you a reason to trust me, an’ I ain’t expectin’ you to just… flip a switch. But dammit, Jack, I ain’t runnin’ now.”

Jack’s bitter words stung like barbed wire, but they hit on a truth Ennis could no longer dodge. For two decades he’d said no or maybe later, shoved Jack’s dreams aside whenever they got too close to the surface. Now, Jack was lying there bruised and terrified, and Ennis wanted to believe he could just waltz back in and fix everything with a few words.

He tightened his grip on the bed’s guardrail, the metal cold against his fingers. For a split second, he almost shot back with something equally scathing. But snapping at Jack wouldn’t ease a single bruise or heal a single wound. Instead, he forced a measured breath through his nose, willing himself to stay calm. “I get it,” he said quietly, meeting Jack’s glare head-on. “I know I never gave you a reason to trust me. I never said yes when you needed it most. Hell, it’s no wonder you think I’m full of shit.”

Jack flicked a glance at Ennis’s white-knuckled hand before meeting his eyes. He let out a humorless scoff, shaking his head as though the sight of Ennis was more painful than the bruises on his body. “‘Full a shit’ is puttin’ it lightly,” he mumbled, “You pick right now to grow a pair? After you spent years stompin’ on every dream I tried to hand you? After years of me beggin’?” He gestured weakly with one hand at the tubes in his arm, the bandages tight around his ribs. “This is real, Ennis, this fuckin’ bed, these bruises, and you think waltzin’ in here ready to play house is gonna erase all that?”

Ennis felt his stomach twist, his heart pounding like it was trying to crack a rib and escape. He knew Jack was right. This was a hell of a time to suddenly say all the things he should’ve said long ago. But every moment Ennis had spent sitting by Jack’s unconscious body had hammered home how close he’d come to losing everything.

“No,” he said quietly, voice trembling with the effort of keeping calm. “I don’t think words alone can fix what’s happened. I ain’t that blind. But…” He exhaled, the tension thrumming through his muscles like he was holding back a flood. “I couldn’t let this go on. If you’d… if I’d lost you for good, and I never told you—” He broke off, jaw flexing. “Jack, I’m sick of runnin’ from what I feel. And I’m sick of watchin’ you be the one who believes for both of us while I hide.”

Jack shook his head, a disbelieving glint in his teary eyes. “Took me nearly gettin’ killed to scare you straight, huh?” he said, bitter as acid. “The hell makes you think I wanna give you another shot, now that I can barely even stand up?”

Ennis’s grip on the handrail tightened until his knuckles turned white. He looked at Jack’s bruised face, the exhaustion etched into every line, and felt a wave of tenderness so strong it almost knocked the air from his lungs.

“I’m not askin’ you to forgive me all at once,” Ennis said, voice thick. “God knows I don’t deserve that. But I’m here, Jack. I’m done makin’ you do the waitin’, do the hopin’, while I run off to keep my head in the sand.”

Jack stared at him, tears wet on his lashes, and for a moment, he looked so wounded Ennis wanted to crawl into that hospital bed and hold him close, tubes and all. But he knew this pain wouldn’t be soothed with a single embrace, not after twenty years of half-promises and denial.

“How do I know you won’t turn tail again once you realize how damn hard this is gonna be? That I might never ride a horse or fix a fence post right alongside you?”

Ennis had never been good with words, and now each one felt precious, easily fumbled. “I can’t promise this’ll be easy,” he murmured, letting his hand drop back to the rail. “But Jack, I’ve lived without you proper for too long. I can’t… do that no more. And if you don’t want me around, say so. Tell me to leave, I’ll do it. But it’s your call, not mine.”

Jack’s eyes slid shut, chest heaving with a breath he seemed reluctant to take. After a beat, he opened them again, staring straight at Ennis. The anger was still there, but something else flickered behind it, pain, longing, doubt. “You really think you can handle seein’ me like this?” he asked, voice shaking. “Day after day? Might be months… or forever. You prepared to deal with me if I can’t get up on my own?”

Ennis forced himself to meet that gaze head-on, no wincing away. “Yeah,” he said softly, “’cause if I don’t, I lose you anyway. And I ain’t doin’ that again.”

“You… you really think it can work?” Jack whispered, wiping at his cheek with a trembling hand. “After all this time, after I might never be the same?”

Ennis almost reached out to brush away the tear lingering at the corner of Jack’s eye. He hesitated, then did it, gently, letting his calloused thumb skim the bruise on Jack’s cheek. Jack didn’t flinch away.

“I don’t know if it’ll work,” Ennis admitted, “But I know I wanna try. I’m tired of bein’ half a man without you, Jack. Tired of pretendin’ I don’t need more. If I can stand by you through this, well… maybe that counts for somethin’.”

For a time, they just breathed in tandem, Jack’s trembling hand resting on Ennis’s forearm. Machines beeped steadily, a reminder that the road ahead was paved with hospital corridors, potential surgeries, physical therapy, and who knew what else. But in that moment, Ennis swore he’d face it all if Jack gave him even half a chance.

Finally, Jack let out a breath that sounded more like surrender than anger. “Alright,” he said, eyes fluttering open again. “You stay,” he repeated, as though testing the feel of it on his tongue. “But I can’t promise this’ll be easy, or that I won’t hate you half the time for showin’ up so damn late.”

Ennis swallowed, relief and fear tangling in his chest as he nodded. “I can handle that,” he managed, though his throat felt tight. “I’ll earn back whatever pieces I need to, every damn day.”

Outside the window, the sky was a hazy afternoon gray, light filtering in to wash across Jack’s hospital bed. It illuminated the bruises on his face, the dark circles under his eyes, and Ennis felt a fresh surge of regret for every minute he’d spent away from this man.

Jack flicked his gaze down to where Ennis’s hand still hovered near his forearm, and with a hesitant gesture, he reached out. His knuckles brushed Ennis’s wrist, and Ennis, heart pounding, eased his palm to rest over Jack’s. The contact was brief and awkward, but neither of them pulled away.

“I ain’t promisin’ nothin’,” Jack reiterated, voice rough. “I’m mad as hell, Ennis. Hell doesn’t begin to cover it. And I’m scared.” His eyes shone with unshed tears, each breath unsteady. “I might never ride again, or even fix a fence or… or do half the shit we used to. You better be ready for that.”

Ennis nodded, jaw clenching to steady himself. “If that’s what it is, we’ll figure it out,” he said, keeping his voice soft. We. That one word felt monumental, like the first step across a canyon he’d spent years pretending didn’t exist. “If you need help standin’ or walkin’, then that’s what I’ll do. If you need to chew me out for every time I said no… well, guess that’s fair too.”

Jack closed his eyes, tears slipping free to track down his cheeks. He let out a half-laugh, half-sob that made Ennis’s heart clench. “You really got the nerve to say we,” he muttered, a thread of bitterness lacing through the rawness of his grief. “After all these years of me beggin’, it still feels like some sick joke you’re playin’.”

Ennis exhaled heavily. He bent closer, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze locked on Jack. “I know how it sounds. I know you got every right to doubt me. But I swear, Jack, I swear I want that dream as much as you do now. I… I just never believed it could be real before. And that was my fuckin’ mistake.”

“Don’t think for a second I’m just givin’ you a free pass,” he warned, voice trembling. “If you decide later this is too much, if you bail again… I’ll… I won’t survive that, Ennis.” A choked sound escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I barely did this time.”

Ennis’s throat felt tight, every breath a struggle. The images of Jack lying bruised and unconscious, of the doctors mumbling about his condition being touch-and-go, flickered through his mind. “I ain’t leavin’,” he said firmly. “Not unless you’re the one tellin’ me to go. Hell, maybe you will, but it won’t be on my account.”

A fresh wave of tears shimmered in Jack’s eyes, and he let out a shaky exhale, turning his face away briefly. “Shit,” he whispered. “You have a knack for pickin’ the worst damn times, Ennis Del Mar.”

That drew a faint smile from Ennis, despite the heaviness in his chest. “Guess so,” he agreed. “Always was a slow learner.”

Jack’s lips curved, just a little, though tears still glistened on his cheeks. He lifted a hand, bandaged, IV taped to the back of it, and caught Ennis’s gaze. It was a silent invitation, one Ennis took, sliding his own hand forward until their fingers met. Jack’s grip was weak, trembling with fatigue, but the intention behind it felt strong enough to support them both.

For a moment, Ennis thought about leaning in and pressing a kiss to Jack’s forehead, or maybe just laying his head down on Jack’s shoulder the way he used to up on Brokeback. But he stayed put. They stayed like that for what felt like forever, hands clasped, tears slowly drying on Jack’s lashes. And in that fragile hush, Ennis found himself thinking that this was the first time in a long time they were both looking forward instead of back.

❖

Jack’s anger had begun to simmer down over the next few days. It was still there, circling beneath the surface like dark water around an old pier, but it wasn’t threatening to surge up and drown them both anymore. He was even smiling more often, and each grin revealed another sliver of the Jack Ennis remembered, mischievous, quick to laugh, stubborn as a mule when he set his mind on something. The bruises marking Jack’s face had begun to fade to lighter shades of green and yellow, revealing more of the features Ennis loved so damn much.

Ennis knew he’d have to get back to Wyoming soon. There were child support payments to figure out, odd jobs he’d put on hold, money to save so he could help Jack, not to mention the practical reality of needing a paycheck to keep afloat. Yet he kept those thoughts tucked away in the corners of his mind for now, choosing instead to savor every hour he had with Jack. He wanted to memorize each chuckle, each snarky comeback, and pack them safely in his heart for the long trip north.

The day had been stiflingly hot, typical for Texas, the sun set high in a cloudless sky. Jack’s hospital room was kept artificially cool by the AC unit droning in the window, but it only did so much to fight the heat that seeped in. They spent most of the afternoon with M*A*S*H reruns flickering on the small TV in the corner, trading idle comments back and forth, letting the easy banter take the place of heavier conversations they’d had earlier in the week.

A nurse had come by not too long ago, setting a dinner tray on Jack’s table. But Jack ignored it, focusing instead on pushing around the sorry excuse for food like it might magically transform if he stared long enough. Ennis half-watched the TV, but he was more aware of Jack fidgeting with the plate, his mood slowly turning sour as the minutes ticked by.

Finally, Jack sighed, breaking the cozy hush that had settled in. “Ennis.”

Just the way he said Ennis’s name was enough to drag Ennis’s attention fully away from the show. He turned the volume down with a press of the remote. “Yeah, bud?”

Jack made a face, jabbing at some questionable blob of vegetables with his fork. “I don’t wanna eat this… sludge,” he groused. “Look at it. Christ, even them beans we had up on Brokeback’d be more appetizin’ than this.”

Ennis let out a rough bark of laughter, startled by how swiftly he recalled the memory, Jack complaining about beans nearly every mealtime up on the mountain. “That’s sayin’ something, seein’ as how you whined about those beans at least twice times a day,” he teased, leaning in to eye the tray more closely.

Jack shook his head, lips curling in faint disgust. “At least beans tasted like somethin’, even if it was just salt and regret.” He pushed the plate a few inches away. “This here? I swear I can’t even tell what it’s s’posed to be. Tastes like boiled cardboard an’… I don’t know, sadness.”

Ennis couldn’t help but snicker. “Hospitals never were known for gourmet meals, y’know,” he said, nudging the tray gently toward Jack. “But you need to eat, rodeo. Gotta keep your strength up, doc’s orders.”

Jack scowled, letting go of the fork,  “I can’t stomach it, Ennis. Not a single bite.”

Ennis drummed his fingers on the armrest. “We could call the nurse, maybe see if they got any alternative. Jell-O or a fruit cup or somethin’ else.”

Jack scrunched his nose, looking more offended than ever. “A fruit cup?” he repeated with mock horror. “Oh yeah, that’ll just turn my day right around.”

Ennis barely suppressed another laugh, though his grin grew wide at seeing Jack’s dramatic reaction. After the tense arguments and emotions, it was almost comforting to watch Jack act petty about hospital grub. “Well,” Ennis mused, “you got any bright ideas?”

Jack’s eyes flicked to the door as though double-checking no nurse was about to poke her head in. Then he leaned forward, that familiar sly glint igniting in his gaze, the look Ennis remembered from countless times Jack had suggested bending a few rules. “You,” Jack said, pointing a finger at Ennis’s chest, “Could sneak me in a burger from that Sonic down the road."

Ennis felt a wave of unexpected relief wash over him. That’s my Jack. The same man who never thought twice about bending rules if it made life more enjoyable. He considered it, glancing at the tray in front of Jack, then at the small window in the door. “Might have to be sneaky, but I bet I can manage it,” he said, a playfulness in his tone. “Ain’t you gotta watch your diet or somethin’? The nurse said—”

Jack rolled his eyes, shoving the tray further away. “Hell if I care what that nurse said. Between that slop an’ a burger, pretty sure I’ll feel better after a burger. Or at least die happier, yeah?”

Ennis grinned despite himself, noticing the color returning to Jack’s cheeks at the thought. “Alright, bud,” he relented, rising slowly from his chair, joints creaking in protest. “I’ll see what I can do about that burger. Should I risk fries too?”

Jack’s grin widened, shadows of the old Jack dancing in his eyes. “Hell yeah, risk the fries,” he said. “And a Dr Pepper if you love me.” He paused, swallowing reflexively like he’d said too much, then tried to cover it with a playful grin. “I mean, if you’re feelin’ generous.”

Ennis’s chest tightened at the slip, warmth flooding him. For once, he didn’t balk at the word love. Instead, he just patted Jack’s blanket, careful not to jostle his injuries. “You’re gonna owe me big,” he teased. “Might make you eat beans for a week just to pay me back.”

Jack chuckled, an actual laugh this time, breathy but genuine. “Fair ‘nough,” he said. “Better than this hospital nonsense any day.”

Ennis headed toward the door, casting one last look at the watery mashed potatoes and overcooked vegetables sitting forlornly on the tray. “Alright, I’m goin’ before a nurse shows up,” he whispered conspiratorially, shooting Jack a wink. “You, uh, hold down the fort.”

Jack smirked, leaning back against his pillows with a tired but satisfied expression. “Don’t get caught, cowboy.”

Later that afternoon, Ennis nudged the hospital room door open with his shoulder, mindful not to jostle the contents he carried. Texas heat still clung to his shirt, beads of sweat sticking the fabric to his back. In his right hand, he held a grease-stained brown paper bag; in his left, a large Styrofoam cup with the Sonic logo splashed across it, condensation trickling down the sides. The abrupt change from the sweltering outdoors to the over-chilled hospital air sent a quick shiver along his arms.

Jack, sitting slightly upright in the adjustable bed, didn’t notice Ennis at first, he was too busy fiddling with the remote, flipping through mindless daytime television. But the second he glanced toward the door and caught sight of that familiar drive-in logo, his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Well, hell, if it isn’t my hero,” Jack drawled, setting the remote aside and pushing himself up straighter against the pillows. He grinned so wide, it momentarily erased the weeks of strain etched into his face. “Ennis Del Mar, I could kiss you right now.”

Ennis flushed, hurrying to shut the door behind him. “You hush,” he muttered, casting a quick glance to make sure no staff were lingering. “Someone’ll hear you talk like that.”

Jack’s grin only grew. “Ain’t never been subtle, have I?” he said, voice touched with humor.  “Now c’mon, bring that meal over here before I pass out from starvation.”

Ennis snorted, crossing to the bed and carefully shifting aside the untouched hospital dinner tray. He set the paper bag down on Jack’s rolling table, handing off the cup. “Dr Pepper, fries, a big ol’ cheeseburger with everything, just like you demanded.”

Jack let out a pleased hum as he rummaged in the bag, pulling out the burger wrapped in paper spotted with grease. “God, you’re a beautiful bastard,” he teased, taking a long whiff. “Smells like heaven. If heaven came with a drive-thru.”

He plucked a fry and took a bite before pointing it at Ennis with a mock sternness. “Now, about that kiss—”

“Cut that out,” Ennis sputtered, color creeping to the tips of his ears. He leaned in anyway, partly to check that Jack’s IV line wasn’t tangled in all the commotion and partly to make sure Jack knew he was right there. “You ain’t gettin’ a kiss,” he muttered, huffing a quiet laugh in spite of himself. “’Specially not with that…” He gestured around Jack’s upper lip. “That thing growin’ wild.”

Jack pressed a hand to his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “I’ve had this thing for years, and now you decide to be picky?” he complained, though there was amusement dancing in his tone.

Ennis shrugged, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “Figure if I gotta be lookin’ at your face every day from now on, I should speak my mind,” he said, letting the words roll out casually, even though the meaning behind them was anything but casual.

Jack paused, the burger halfway to his mouth, then he huffed, half-laugh, half-sigh. “We’ll talk ’bout that later,” he mumbled, trying to mask how touched he was by Ennis’s implication. “Right now, this burger’s callin’ my name.”

Ennis chuckled, stepping back to give Jack some space. “Eat up, rodeo. You gotta keep your strength if you plan on givin’ me a run for my money once you’re outta here.”

Jack dug into the burger with a satisfied groan, practically moaning at the first bite. The tension in his shoulders drained away, replaced by an almost childlike glee at tasting something that wasn’t the bland hospital fare. Ennis watched, arms loosely folded, a serene warmth settling in his chest. In this fleeting moment, everything felt ordinary.

After a few bites, Jack paused just long enough to glance up at Ennis. “Hey,” he said, voice quieter, “Thanks for this. It’s… it’s nice feelin’ normal again. Even if it’s just for a little bit.”

Ennis just nodded, letting the corners of his mouth curl into a small, genuine smile. “Ain’t nothin’,” he murmured. “Figured you deserved somethin’ better than boiled cardboard.”

Jack rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, well, next time maybe bring me a steak.”

Ennis snorted. “One step at a time, bud. Don’t want you keelin’ over on me yet.”

Jack responded with a playful grin. For now, the arguments and regrets were shelved, the Texas sun dipped lower outside, sending long shadows crawling across the hospital floor, Ennis settled into the chair beside Jack’s bed, content to watch him eat in relative peace.

Once Jack finished off the last messy bite of his cheeseburger, he went after the fries like a man on a mission. He barely looked up, grabbing them in uneven handfuls, like he didn’t trust they’d still be there if he paused too long. The Styrofoam cup of Dr. Pepper sat close by, and he kept taking long swigs between bites, the fizz of carbonation popping in his throat each time. It made him grimace a little, but that didn’t slow him down. If anything, it seemed to push him into finishing faster, like the sugar and salt together were giving him just enough energy to pretend things were normal.

Ennis stayed quiet, slouched in the chair beside the bed with his legs stretched out and one ankle hooked over the other. His arms were crossed, boots planted firm, and he watched Jack with the quiet satisfaction of a man who’d just done something right for once. Jack looked better already, more color in his face, less strain around his mouth, that tension in his shoulders finally starting to melt away. Hell, even the way he held himself upright felt different. The Jack he knew was starting to show through the bruises and fatigue, little by little, and it tugged a smile out of Ennis before he could think to stop it.

Jack caught it before Ennis could wipe it away.

Jack squinted, like he didn’t quite trust what he was seeing, “What’re you smilin’ at, cowboy?” he drawled, not even bothering to wipe the smear of ketchup at the corner of his mouth. He took another noisy pull from the straw in his Dr. Pepper, eyes locked on Ennis over the rim of the cup like he already had the answer lined up and just wanted to hear Ennis trip over it himself.

Ennis huffed a laugh, tried to school his features into something neutral, but it didn’t stick. He gave Jack a long once-over, then nodded solemnly at him, “Just thinkin’ how much easier you’d be on the eyes if you finally shaved that sorry-lookin’ caterpillar off your upper lip.”

Jack froze, straw still halfway to his mouth, and shot Ennis an exaggerated look of betrayal. He set the cup down slowly, like the moment demanded ceremony, then reached up and stroked his mustache with his fingertips, feigning pride, “You better watch your mouth,” he warned, “This here’s taken years of dedication.”

Ennis snorted, settling deeper into the chair with a shake of his head. “Dedication don’t make it look good. Thought maybe the hospital’d shave it off while you were out, do us all a favor.”

Jack narrowed his eyes and, with great effort, picked up a fry and tossed it weakly in Ennis’s direction. It flopped onto the blanket near his thigh and stayed there, unimpressive in both speed and aim, “You’re just jealous ‘cause I can grow one,” Jack said smugly, settling back into the pillows like that was the winning blow. His arms crossed over his chest, well, as far as the IV line and the bandages would allow, and he tried to look smug, though the exhaustion softened the edge.

Ennis reached down, picked the fry off his jeans, and dropped it back onto the tray. “Yeah, Jack,” he said, dry as desert air. “That’s exactly what keeps me up at night. All this envy burnin’ a hole in my chest.”

Jack barked a laugh, sudden and sharp, head tipping back against the pillow. The sound came out a little raw, his ribs probably didn’t appreciate the effort, but it was real. It filled the room with something that had been missing for days. Ennis’s chest pulled tight at the sound of it, a strange ache settling behind his ribs. Jack looked at him sideways, still grinning through the lingering sting in his chest. His eyes creased at the corners, bruises beginning to yellow but still stark under the fluorescent lights, and for a second, Ennis could almost see them back on the mountain again, two dumb kids with no plan and even less sense, just sky above, cold dirt below, and beans for every damn meal.

“Ain’t no pleasin’ you,” Jack said finally, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, whether from laughter or pain, Ennis couldn’t tell. “Damn near get myself killed, and you’re sittin’ there worried about what’s growin’ on my face.”

Ennis smiled again, smaller this time, the kind of smile that didn’t quite stretch but stayed put all the same. He looked down at his hands, then back up at Jack’s face, taking in the fading bruises, the glint in his eyes, the bit of strength creeping back into his voice. “Ain’t worried, really,” he said quietly. “Just… good hearin’ you run your mouth again. Means you’re still in there.”

Jack had gone quiet for a stretch, the kind of quiet that wasn’t just tired or sore, but thoughtful. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of the blanket, and his eyes drifted toward the window, even though there wasn’t much to see, just the hazy outline of another hospital wing and the pale afternoon light filtering through the glass. For a while, Ennis figured Jack might be drifting off again, the way he sometimes did when the meds caught up with him. 

Then Jack shifted slightly, careful not to jostle the healing ribs, and let out a soft hum, like a thought turning over in his throat. “Y’know what I been thinkin’ about?”

Ennis looked up, his gaze drawn back in an instant. “What’s that?”

Jack rubbed at his mustache with the same exaggerated flair he always used when trying to lighten the mood, though his eyes didn’t quite match the humor. “The ranch,” he said simply, letting the words hang there between them.

That pulled Ennis’s gaze up fast. Not sharp, but focused, like he’d been jolted back to attention. They hadn’t talked much about it since Jack first woke up. That conversation had felt more like a pipe dream than a plan, softened by pain meds, by exhaustion, by the uncertainty of whether Jack would ever walk again, let alone build a life somewhere new. But now, hearing Jack bring it up again, this time with that old weight behind it… Ennis felt something inside him shift. Something old and rusted creaked loose, and relief poured in so fast it left him almost breathless. If he hadn’t already been sitting, he figured he might’ve damn well fallen over.

“What about it?” Ennis asked, working hard to sound casual, like his heart wasn’t already galloping beneath his ribs. But Jack knew him too well for that. Always had.

Jack shifted slightly, wincing as he did, but pushing through it. “Been thinkin’ maybe it don’t gotta be Texas. Don’t gotta be Wyoming, either.” He paused, long enough for Ennis’s brow to crease. Jack clocked it instantly and pointed a finger at him before he could interrupt. “And don’t give me that look. I know what you’re gonna say. But just… hear me out.”

Ennis didn’t answer right away. He stiffened slightly, arms folding tighter over his chest, not because the idea was foreign, but because it wasn’t. It was familiar. Painfully so. The same old standoff: Jack rooted to Childress for Bobby, Ennis anchored in Wyoming for his girls. A push and pull that’d spanned two decades and countless missed chances. Like they’d been standing on opposite cliffs, watching each other from across a canyon, never quite brave enough to jump.

Jack let the silence hang, eyes locked on Ennis’s face. “Bobby’s growin’ up,” he said, softer now. “He’s almost done with school. Got his own future to chase. Your girls, too. They’re makin’ their way. Don’t mean we stop bein’ there for ‘em. Just means maybe we stop waitin’ around for the right time.”

Ennis stayed quiet, though his fingers twitched where they rested on his bicep, the only outward sign of what the words were doing to him. Jack pressed on.

“Maybe it’s time we figure out where we belong,” he said. “Not for Bobby. Not for Junior or Jenny. Just us.”

The quiet in the room deepened, broken only by the soft, steady rhythm of the machines beside Jack’s bed, the beep of the heart monitor, the hush of recycled air through the vents. Time moved slow here. Too slow and too fast all at once.

Then Jack said it, like he was trying it out loud for the first time.

“Colorado,” he murmured. “Somewhere in the middle. Ain’t too far from anybody, but just far enough to feel like it’s ours. Clean slate. New start.”

His jaw clenched so hard it ached, muscles ticking like he was holding something back, grinding it down before it could find its way out. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at the floor like it held some kind of answer, even though he wasn’t really seeing it. The linoleum blurred beneath his gaze, the edge of the hospital bed vanished from view. He was someplace else entirely, caught in a place made of memory and missed chances, of roads not taken and promises left unsaid. A place where Jack had once stood in front of him, twenty-something and wide-eyed, asking him to imagine a life. Just imagine it. A small house. A little land. The two of them, side by side, in the open.

He could still remember the way Jack used to look at him in those quiet moments, after a kiss, after a fight, after a silence that stretched too long. That look that asked, It could be more. And every time, Ennis had ducked away from it. Shrugged it off. Told himself he was doing the right thing. For the girls. For safety. For survival. And maybe he’d believed that. Maybe he still did. But sitting here now, staring at the body of the man he almost lost, hooked up to machines, ribs still wrapped tight, color still too pale, he couldn’t find that old certainty anymore. It had slipped right out from under him.

Colorado.

The word didn’t hit like a slap. It didn’t gut him with surprise. No, it landed with something quieter. It draped itself over his shoulders like a coat he hadn’t worn in years, something that still fit, even after this time. They’d danced around it so many times he’d lost count. The idea had been there in the margins, tucked between motel stays and rare weekends stolen from real life. Jack had said it more than once, Could be different, Ennis. Could be better. And Ennis had always shut the door on it. Not because he didn’t want it. God, he had wanted it. But because wanting it felt dangerous. Like naming it out loud might make it too real. Like maybe, if he admitted how badly he needed it, it would slip through his fingers that much faster.

He hadn’t let himself picture it, not all the way. Not back then. It was too raw, too sharp-edged, to imagine waking up beside Jack without shame or panic. Too risky to dream about mornings in a home they built themselves, of walking down to the barn with mugs of coffee in hand, dogs trailing behind them. Too painful to think about dinners where no one had to check the time, or worry about whether they’d be caught, or if the waitress was giving them a funny look. Too much to picture Jack laughing in a kitchen that belonged to both of them, them, not some other version of them made safer for the world’s comfort.

He shifted, and the chair beneath him groaned, as though even the furniture knew how long he’d been carrying this weight. His hands stayed clenched in his lap, but his body leaned forward just slightly, like he was inching toward something he hadn’t dared approach before. His voice, when it came, was low and uncertain. “That what you want?” he asked, the words rough with the effort it took to say them. “Startin’ over?”

Jack nodded once, slow and deliberate. “I want somethin’ that’s ours, Ennis. Not borrowed time. Not motel rooms or backseats or sneakin’ around like we’re still nineteen and scared shitless. I’m tired, and I know you are too. Don’t gotta be a big ranch, don’t gotta be fancy. Just someplace with a roof, a little land, and a kitchen where you and me can drink coffee in the mornin’ without worryin’ who’s gonna knock on the damn door.”

Ennis swallowed hard. That image hit harder than it should’ve, Jack in the kitchen, barefoot probably, grumbling about the coffee being too weak, sunlight pouring in over the table. Nothing extraordinary. Just a morning. But one that belonged to them.

“You really think we can do it?” he asked, though the real question tucked beneath it was Can I do it?

Jack didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” he said. “I do. ’Cause if we don’t now… then when, Ennis? We wait another ten years? We run outta time?”

The honesty in that didn’t crush Ennis. It settled. Like something dropping into place. He’d spent twenty years dodging this, dancing around it like if he didn’t name it, it couldn’t hurt him. He told himself it was for the girls. For survival. For dignity. For safety. But what had any of it really given him?

He took a breath, but it caught in his throat. “I been scared a long time,” he said finally, “Scared of losin’ the girls. Scared of what it’d look like. What people’d say. What I’d lose if I tried for more than just what we had.” 

Jack didn’t say anything, just watched him, quiet and patient.

Ennis’s voice dropped. “But when I thought I’d lost you…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “That scared me worse than any of it ever did.”

Jack exhaled, shaky and quiet, like he’d been holding that breath for years. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they hovered in the air between them. Ennis didn’t make him wait. He met him halfway, folding his hand over Jack’s and gripping it tight. It didn’t need to be strong. It just needed to be there.

They stayed like that, hands clasped, breath slow. Jack’s palm was warm and clammy, a little weak, but real. Ennis held on like it might tether him to the moment. To the choice.

Jack smiled faintly, “So,” he said, “You think you could stand wakin’ up next to me every day?”

Ennis let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. “Figure I’ve already been doin’ that in my head for years.”

Jack smiled at that, tired, but genuine. “Then let’s stop waitin’. Colorado. You and me.”

Ennis looked down at their hands, then up into Jack’s face, tired, bruised, older than it used to be, but still the only thing in the world that ever made sense. And for the first time, he let go of every reason he’d ever given not to try. Every ‘no’ he’d ever used like a shield.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, finally. “Let’s do it.”

❖

They spent the next few days talking in fits and starts, sometimes drifting into easy silence, sometimes circling back to the big things, the hard things, the dreams and regrets neither of them had been brave enough to lay out flat before. It was the most open they’d been with each other since that first conversation after their first night together, stripped raw by whiskey and newness, the night’s truth still clinging to them like dew. Now, there was no haze to blame it on, no night to hide inside. Just two men, older and worn thin, finally facing what was left of their future and daring to shape it together.

They talked about what Colorado might look like, how much land they’d need, what sort of house, how they’d handle visits from Bobby, from Junior and Jenny. They argued over details, bickered over chores, let themselves smile about the thought of dogs underfoot and mornings that didn’t have to end. Jack dozed often, worn out by healing and the constant press of nurses, but every time his eyes opened, he looked for Ennis, and Ennis was there. Sometimes, they just sat in silence, Jack’s hand resting in Ennis’s, both of them breathing in sync, like it was the only thing that still felt certain..

But hospital days always run faster than you think. Sooner than Ennis wanted, it was time to go. He found himself hovering just outside Jack’s room, one hand resting on the doorframe, trying to bargain for another minute, another hour, anything that would keep him anchored here instead of pulled north by all the old duties waiting for him. The cold breath of the air conditioner brushed over him, making the sweat chill on his neck. His mind ran through the list, child support, jobs promised, money owed, responsibilities he’d worn like armor for decades, the same ones that had always given him an excuse to say no to what he wanted most.

Except now, every excuse rang hollow. He’d said goodbye to Jack a thousand times before, at the edge of cold campfires, beside muddy trucks, on empty stretches of road with nothing to hold them together but a promise they’d see each other again. He’d always convinced himself it was just the way things had to be. For twenty years, goodbye had been their most reliable language. 

But now? It felt damn near impossible. Ennis could see that road ahead, and it was bright with sunlight, open in a way nothing in his life ever had been before. How was he supposed to walk away now, go back to Wyoming and act like he was the same man as before? How was he supposed to leave, knowing for the first time in twenty years that home wasn’t a place, but a choice, and that choice was Jack?

He let out a shaky sigh, rolling his shoulders back like he could force down the ache building in his chest. For a moment he just stood there, staring at the thin door and the sliver of Jack he could see past the frame. Then he made himself move, stepping inside, boots scuffing quietly on the tile, trying not to let his nerves show in the set of his jaw. He reached Jack’s bedside and stopped, standing close enough that he could see every bruise, every shadow under Jack’s eyes. For a second, all the words in his head disappeared and he just let himself look.

“Hey, bud,” Ennis said, keeping his voice low, nearly tripping over the word as it left his mouth. His big hand hovered uncertain above Jack’s shoulder, finally settling on the blanket, the callused pads of his fingers brushing soft over the faded fabric.

Jack stirred at the sound, eyelids fluttering open. His gaze wandered a moment, pupils slow to focus, still floating somewhere on the tail end of the painkillers. His hair was stuck up at a wild angle on one side, pillow-creased and soft. Ennis had the sudden urge to reach over and smooth it down, but he kept his hands in check, “Ennis?” he mumbled, the word slurred with sleep and painkillers, but gentle all the same.

Ennis tried for a smile, but it wobbled, brittle as glass. “Yeah, rodeo. S’me. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Jack’s head tipped back against the pillow, a tiny sigh slipping free, a sound that twisted with pain and relief at once. He tried to push himself a little more upright, grimacing as he shifted, every inch of effort obvious in the tense lines of his jaw and the set of his mouth. It was all Ennis could do not to reach out and steady him, but he held himself in check, knowing better than to fuss. Jack was stubborn. Always had been. He wouldn’t stand for being babied now, not from Ennis.

“What time is it?” Jack croaked, eyes slipping past Ennis to the window, chasing light he couldn’t quite find.

“‘Bout mid-mornin’,” Ennis answered, glancing up at the cheap plastic clock above the door. He paused, tongue thick in his mouth, dread sour on his tongue. “I gotta get goin’, Jack,” he added, voice dropping even lower, so soft it was almost a confession. “Wish I didn’t, but—” He stopped, shaking his head, because there was no sense lying about it. They both knew what was coming.

Jack’s face tightened for half a second, a flicker of disappointment there and gone, smoothed over by the familiar mask of tired acceptance. He nodded, like he’d known this was coming but hadn’t wanted to believe it just yet, “Figured as much. S’pose I knew you couldn’t stick around forever. Still, was good wakin’ up with you here, grumpy face and all.”

Ennis huffed a short laugh, studying the bruises still coloring Jack’s face, the healing that had finally started to show. Even beaten up and half asleep, Jack looked more himself than Ennis could remember in a long time. “Ain’t nothin’ I’d like more, you know that. But Wyoming’s still got its claws in me. Child support, bills, couple jobs I promised to finish. I’m hopin’ if I knock it all out, I can get back sooner. Won’t be gone long, Jack.”

Jack managed a thin smile, blinking slowly like he was memorizing Ennis’s face. “Don’t matter how long it is, cowboy. I’ll be here. You better come back, though. I ain’t plannin’ on findin’ some new cranky son of a bitch to keep me company.”

Ennis shook his head, finally letting his hand rest fully on Jack’s shoulder, thumb rubbing gentle through the thin fabric. “Ain’t nobody else fool enough to put up with you this long, rodeo. Don’t reckon that’s ever gonna change.”

He shifted, clearing his throat. “I’ll call you, Jack. Soon as I get back. Every couple days, if you want. You keep me posted on what those quacks are tellin’ you, and I’ll make sure you don’t run off and try to break outta here before you’re ready.”

Jack let out a hoarse laugh that turned into a cough, but the sound was pure relief. “I’d like that,” he said, quieter now. “Hell, I’d like just about anythin’ that ain’t this damn food or these four walls.”

For a moment, neither of them moved, just breathing in the hush, Ennis’s hand a steady weight on Jack’s shoulder. Then Jack started shifting, his face screwing up in concentration, pushing himself upright with a grimace and an ornery set to his jaw.

Ennis frowned, alarm flickering across his features as he reached instinctively to steady him. “Whoa, whoa, what the hell you think you’re doin’, Jack?”

Jack shot him a look, “I’m givin’ you a damn hug, what’s it look like? Ain’t lettin’ you walk outta here with nothin’ but a handshake, Ennis Del Mar.” He braced himself, teeth gritted, and made it clear with one look that he wasn’t about to be denied.

Every part of Ennis wanted to reach out and force Jack back down, make him rest, shield him from the pain still etched in the lines around his eyes. But he knew better than to try and stop Jack Twist when his mind was set; stubbornness was as much a part of him as the blue in his eyes. So he let Jack push himself upright, even as it clearly cost him, the covers bunching around his waist, his arms trembling as he braced against the mattress. Ennis’s hand hovered, finally landing solid at Jack’s back, offering strength, his own breath caught tight in his chest.

“Jesus, Jack, slow down,” Ennis said, albeit laced with worry he couldn’t hide. “Ain’t gotta prove nothin’ to me.”

Jack glared up at him, equal parts wounded pride and affection, blue eyes shining with that fierce light that always knocked Ennis off his feet. “I’m givin’ you a damn hug, Ennis. That’s it. Don’t even try talkin’ me out of it.” There was a quiver in his jaw, and the effort cost him, but the look in his eyes brooked no argument.

Something in Ennis cracked wide open. He let out a laugh, shaky and half-broken, ducking his head so the brim of his hat hid his eyes for a moment. “You’re a damn fool, y’know that?” he managed, but the words were weak, trembling with everything he couldn’t say, how scared he was, how much this mattered, how much emptier the world would be if he had to leave without this.

Jack’s hands, clumsy with fatigue, reached for him anyway, fingers searching for purchase at the collar of Ennis’s shirt. Ennis bent down, careful of all the tubes and wires, careful not to crush him, and wrapped his arms around Jack. The embrace was messy, not tight but desperate, Jack clinging with what little strength he had left, Ennis holding back just enough not to hurt him, but still close, close as he could get.

For a heartbeat, Ennis stopped breathing. He pressed his face into Jack’s hair, felt the rise and fall of his chest, the scent of sweat and medicine and something that was only Jack. His hands slid up and down Jack’s back, soothing, memorizing, wanting to hold on and never let go. Everything he wanted to say got trapped behind his teeth, how proud he was, how much he loved him, how sorry he was for every wasted year, how scared he was to leave. In that silent tangle, it didn’t matter; Jack already knew.

Jack was the one to break the silence, his voice rough and close to Ennis’s ear. “Don’t stay away too long, cowboy. Don’t think I could stand it.” He swallowed, breath shuddering, and Ennis felt the tears prick at his own eyes, fierce and hot.

Ennis tightened his grip for one last second, swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat. “Ain’t nothin’ in Wyoming worth more than you, Jack. I swear to God. I’ll be back before you even miss me.”

Jack nodded, face pressed to Ennis’s shoulder, just breathing him in, and for a minute neither of them was ashamed to show how much they needed each other. Just two men, battered and older, holding on for dear life. When they finally broke apart, Jack kept his palm pressed flat to Ennis’s chest, right over his heart. Ennis held his gaze, letting Jack see all the things he’d hidden for twenty years, the hope, the fear, the promise that things would be different now.

“Go on, then,” Jack managed, “Before I make a damn fool of myself in front of all these nurses.”

Ennis tried to laugh, but it cracked, and a tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He squeezed Jack’s hand hard, then let go, slow and reluctant. “Already did, rodeo,” he whispered, “So did I.”

He lingered another heartbeat longer, letting Jack’s fingers slide from his, and then he turned toward the door, already counting every step that would take him back.

❖

By the time Ennis steered his old truck into the narrow dirt driveway, the sky had bled from dusk into full dark, a seamless black that seemed to stretch on forever above the sparse Wyoming plains. He killed the engine and let out a slow exhale. The windshield reflected nothing but empty night, and in that quiet moment, he swore the cab felt as hollow as his own chest. The drive home from Texas had been punishingly long, hours upon hours of blacktop, headlights, and the stale taste of coffee that never quite stayed warm. Yet none of it, not the road nor the roaring wind, had managed to quiet the singular drum of his thoughts:

Jack, Jack, Jack.

Jack’s voice, echoing through his memory like a half-remembered melody.

Jack’s laugh, low and warm, drifting through the hush of a shared campfire.

Jack’s hands, grasping at him in a hospital bed, too bruised to move but desperate not to let go.

And now, without Jack’s presence, without the steady sound of his breathing, or the half-smile he wore when he was too tired to speak, the silence in the trailer was unbearable.

Ennis stood just inside the threshold, his boots planted on the scuffed linoleum. He still had his keys clenched in one hand, the metal biting into his palm. The trailer around him felt too still, as though even the air had gone stagnant in his absence, waiting for a spark that wasn’t going to come. How had he lived like this for so long? How had he let himself believe that this brand of loneliness was normal, coming home to a cold, empty space, throwing together meals eaten in solitude, waking up day after day with no one but himself to answer to?

He swallowed, but the lump in his throat refused to budge.

How was he supposed to make it through the next few months without seeing Jack every day? Without waking up knowing Jack was at least reachable by a short drive? The thought made his stomach clench, a cold lurch that spread through his veins. It was almost funny, in a grim way, how he’d managed to ignore this for so many years, how he’d let fear dictate every part of his life, from the boots he laced up in the morning to the jobs he took and the people he dared let close. But after everything that had happened to Jack, the truth was clawing its way out.

He’d let fear steal everything that mattered.

Ennis exhaled slowly, pressing the back of his free hand to his mouth in an attempt to steady himself, but there was no stopping what tumbled through his head. Not anymore. It had taken Jack getting damn near beaten to death for Ennis to realize that leaving was the real tragedy. That every second he’d spent denying the bond between them was a colossal mistake, a willful blindfold he’d wrapped around himself so tight he couldn’t see how miserable he was.

Ennis closed his eyes, and instantly Jack’s face appeared behind his lids, smiling crookedly, complaining about the coffee, or the weather, or any of a thousand small grievances that never truly darkened his mood. And Ennis realized he wanted that. All of it. Every small, exasperating argument, every teasing smile, every crumb of daily life that came from actually being together.

Jack was all he wanted. Jack had always been all he wanted.

And Christ, that knowledge made him feel ill and relieved all at once, like the ground had been ripped out from under him, but at least now he could see the fall for what it was.

For so long, he’d laid every problem at Jack’s feet, blamed him for Alma walking away, for the way his girls seemed to slip through his fingers like smoke, for the endless series of dead-end jobs he could never keep. He’d told himself it was Jack’s fault for complicating his life, for pushing him to want something he was too scared to claim.

But it wasn’t Jack’s fault, was it?

It was Ennis’s own terror. That shapeless dread that hounded him since he was a child, that told him men like him ended up bloody in a ditch or scorned by the folks who should’ve had their backs. Fear that had burrowed so deep, it wore the face of common sense. He’d disguised it as survival, as caution, but in truth, it had just been a slow, strangling grip on his happiness.

One breath, then another. Ennis tried to compose himself, but every corner of his mind conjured another image of Jack. It stung like a fresh bruise, but it also lit a tiny spark of warmth, Jack had always made him feel alive, from their first days on Brokeback, a pair of young men standing at the edge of a world so big it could’ve swallowed them whole. Those had been the only times Ennis ever felt truly free, before the weight of his own terror settled over him and he backed away from happiness again and again.

Jack was the one bright, steady thing in a world that felt mostly cold and gray. Jack was the reason he’d ever let himself believe things might be better, if only for a weekend here, a stolen moment there. 

Letting the keys drop onto the table with a dull clink, Ennis rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. The trailer around him looked the same as it always had. But it felt different now, heavy with longing for someone he couldn’t stand to be without any longer.

In that hollow quiet, he admitted the truth

There was no version of life left that didn’t have Jack at its center. The realization scorched him from the inside, burning away any pretense that he could ever go back to what he was before. Jack Twist was his beginning and his end, no matter how many times he’d fought against it. And if living without Jack had ever been an option, it sure as hell wasn’t anymore.

Chapter Text

Jack had only just slipped into a light doze, lulled by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the distant hush of the hallway outside. Painkillers had dulled the sharper edges of his discomfort, but rest still came in short bursts. So when a soft knock rapped against the hospital room door, it pulled him up too quickly from that thin veil of sleep. He blinked blearily, expecting to see another nurse with a chart in hand or a tray of something bland and lukewarm.

But it wasn’t a nurse. It was Lureen.

She stepped through the door like she owned the place, heels clicking softly on the linoleum, her purse tucked neat under her arm, and her eyes already scanning the room with that sharp, businesslike sweep Jack remembered so well. She looked...blonder, maybe. Or maybe it was the harsh fluorescent lighting or the haze of meds in his system messing with his eyes. Wouldn’t have shocked him if she had made a salon stop, grief didn’t slow Lureen down, it just got filed and managed like everything else. Even heartbreak had a ledger line in her books.

She didn’t waste time. She never did. “Did Ennis leave?” she asked, efficient, like she was checking off an appointment on her calendar.

Jack shifted slightly against the pillows, grimacing as a tug of pain rippled up his spine. He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog from his head. “Yeah,” he croaked, still groggy from sleep. “Couple hours ago. Had to get back to Wyoming.”

Lureen nodded once, stepping closer. She didn’t sit, just hovered near the foot of the bed like she wasn’t sure how long she meant to stay. Her eyes lingered on the untouched pitcher of water, the pill schedule taped to the wall, the sag of the visitor’s chair still marked with the shape of a body. Jack could see the wheels turning in her head, cataloging, calculating, already thinking three steps ahead.

“Hm,” she murmured. “Figured he’d stay longer.” Her eyes met Jack’s then, cool but curious. “You look better.”

Jack huffed a tired laugh, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah, well. Ain’t dead yet.”

Lureen’s lips curved, just barely. Not quite a smile. “That’s a start.” She finally set her purse down and moved to the chair Ennis had practically lived in the past few days. She lowered herself into it with a careful grace, smoothing her skirt as she sat. “I came to talk,” she said simply.

Jack swallowed hard, throat dry again. Whatever rest he’d managed was gone now, chased off by the weight of what was coming.

When she finally spoke again, her voice came out pointed, like she’d rehearsed the words over and over in the quiet hum of her car, between traffic lights and radio static. “I told my daddy we’re gettin’ divorced,” she said, not looking at him at first. “Figured you oughta know.”

Jack didn’t flinch. The words themselves didn’t land like a blow, he’d been bracing for them, hell, he’d practically been walking around with the bruise already. But the way she said it, clean, sharp, like cutting rope, still caught him off guard. Not a hint of apology or hesitation. Just the fact of it, dropped in the air between them like a lit match.

His fingers curled slowly in the thin hospital blanket, the plastic edge of his ID bracelet digging into his wrist. But when he spoke, his tone stayed dry, “Well, I bet ol’ L.D. took to that like a dog to a bone,” he drawled. “Prob’ly pourin’ himself a celebratory glass of bourbon right now, patting himself on the back for finally gettin’ rid of his queer son-in-law.”

Lureen didn’t smile. Her face stayed flat, unreadable, the same look she wore when going over numbers in her ledger or balancing the books at the end of a quarter. “He’s relieved,” she said, like it was just another fact on a page. “Didn’t even pretend to feel sorry. Told me it was the first good decision I’d made in years.”

Jack huffed out a bitter laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head against the pillow. “Figures. Man’s been waitin’ on this day since the ink dried on our weddin’ license. He’s probably settin’ up streamers and balloons right now. Gonna throw himself a real nice ‘faggot-free’ party in honor of gettin’ his baby girl back from the clutches of the devil.”

“Jack.” Lureen raised her hand, palm out like a stop sign, firm and impatient. “I didn’t come here to listen to you spit fire about my father. I ain’t got the energy, and you sure as hell don’t.” She shifted her stance, arms folding as she looked at him for real this time. “I came to talk about Bobby. We need to tell him. And soon. He’s got enough to carry already with school and everything else. I ain’t gonna dump this on him.” She finally met Jack’s eyes, and this time there was something steadier in her expression. A flicker of what they used to be. Of shared ground. “And when we do tell him, I figured we’d do it together.”

That caught him. He blinked, slow and tired, and looked over at her like he was trying to read a sentence in a language he hadn’t spoken in years. “You still think we’re a ‘we’?”

“No,” Lureen said softly. “Not like that. But we’re still Bobby’s parents. Always will be. And I don’t want him hearin’ it from my mother, or worse, from L.D.” Her tone carried a weight that didn’t need further explanation. She knew the damage her parents could do. Maybe she’d finally stopped pretending otherwise.

Jack stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright,” he said, the word heavy in his mouth. “We’ll tell him together.”

People could say whatever the hell they wanted about Jack Twist. Lord knew they had, over the years, behind his back, to his face, with sneers or snickers or sideways glances that lingered too long. He’d heard it all. They called him a queer, a faggot, a fairy. Said he was soft, said he was strange, said he had no business calling himself a cowboy. Some called him a no-good husband, a dreamer with his head in the clouds and his hands in places they didn’t belong. A pissant, a screw-up, a shame. But there was one thing Jack Twist wasn’t, and never would be, not in all his days, not in all their mouths, and that was a bad father.

He loved Bobby with a fierceness that burned through every slur, every sideways look. He might’ve failed at a lot of things in life, might’ve stayed too long in a marriage that wasn’t ever built to last, might’ve let his heart lead him into places that weren’t safe, but when it came to his boy, Jack didn’t falter. Every decision, every compromise, every ache he swallowed down, he did it for Bobby. So that his son would grow up strong. Decent. Brave. So that Bobby would have a chance at the kind of life Jack had only ever been able to daydream about. 

He didn’t care if folks didn’t understand him, didn’t care if his marriage crumbled or his reputation got dragged through the dirt. All that mattered was Bobby. Making sure his son grew up strong and kind. That he knew he was loved, no matter what. That he never had to hide who he was just to stay safe. And for all the things Jack and Lureen had done wrong, God knew the list was long, they’d done one thing right. They’d raised a boy with a damn good head on his shoulders. Bobby was thoughtful. He was sharp. He didn’t take shit, and he had a heart bigger than Texas. That didn’t come from nowhere. That came from them. That came from Jack, every long night sitting up with fevers and bad dreams, every early morning driving him to practice, every quiet talk out on the porch when the world didn’t feel fair.

“I told Bobby to swing by after school,” Lureen said, smoothing the crease of her skirt as she spoke. “He’s been wantin’ to come see you, just… couldn’t bring himself to do it yet. Too nervous, I guess.” Her voice softened, shoulders dropping as she glanced toward the window. “God, Jack. I didn’t think he was ever gonna stop cryin’ the day I told him what happened.”  She looked down at her hands then, at the neat polish along her nails, chipped at the edges now. Three weeks had passed, but it felt like a hundred years had dragged through her since that night. 

Bobby had been over at a friend’s house, a boy from the rodeo team, lanky and loud, the kind Lureen didn’t always trust but tried not to fuss about, when the call came from the hospital. The voice on the other end had been too calm, too clinical, and Lureen had felt the blood drain from her body in one cold sweep. She didn’t remember grabbing her keys, only the tight, white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as she flew down back roads and county highways like the devil himself was gunning for her.

She’d stood at Jack’s bedside in the ICU, heels sinking into the tiled floor, staring down at his battered face. blackened, bruised, wires taped to his skin, his ribs lifting in uneven little jerks, and something in her had cracked in two. It wasn’t love anymore, not the way it used to be, but it was still him, still the father of her son, still the only man who’d ever known every version of her. She’d stayed until her legs ached and her breath soured in her chest, until the nurse reminded her gently that visiting hours were up. By the time she pulled back into the driveway, the sun had dipped behind the grain silos and dusk was bleeding into the streets.

She’d barely stepped inside, just enough to slip off her heels and drop her purse by the door, when the hinges groaned and Bobby barreled in behind her. He came in at a half-jog, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, face flushed from running and laughter caught in his throat.

“Momma, you won’t believe what Cody did,” he started, but she cut him off without looking.

“Boots, Bobby,” she snapped, louder than she meant to. Her voice cracked like a whip across the hardwood. That old rule, no tracking mud into her clean floors. She’d said it a thousand times. He’d broken it just as often.

Bobby stopped mid-step, looked down, and winced. “Shi—uh, shoot,” he corrected quickly, catching himself like a little boy again, still half-worried she’d pull out the bar of Ivory soap and march him to the sink,“Sorry, Momma.”

He bent down to take off his boots, but the movement was clumsy, distracted, like he could already feel something was wrong. The second he looked up, really looked, he caught sight of her face. She hadn’t meant for him to see it yet, the raw, hollowed-out ache in her eyes, the smudged eyeliner she’d forgotten to wipe clean, the fine tremble still lingering in her jaw.

“Momma?” His voice had changed. That easy, boyish tone she loved so much was gone. What came out instead was older, lower, like he was bracing for something and didn’t even know why yet, “What… what happened?”

Lureen opened her mouth and closed it again. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She just stared at her son, her boy who still had mud on his jeans and sun on his cheeks and no goddamn idea what kind of world he’d just stepped into.

“It’s your daddy,” she said, and her voice splintered mid-sentence, thin and dry as brittle wood. “There was an accident, Bobby. He’s—he’s real bad off.”

Bobby straightened up too quickly, nearly tripping on the heel of one boot that hadn’t come off clean. His whole body jerked with it, like trying to outrun the weight of her words. “What kind of accident?” he asked, breath catching on the words. “What happened? Is he—?” His voice dipped into panic, the last word sticking in his throat. “Is he dead?”

“No,” Lureen said, fast and firm. The one thing she could give him, the only clarity she had. “No, he’s alive. They got him at the hospital in Childress. But it’s serious, sweetheart. Real serious. He’s in ICU. Ain’t woke up yet.”

The news hit like a blow. Bobby’s backpack slid off his shoulder and hit the floor with a muffled thud, but he didn’t even flinch. His eyes, wide and wet, locked on hers as if trying to read between the lines, trying to pull answers from the silence. “What happened?” he choked, and this time his voice cracked down the middle. “What’d they do to him?”

She stepped closer, instinctively, her hands twitching like they wanted to reach out but weren’t sure if they’d be welcomed. “I don’t know everything yet,” she said. “They had to put him on a ventilator at first. Ribs are broken. Skull fracture. Some damage to his spine.” Her throat caught, but she forced the rest out. “I didn’t know if I was comin’ home to tell you he was gone.”

Bobby wavered where he stood, like the floor had shifted beneath him, the world tilting just enough to knock the breath from his chest. Lureen stepped forward instinctively, catching him by the shoulders before he could fall inward. And when she pulled him close, he didn’t resist, not even for a second. He went with her like he’d been waiting for it, folding down into her arms, just like he used to when he was small and afraid of the wind clawing at the windows. At first, there were no tears. Just the silence of shock, the unbearable stillness that came before a storm. But then his shoulders twitched, once, twice, like something inside him had cracked loose, and the tremors began to ripple down his spine. His arms wrapped around her, hard and sudden, fists clutching at the back of her blouse like he was afraid the floor might give way beneath them.

She held him tight, tucking his head beneath her chin, her hand curling around the base of his skull with a mother’s instinct older than language. The other hand spread flat across his back, warm and firm, as if she could anchor him by touch alone. She felt his heartbeat fluttering against her chest, frantic and uneven, like a bird throwing itself against its cage. His cheek was hot where it pressed against her collarbone, damp with the beginnings of tears he hadn’t let fall yet.

He was too big for this now, taller than her, broader, his arms long enough to lift her off the ground if he wanted to. But right then, none of that mattered. Right then, he was just her boy. The same boy who used to crawl into her bed during summer storms, whispering that the thunder was too loud. The boy who cried when his goldfish died. The boy who loved Jack Twist like the sun rose and set in his shadow.

Lureen held him tighter, one hand smoothing down the back of his head, the other tracing slow, steady circles into the space between his shoulder blades, He was scared. Terrified. And there wasn’t a single thing she could say to make it alright. Her own throat clenched, but she bit it back. There’d be time for her tears later. Right now, all that mattered was keeping Bobby from falling apart. She closed her eyes and kept her voice steady as she whispered against his temple, soft and sure, “I’ve got you, baby. It’s alright. Momma’s got you. Just breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

“He kept askin’ if you were still alive,” Lureen murmured, eyes distant now. “Over and over, like he couldn’t make himself believe it. I told him, Jack. Swore up and down you were. Had to say it five, six times before he even started to hear me.”

Jack swallowed hard, jaw tight as he turned his face slightly toward the window, blinking at the watery light spilling across the floor. The thought of Bobby like that, scared and frantic, stuck in that limbo between not knowing and not wanting to, knotted deep in his chest. It was a strange thing, being both the cause of someone’s pain and their only comfort.

He cleared his throat and tried to force a smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Reckon it’ll do him some good to see me then, huh?” he said, albeit a little rough around the edges, like it had to push its way past the knot forming in his throat. “Might be stitched up and sorry-lookin’, but I’m still breathin’. That oughta count for somethin’, right?”

Lureen gave a small nod, one hand rising to rub at the edge of her brow like she was smoothing out more than just skin. “That’s all he wants,” she said, quiet but certain. “To know you’re still here. That he don’t have to keep picturin’ the worst every time he closes his eyes.”

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, letting that sit. He didn’t say it out loud, how much he needed to see Bobby too, to see with his own eyes that his boy was still standing, still alright. But it pulsed underneath everything, steady as a heartbeat. When he opened his eyes again, Lureen was watching him. Not with pity. Not even with regret. Something else. Something quieter. Like they were both standing in the same cold wind, shoulder to shoulder for the first time in a long while.

❖

Jack had been trying all afternoon not to look too obvious about it, but his eyes kept dragging back to the damn clock on the wall. Every few minutes, like he didn’t trust it to keep moving unless he checked. The second hand ticked its slow circle, each pass echoing louder in his ears. It was three o’clock now, finally, and Jack’s heart gave a traitorous thump in response.

He knew the route well enough to trace it in his sleep. From the high school to the hospital, no more than five minutes, give or take, depending on lights and how heavy Bobby’s foot was on the gas. Jack had driven that stretch himself too many times over the years, usually with his pulse pounding, praying Bobby hadn’t cracked a rib or done something worse during a rodeo spill. Now the roles were reversed, and the wait felt like it was stretching the air thin in his lungs.

He shifted against the pillows with a quiet grunt, careful not to jostle the IV taped to his hand or the bandages pulling tight against his ribs. The room felt too quiet, even with the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional hallway noise drifting in through the door. Jack’s eyes flicked to the clock again. Four minutes, now. Maybe less if Bobby was speeding. Jack wouldn’t put it past him. Hell, he hoped he was.

Sure enough, right on the dot at 3:05, the door let out its usual low creak, a sound Jack had grown to hate over the past few weeks, usually heralding another nurse with a tray or a clipboard. But this time, something in the air shifted. Jack didn’t need to lift his head to know. He felt it first, like a pull in his chest, and then he saw him.

Bobby stood just inside the doorway, backlit by the dull hallway light, clutching the strap of his backpack like he wasn’t sure whether to let it fall or turn around and leave. He looked older somehow. Or maybe it was just that kind of tired only worry could carve into a face. His shoulders were drawn tight, his mouth pressed into a line, and his eyes, those blue eyes that had always reminded Jack of himself, were filled with a cautious kind of ache. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed to walk any closer.

Jack’s heart squeezed. God, how could the boy even wonder?

“Well, hell, son,” Jack said, his voice roughened by disuse but warm all the same, “you just gonna stand there starin’ at me like I’m somethin’ in a museum, or you gonna come give your old man a hug?”

He didn’t mean it to sound like a plea, but maybe it came out that way anyhow. He wouldn’t blame Bobby if he hesitated. Jack knew how he looked, face still mottled with yellowed bruises, gauze peeking out from under the hospital gown, tubes and wires trailing from his arms. He hadn’t even seen himself in a mirror since the attack, but he didn’t need to. He could feel it in the weight of his limbs, the itch of healing cuts, the way people winced when they walked in and thought he wasn’t looking.

But none of that seemed to matter, not to Bobby. Not for a second.

The backpack hit the floor with a soft thud, forgotten entirely, and Bobby crossed the room in three fast steps. He didn’t stop to think, didn’t ask if it would hurt, didn’t hesitate, just wrapped both arms around his father as gently as he could, burying his face into the curve of Jack’s shoulder like he’d finally found the only place that made sense in the world again.

Jack’s arms came around him automatically, one wrapping around Bobby’s back, the other rising to cradle the back of his head. His fingers threaded into his boy’s hair, dark, thick, and so damn familiar, and Jack felt the first tremble roll through him. Then came the sobs. Not the loud kind. The deep, shaking kind that came from someplace too low for sound, that rocked his whole body with each silent heave. Jack’s throat burned. His heart clenched, helpless. He pressed his hand firmer between Bobby’s shoulders, feeling the quake of every breath like it was his own.

“Hey,” Jack whispered, rubbing small circles between Bobby’s shoulder blades. “Hey now, I’m alright. I’m alright, bud. I promise.”

But even as he said it, he felt the lie in his mouth. He wasn’t alright. Not yet. Probably not for a while. Still, for Bobby, he’d say it. He’d lie all day long if it meant easing that awful quake in his son’s chest.

He pressed his palm flat between Bobby’s shoulder blades, fingers spread like he could somehow hold him together with touch alone. But the tremors kept coming. Jack could feel them ripple beneath his hand, rapid, uneven breaths, the kind that barely made it past the throat. Bobby’s arms were still around him, but they’d gone stiff. One hand clutched at the thin blanket tangled at Jack’s side, the other gripping his gown like a lifeline, knuckles bone-white.

“Bobby,” Jack said again, a little firmer this time, his voice barely above a whisper. “Son. Breathe for me, okay? Just breathe.”

But Bobby wasn’t hearing him. His head stayed tucked tight against Jack’s shoulder, his body rigid now, like every muscle had locked up all at once. His breaths were coming fast, too fast, and high, barely in his chest. Jack could feel the way they caught and hitched, how his ribs shuddered beneath them. His boy was slipping under, drowning in something he couldn’t quite name.

“Hey, hey now,” Jack soothed, even as his own voice shook. “You’re alright, Bobby. I got you. Just listen to me, okay? Right here.”

Jack shifted with a low grunt, biting down on the pain that flared sharp through his ribs. It was a small movement, but it cost him, white-hot pressure under his skin, the kind that stole breath for a second. Still, he ignored it. Bobby needed him more than he needed relief. Carefully, he lifted his hand, the one not looped tight around his son’s back, and brought it up to Bobby’s face. With the lightest pressure, Jack guided Bobby’s face upward, coaxing rather than demanding. His thumb swept along the curve of his cheekbone, searching for something steady in the tremble of his boy’s breathing. Bobby’s eyes were wide and glassy, pupils blown with panic, like he was somewhere else entirely, somewhere lost. His lips parted again, trying to pull in air, but nothing seemed to come easy. His whole chest jerked with each breath, fast and shallow, like he was bracing for something that hadn’t hit yet.

“Hey,” Jack murmured, soft against the quiet panic closing in around them. “Look at me, bud. Right here. I got you. You’re okay.”

Bobby blinked, one sharp, panicked flicker of his lashes, and a tear slipped free, carving a path down his cheek. His shoulders gave a sudden twitch, like he might bolt or fold in on himself, but Jack held steady, thumb pressing lightly at the hinge of his jaw.

“Stay with me now,” he said, firm but quiet. “You’re safe. Just breathe with me, alright?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Jack filled his lungs with slow, measured breath, loud enough for Bobby to hear, to follow. “You know how,” he coached gently, “In through your nose, real slow. Like before a ride. You remember that, don’t you? You always needed a second to settle. This is the same, bud. Just you and me. You’re alright.”

It took a second. Two. Then, with a trembling chest and a ragged inhale that scraped through his throat like broken glass, Bobby tried. The breath hitched, caught on the edge of another sob, but it came. Jack felt the change in him, subtle but real. The first sign of a foothold in the panic.

“That’s it,” Jack said, his voice dropping to a softer register. “That’s my boy.”

Bobby’s next breath came a little easier, though the tremble in his shoulders hadn’t eased. Jack kept talking, voice low and rhythmic, the way he used to hum lullabies when Bobby was too sick or too scared to sleep.

“You remember when you were little? Storm’d roll in, thunder shakin’ the windows, and you’d come runnin’ down the hall. Used to climb right into bed with me and your momma. Tucked in so close I couldn’t hardly breathe, but you’d settle right down like nothin’ could touch you there.”

Bobby opened his mouth to speak again, “Dad, I—” he started, but the words hitched in his throat, cracked under the weight of all the fear he’d been carrying. He tried again, and this time they tumbled out in a sob. “I missed you. I didn’t think I was gonna get to see you alive again.”

Jack felt those words like a punch to the gut. Not sharp, no. Slower. A twisting ache that settled into his ribs and spread like fire. His boy, his boy, had spent the last three weeks not knowing. Not hearing his voice. Not being able to touch him, or sit beside him, or know for sure if he’d even made it through the night. Sixteen years old and carrying that kind of weight. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

Those words broke something in Jack. His son. His sixteen year old son had been left to wonder over the past three weeks if he was ever going to get to see his dad alive again. He didn’t try to answer right away. Words wouldn’t have done it justice anyway. Instead, he tightened his arms around Bobby, ignoring the ache it sparked through his ribs, and pulled him in as close as the IV lines would allow. One hand cradled the back of Bobby’s head, the other splayed wide between his shoulder blades, like he could shield him from the memory of those weeks. 

“Hey now,” Jack said finally, rough with the emotion he couldn’t swallow. “You ain’t gotta carry that anymore. I’m right here, alright? Still breathin’. Still kickin’, even if it don’t look like it.” He exhaled slow, trying to ease the tremble in Bobby’s spine with the steady rhythm of his voice. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Not leavin’ you.”

He felt Bobby nod, felt the way he tried to swallow it all down, and Jack smoothed his hand across his son’s spine. Bobby’s breathing was still shaky, but steadier now, like the storm was starting to ease.

Jack exhaled slowly, willing his own heart to settle. “Why don’t you sit a spell, huh?” he said, softer now, easing Bobby back just enough to look at him. “Reckon you’ve got a whole lot to catch me up on. My boy’s a senior now. That’s somethin’, ain’t it?”

Bobby sniffled hard, dragging the sleeve of his shirt across his face in a quick, clumsy swipe, like maybe if he did it fast enough, neither of them would notice the tears still clinging to his lashes. He pulled back only a little, just far enough that Jack could see his face, flushed and blotchy, but trying, trying, to pull himself together. There was pride in that effort, even if Jack ached at the sight of it. 

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to sit on Jack’s legs, and Jack could tell he was settling in the long haul. Bobby had always been a talker. Even as a little kid, he could fill an afternoon just chasing thoughts out loud, running through one story after another until Lureen had to remind him to breathe. It wasn’t just chatter, it was the way Bobby made sense of the world, and Jack had never minded being the one who listened. As he got older, the topics changed, school, rodeo, whatever mess his friends had gotten into, but the rhythm stayed the same: that sprawling way he spun a story, not always linear, not always logical, but always full of life.

Jack didn’t mind. Not one bit. He would’ve sat there through a hundred winding tangents just to hear his boy’s voice again, to feel the buzz of it in the air between them. Hell, he’d take it as medicine if they’d let him, better than any drip in his veins, any bitter pill down his throat.

Bobby reached down to adjust the hem of his pant leg, his fingers restless and twitchy, like they were hunting for something to anchor themselves to. Jack watched the way his son’s gaze moved, floor, hands, the IV stand, the heart monitor blinking out its steady rhythm, never quite landing, never still. That was Bobby all over when he was nervous: quiet fidgeting, eyes that gave away more than his mouth ever would.

“You been keepin’ up with school?” Jack asked, gently, like he was turning the key in a rusted door, giving it time to open.

Bobby gave a single nod, more muscle reflex than confirmation. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Tryin’.” The word came out small, like it had to fight its way past whatever knot had taken up residence in his throat.

Jack let the smallest smile rise to his face. “Bet you’re still talkin’ your teachers’ ears off.”

That got a small reaction, the kind Jack had been waiting for. Bobby huffed a quiet laugh, short and almost surprised by itself, “Maybe,” Bobby replied, shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug. “Only when they don’t look like they’re two seconds from quittin’. Ms. Rollins walked in last week lookin’ like she hadn’t slept in a month, so I kept my mouth shut. Thought I’d be merciful.”

Jack snorted quietly. “Kind-hearted little shit, ain’t you.”

The moment stretched out quiet between them, not strained exactly, but tentative. Like walking across a bridge neither of them had crossed in a long time. Jack took the pause to really look at him, at his boy, nearly grown now. The lines of his jaw had sharpened, his frame filled out in that lanky, half-finished way that came with teenage years. But his eyes, those were still the same. Blue, like Jack’s, but softer around the edges. Kind. Nervous.

And maybe a little unsure of where to put all the weight he’d been carrying.

Jack noticed something else, something quieter that had crept in over the last couple of years. Used to be, Bobby’s stories were filled with girls, casual names dropped over dinner, that teasing glint in his eye whenever he mentioned who’d passed him a note or smiled at him from across the cafeteria. Jack never kept track of the names. Never had to. The rhythm was what mattered: Bobby, excited, proud, figuring himself out one shy smile at a time.

But that had changed.

These days, it was always about the boys on the rodeo team, who rode what, who got bucked off, who talked shit in the locker room. It was about his buddies, about who he was getting in trouble with for talking too much in class, who Coach chewed out for skipping practice, about the kind of nonsense teenage boys got up to when they thought nobody was watching. It wasn’t that the stories were different so much as what had gone missing from them. The girls. The casual flirtations. The awkward boasts about homecoming dances or who passed who a folded note in math class. All of it gone, like it had been swept under the rug before either of them could say a word about it. He wasn’t blind, and he sure as hell wasn’t stupid. He’d seen the way Bobby’s voice softened when he talked about one boy in particular, Cody, wasn’t it? 

That name came up more than any other. Always nestled into the middle of a sentence, never emphasized, never pointed at directly, but always there. Cody bet me I wouldn’t ride that bull. Cody and I stayed after to help Coach load gear. Cody said this. Cody bet me he could ride longer. Me and Cody were at practice early. Cody and I, Cody and I, always in the same breath, like their names came as a pair. Like Bobby didn’t quite realize how often he was saying it. Or maybe he did.

Jack recognized it because he’d done the same thing once, long ago. Spoken another man’s name more often than he meant to. Thought about him in quiet spaces between chores. Looked for excuses to bring him up without bringing too much attention to it. It was all there in Bobby, the care, the caution, the confusion. He’d seen that look, too, the one Bobby got when someone mentioned Cody and he thought no one was paying attention. The way his voice softened. The way his eyes flickered away. Jack had caught glimpses of it before in mirrors, and once in another man’s face beneath the summer sky, up on a mountain where the world had briefly felt wide enough to hold it.

But Jack didn’t press. He never had, and he sure wasn’t about to start now. He’d seen enough, heard it in the shift of Bobby’s voice, caught it in the way he never quite said what he meant but always said just enough. Jack knew the terrain of silence like the back of his hand, knew how some truths sat heavy on the tongue, waiting for the right moment, the right person, the right kind of quiet to be spoken into. And if that moment never came, well... that was alright too. Some things didn’t need to be said to be understood.

He let the moment sit for a beat before nudging the conversation forward, casual as you please. “You still got that buddy from the team?” Jack asked, shifting a little against the pillows. “The one with the big ol’ belt buckle. Cody, wasn’t it?”

Bobby glanced over, his eyes narrowing in faint surprise, like he hadn’t expected Jack to remember the name. “Yeah,” he said, blinking once. “He’s still around.”

Jack nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Y’all still talkin’ too much in class?”

That earned another grin, softer this time. “Yeah,” Bobby admitted, “Coach made us run laps last week instead of practice. Said if we had enough breath to jaw at each other, we had enough to run.”

Jack laughed, a rough, short sound that twisted a pull through his ribs and made him wince, though he didn’t regret it. “Sounds like you deserved it.”

Bobby shrugged, but there was a flicker of pride beneath the motion, something warm tucked in around the edges of his grin. “Probably,” Bobby said. “We can’t help it, though. Cody’s got this way of gettin’ me goin’, talkin’ ‘bout nothin’. We’ll be jawin’ and carryin’ on and suddenly practice is over and Coach is red in the face.” He let out a soft laugh, like just talking about it brought the scene back clear as day, “Don’t even notice how much time’s gone.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow, like he wasn’t digging for anything beneath the surface. “That right? Cody the one always stirrin’ it up then?”

Bobby let out a quiet snort, fingers sliding back through his hair like he was trying to deflect the attention without outright dodging the question. “Nah,” he muttered, not quite meeting Jack’s eyes. “We trade off, I think. He starts it plenty, but I’m the one who don’t know when to quit. Coach says we’re like matchsticks, one of us lights, the other don’t wait to burn.”

Jack chuckled, shaking his head. “Ain’t news to me. You’ve never been known for bein’ quiet, that’s for damn sure.” He could still picture the stack of teacher notes from when Bobby was younger, all written in the same weary script: Disrupts class. Talks too much. Needs to focus. He remembered the way they all said it with that same forced smile at conferences, your boy’s got a good heart, Mr. Twist, but he sure does love to talk. Jack had sat through it all, nodding, biting the inside of his cheek, knowing full well that Bobby’s mind just worked different. Faster in some ways, sideways in others. Smart as hell, even if the words on the page didn’t always land where they should. He let the thought sit before nudging the conversation forward. “How’s the readin’ been?” Jack asked, softening his tone. “That teacher still helpin’ you?”

Bobby nodded, a little more sure of himself now. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t need her as much anymore. Not like back in elementary when I couldn’t hardly make it through a sentence without mixin’ everythin’ up.” He picked at a loose thread on his jeans, thoughtful. “She still checks in, though. She’s been showin’ me how to use this method, Orton somethin’, I forget. Lotta rules and steps, but it makes stuff click better in my head.”

Jack raised his eyebrows, impressed. “That so?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, this time with a note of pride he didn’t try to hide. “Still gotta slow down sometimes. Still mix up my b’s and d’s when I’m tired. But it’s different now. Like… I can work through it instead of just feelin’ dumb all the time.”

Jack let the pride show, not in his voice, but in the warmth that lingered in his gaze. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with takin’ your time,” he said. “Just means you’re makin’ sure you’re gettin’ it right.”

Bobby’s mouth twitched into a crooked grin. “Coach says I don’t do anythin’ fast ‘cept run my mouth.”

Jack laughed, rough and warm. “Coach sounds like he’s got you figured out.”

Bobby smiled at the remark, that easy, lopsided grin Jack had known since he was small. But then his gaze drifted over to the wall clock near the door, and the grin faltered. His eyes widened slightly as he straightened, patting at his pockets like he’d just remembered he was late for something important.

“Sh—I mean, shoot,” he muttered, catching himself mid-slip, a breath of frustration puffing out, “I, uh… I told Cody I’d meet him at his place ‘round five. Was gonna help him fix the fence out back, his dad’s been on him about it.” He stood up halfway, glancing toward the hallway like he was already planning his path to the payphone. “I can call him, though. Tell him I can’t make it. Won’t take a second.”

Jack lifted a hand, “No, it’s alright, son. Don’t worry about that.” He nodded toward the door. “You go on. He’s expectin’ you.”

Bobby paused, one thumb hooking into his belt loop, the other hand hovering near his side like he wasn’t sure whether to sit back down or make a break for it. “You sure?” he asked, quiet, searching Jack’s face for any sign he might need him to stay.

Jack gave a soft huff through his nose, head pressing a little deeper into the pillows behind him. “Ain’t like I’m goin’ anywhere. You just come on back tomorrow, yeah?”

That did it. Bobby’s whole face lit up again, relief blooming bright behind his eyes. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I swear it, Dad.” he said, already stepping in, reaching for a hug. He tried to be careful, arms gentler than usual, but Bobby had never been much good at doing anything halfway. He squeezed Jack tight, enough to make his breath hitch, though Jack didn’t say a word about it.

Jack grunted, wrapping an arm loosely around Bobby’s back, “You better. Tell Cody I said hi now, you hear?”

Bobby grinned as he backed toward the door, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, the energy rolling off him like it had nowhere else to go. “I will. Love you, Dad. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Jack watched him go, the echo of boots down the hall lingering in the quiet that followed. And even after the door swung shut, he found himself smiling at the empty space, warmed by it.

❖

Physical therapy was a bitch. There was no polite way around it, no soft language that could dress it up as anything but what it was: slow, grueling, humiliating. Some days, Jack sat on the edge of the padded table, sweat slicking the back of his neck, staring at the parallel bars like they were the gallows. He’d spent hours just learning how to shift weight, how to brace himself, how to lift a foot that barely remembered what moving felt like. His shoulders ached constantly, his hands shook from the strain, and the strain of just holding himself upright sometimes left him so dizzy he had to lie down before he puked.

There were mornings he didn’t even try to get out of bed. Not right away. He’d wake before the alarm, flat on his back, already exhausted, already hurting. There was always some new ache, some dull throb or sharp sting, radiating from places he could barely feel the day before. Some mornings, he didn’t even feel like he had a body from the waist down, just dead space where everything used to be. The thought of going back into that therapy room, of pushing himself to crawl and heave and sweat for an inch of progress, made his chest tighten. And what was the point, really?

The doctors had been cagey from the start, circling the word maybe like it was some kind of comfort. Maybe you’ll get stronger. Maybe the nerves’ll wake back up. Maybe you'll walk again, someday. And maybe the sky would open up and drop down everything he ever wanted. Jack wasn’t dumb. He knew a soft no when he heard one.

The worst of it wasn’t even the pain. It was the fear that lingered in the quiet moments, fear that this was it, that the rest of his life would be spent looking up instead of riding tall. That he'd be dependent. A burden. Less than what he used to be.

But then L.D. Newsome opened his goddamn mouth.

L.D. hadn’t visited the hospital once, but the first week Jack was home, there he was, darkening the doorstep like bad weather rolling in. Came with that fake look of concern, hat in hand, talking like he gave a damn. Jack had barely managed to pull himself upright on the couch, cane shaking in his grip, when L.D. let the words fly, casual, like he wasn’t driving a knife straight between Jack’s ribs.

“Reckon you won’t be back on your feet again,” he’d said, cool as a man commenting on the weather. “Might be time you started figurin’ out what kind of man you’re gonna be now.”

Jack clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached for hours afterward. It wasn’t that L.D. was wrong. Jack had been living with that truth gnawing at his ribs since the night he woke up in the hospital, staring at a white ceiling, legs half-dead beneath the sheets. He knew he was broken. Knew the road ahead would be long and cruel and nothing like the life he’d built before. 

But what twisted the knife was how much L.D. enjoyed saying it. Jack saw it plain as day, the faint curl of his mouth, the glint in his eye like a man savoring his own cruelty. He was already rewriting the family narrative in his head: poor Lureen, shackled to a broken husband; poor Bobby, weighed down by a father who couldn’t stand tall anymore. My crippled son-in-law. The queer. A mistake better left behind.

So Jack pushed.

He dragged himself through every exercise they gave him, forcing his body to obey when it wanted nothing more than to quit. He shoved past the pain, past the shaking and the dizziness and the humbling shame of needing help just to stand. Every wobbly step between the parallel bars, every awkward transfer from chair to bed, every bead of sweat that stung his eyes was another middle finger raised in L.D. Newsome’s direction. 

Not because Jack was desperate for approval. He’d stopped caring about that a long time ago. No, this was different. This was spite. Pure and clean, burning through his veins hotter than any painkiller. He didn’t give a damn about proving himself to anyone but himself, and in some part of his chest, he wanted to see the day L.D. had to eat his own words.

At the end of the day, it was Jack who got the last laugh.

L.D. Newsome, the self-proclaimed king of Childress, dropped dead from a stroke the week before Christmas. Talk about timing. Jack could’ve sworn he felt the whole town breathe a little easier that day, though most folks were too polite to admit it. But Jack? Hell, he figured it was the best Christmas gift he was ever gonna get. No bows, no wrapping paper, just a world a little less poisoned by that man’s voice.

Jack stood beside Lureen near the front of the crowd, his coat tugged tight against the December wind. Lureen clutched Bobby’s hand so tight her knuckles went white, her other hand clenched around a folded tissue she hadn’t used. Bobby stood stiff between them, his expression was an unmistakable mix of discomfort, boredom, and the weight of being dragged out here to play the part of the grieving grandson, eyes darting anywhere but the casket. No teenage boy wanted to spend the day before Christmas Eve shivering in a churchyard listening to strangers pretend they gave a damn about a man who’d never done a kind thing without a tax write-off attached. 

The funeral was exactly what Jack expected, loud, gaudy, overstuffed with every goddamn person in Childress who ever shook L.D.’s hand came, wearing their Sunday best like peacocks strutting through a graveyard. Big hats, fur coats, polished boots that had never seen a lick of dust. Because of course a funeral, L.D. Newsome’s funeral, no less, wasn’t really about grief. It was about spectacle. About showing the town how much legacy, power, and wealth the Newsomes had stacked up, even in death.

The ladies from the First Baptist Church were out in full force, patting Lureen’s shoulders and squeezing her hands, all while casting quick glances at Jack like they were waiting to see if he’d crack, if the queer son-in-law had the decency to behave himself today. “Oh, Lureen, he was such a pillar of this community,” they cooed, like reading off a script. “Such a strong man of faith. So generous with his time and money.”

The preacher droned on from the pulpit set up beside the casket, voice rising and falling in practiced rhythm, as if reading from the same script he used for every rich man’s funeral. He spoke about how L.D. had been a pillar of the community. A dedicated husband. A God-fearing man. A leader in local business. A supporter of youth sports. A loving patriarch. Jack had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The words were so far removed from the man he’d known that it felt like a parody, a bad joke no one else had the nerve to call out. Jack could hardly believe it. No one in that crowd had seen the man behind closed doors. They hadn’t watched L.D. tear down his own daughter with a few choice words, hadn’t heard the hiss of disappointment in his voice when he talked about Bobby, hadn’t felt the quiet violence in his silence Jack stood there, cold to the bone, biting back a bitter laugh that threatened to spill right out into the silence between prayers.

If hell existed, Jack figured it’d be having to sit through this bullshit on repeat for eternity.

Jack lingered long after the others had scattered, splitting off in neat little pairs, making their way back toward the church hall where casseroles waited alongside weak coffee and whispered gossip. He could already picture it, hushed voices behind covered mouths, speculating about who got the most money, who’d inherit the business, and who was going to step up now that the king was gone. Hell, they probably didn’t even make it to the dessert table before someone said Jack’s name in that sharp way, the kind of tone people saved for things they didn’t understand.

He stayed because some part of him still didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust the finality of that polished wood casket, or the hollow thud of earth hitting the lid. Didn’t trust that after all these years, after all the damage and poison and goddamn bile that man had poured into his life, this was really it. He needed to see it with his own two eyes, the moment L.D. Newsome went into the ground and stayed there.

 Jack stood at the edge of it all, leaning heavier than he liked on his cane as the chill cut straight through his jeans and gnawed at his bad leg. It throbbed deep, each gust of wind biting sharper than the last, but he didn’t move. He’d pay for it tomorrow, no doubt. He’d feel it in his hips, his back, the base of his spine where the nerves still sparked and fizzled.

But hell if it wasn’t worth it.

Worth it to see the ground swallow that son of a bitch whole. Worth it to watch the last chapter of L.D. Newsome’s story close without fanfare, without a second chance to drag anyone else down with him.

But that wasn’t the part that made it worth it. The real prize came after.

Jack tightened his grip on the cane, eyes scanning the clearing as the last of the mourners disappeared into the building behind him. When he was sure he was alone, just him, the dirt, and the wind, he let the cane drop gently against the bench behind him. His fingers uncurled from the handle, stiff but determined. He straightened up slowly, breath catching in his throat as his spine protested, as his knee wobbled beneath him. But he held. One foot in front of the other. And he walked. No cane. No help. No audience.

Just Jack, limping on pure willpower, right up to the edge of L.D.’s grave. The soil was fresh and dark, clumped unevenly beside the open grave. The headstone wasn’t carved yet, just a cheap wooden marker stuck into the dirt like an afterthought, but it didn’t matter. Jack knew who was buried there. He stood at the edge for a long moment, chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm, the kind of breathing he used to do before mounting a bull. He felt the cold in his joints, the strain in every muscle that hadn’t healed right, the sharp stab of every memory that man had ever put into his bones.

Then he spat. Right into the dirt. It hit with a wet splatter, soaking into the soil like a final word. Jack didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The silence around him said enough. Wind in the trees. The hollow whistle of December air curling through the cemetery. And beneath his breath, a low, near-silent laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. 

Oh yeah. Jack Twist got the last laugh. And Christ, what a good laugh it was.

❖

Maybe the only thing that made sharing a roof with his soon-to-be ex-wife bearable was the way Ennis had started calling more. Jack hadn’t expected that. Hell, he hadn’t expected much of anything after Ennis drove away from the hospital that August afternoon, the engine fading down the long Texas highway until Jack was left staring at an empty doorway and wondering if that was the last time he’d see him. He figured Ennis would get halfway back to Wyoming, let the miles roll under his tires like a rug sweeping it all away, and by the time he crossed the state line, Jack Twist and all his foolish talk of Colorado and ranches and starting over would be little more than road dust in the rearview mirror. Just another one of Jack’s worn-out pipe dreams, left bleeding out on the side of the road. Just like Jack himself.

But then the phone rang. And kept ringing.

The first time it happened, Jack nearly dropped the damn receiver.

He’d been at the kitchen table, leg stretched out across an extra chair. The room was quiet, too quiet, papers from the divorce laid scattered across the table, dotted with crossed-out names and half-signed lines. Jack hadn’t realized how tightly he was gripping his pen until the shrill ring of the phone split through the stillness and made him jump. He grabbed for it without thinking, his heart already bracing for bad news. Maybe the lawyer again, asking about signatures. Maybe the doctor with another update he didn’t want. Hell, maybe his mother calling from Lightning Flat.

What came through the line was rough, familiar, and unmistakably Ennis.

“Hey,” Ennis said. “You get through today alright?”

No buildup. No hesitation. Just that soft, steady voice, checking in like it was something he’d done a hundred times before. Like they hadn’t spent decades learning how not to talk.

And the calls kept coming.

Almost every evening, right as the sun dipped over the rooftops and the house sank into its usual hush. Lureen would be in the other room, flipping through accounting ledgers or folding laundry with mechanical precision, and Bobby upstairs with his music turned up just loud enough to drown out the quiet. And Jack would catch himself watching the clock on the mantel, listening for the first ring like a man waiting on salvation.

Sometimes Ennis would ask the practical things, how therapy went, how the leg was holding up, how Bobby was doing with school, or if the Texas heat had finally given way to something bearable. Other times, they didn’t talk about much at all. Just the easy rise and fall of breath on the other end, a soft hum of company in a life that had grown too quiet. Sometimes that was enough.

But what caught Jack off guard wasn’t the check-ins. It wasn’t the concern. He figured maybe, deep down, Ennis had always cared in his own backhanded way. No, what surprised him was how Ennis stayed on the line. How, after those first cautious minutes, he’d start talking. That he let the conversations stretch beyond the bare necessities. He’d start talking about his day, about fence lines and stubborn cattle, About Junior being headstrong, and Jenny learning to drive, and how the nights up in Riverton were starting to get cold enough to see your breath. Little pieces of his day, offered up like they meant nothing, but Jack knew better.

Because Ennis Del Mar was a lot of things.

Quiet. Cautious. Hard-edged in the places where life had worn him thin. Loyal as hell, but stubborn enough to make a man pull his hair out. But a talker? Jack wouldn’t have bet a single dime on that in twenty years. And yet there he was, calling near every night. Just to hear Jack’s voice. Just to remind him that somewhere out there, beyond all this mess, someone still gave a damn whether he woke up tomorrow.

Jack rested his head against the kitchen wall some nights, phone cradled to his ear, listening to the steady rhythm of Ennis's voice and wondering how the hell this man still found ways to surprise him after all these years.

When Jack wasn’t on the phone with Ennis or signing his name on yet another sheet of legal paper, he was doing a whole lot of nothing. Not the kind of nothing that felt restful, either, this wasn’t lazy Sunday morning nothing, or a well-earned break after a long day’s work. This was the kind of nothing that pressed down on his chest like a weight. That filled up the hours until they started to feel endless.

He wasn’t used to stillness. Not like this.

All his life, Jack had moved. He’d worked cattle under burning sun and pouring rain, drove across counties for rodeos with barely enough gas to get back, always had his hands on something, reins, rope, a wrench under the hood of a busted pickup. His body had always known motion. He didn’t know how to sit still without itching for the next thing. But now, the injury had stripped that all away. Even walking was a goddamn challenge most days, every step a reminder of what had been taken. The ache in his back and down through his hip had a way of turning even the smallest movement into a whole operation.

And it gnawed at him.

Not just the pain, he could handle pain. But the helplessness. The uselessness. That was what got to him. That was the part that made his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists when no one was looking.

Sometimes, he’d catch himself staring at Bobby across the room. The boy would be mid-sentence, talking a mile a minute about something half-connected to school or rodeo or who’d said what in the locker room. Most of it was nonsense, but Jack listened anyway. He always had. Bobby had that same restless streak Jack did, that same way of thinking sideways, and it warmed Jack’s chest just hearing the rhythm of his voice.

He remembered chasing that same boy around the yard barefoot in the summertime, Bobby shrieking with laughter as Jack tried to scoop him up before he made it to the porch. He remembered hauling him onto his shoulders at dusty state fairs when Bobby’s legs gave out, how he’d carry him through the crowds with sticky hands clinging to his hair, a half-eaten cotton candy in one fist. He remembered the smell of hot dirt and livestock, the sound of announcers over PA systems calling out the next rider. 

He’d gone to every single one of Bobby’s meets. Drove through rain, snow, hell and high water just to watch him ride. And now, Jack sat in the kitchen, leg throbbing beneath the table, while his son grabbed his gear bag and headed out the front door without him. Had to sit there, leg throbbing, and pretend like he wasn’t praying under his breath the whole time. Praying that nothing went wrong. That Bobby didn’t get thrown, didn’t get hurt, didn’t need him, because Jack couldn’t go. Couldn’t follow.

And maybe what clung to him worse than the pain or the uselessness, that crawling, bitter feeling that wrapped itself around his ribs like a too-tight band, were the nightmares.

He’d had nightmares before. Hell, who hadn’t? Fear had always known his name. He’d dreamed of losing Bobby, of falling off bulls, of Ennis walking away and never coming back. But those dreams had always felt distant, warped by the mind in the middle of the night

But these dreams never felt distance. It felt like the past come crawling out of the grave to spit in his face and remind him he’d never be what he used to be. No, these dreams were closer. Clearer. They bled into the waking hours, and sometimes Jack wasn’t even sure he’d been asleep at all.

Every night, it was the same: the roadside, the flat tire, the sky bruised with twilight. Jack alone, crouched next to his truck with a wrench in one hand and frustration rising in his chest. He remembered the gritty rasp of metal against metal, the lug nuts refusing to budge, the sticky heat clinging to his skin. Just a flat. That’s all it was. Something he could’ve fixed in his sleep on any other day.

And then, footsteps.

He could still hear them, light at first, scuffing gravel, then quicker, urgent. Laughter, close behind. It didn’t make sense, not at first. He looked up, squinting into the dim, and saw shadows coming toward him, too fast, too loose in their movements. And that sound, that awful, mocking snicker, carried on the breeze like it had been waiting for him.

He didn’t have time to ask why. Why him, why now, what had given him away. His boots? His voice? The way he’d smiled at the gas station attendant that morning?

He felt the first hit before he even saw it. The tire iron came down fast, caught him across the back, and knocked the breath from his lungs in one sharp burst. He dropped hard, knees hitting the dirt, hands skidding across gravel. He tried to cry out, but his breath was already gone, sucked clean out of him like the world didn’t want him speaking.

The second blow hit his ribs. The third caught his shoulder. By the fourth, he wasn’t counting anymore. His body curled in on itself, trying to shield what it could, but it was no use. The iron came again and again, each strike a little louder than the last. He could hear his own bones cracking, the thud of flesh meeting steel, the sound of his jaw giving way as his face slammed into the ground.

But worse than the pain were the voices. They echoed around him, cutting through the dark like headlights on high beam.

“Fucking queer.”

“Sick little faggot.”

“Ain’t so pretty now, are you?”

Jack heard them as clearly as he’d heard the tire iron crack bone. The words cut sharper than the blows. Those slurs, they weren’t just insults. They were declarations. Condemnations. Spoken with glee, like each syllable gave the men swinging fists a little more strength. Jack had always hated that word, queer, the way it rolled off their tongues like poison. But faggot? That landed like a slap to the face. That one hit somewhere deeper. They said it like it was the root of all things wrong with the world. As if Jack’s existence, his voice, his smile, the way he stood a little softer than he should’ve, that was enough to warrant this.

And the tire iron. Christ, he could still feel it. Still hear it.

He heard the crack before he felt it, bone snapping like brittle wood. His jaw slammed sideways, teeth cutting into the inside of his cheek. Blood filled his mouth, running down his chin and soaking into the ground beneath him. His vision swam, breath coming in ragged, useless gasps. It was like trying to breathe underwater. Every inhale was too shallow. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Panic clawed at the inside of his chest, and he tried to move, tried to crawl, but nothing answered. Not his legs. Not his arms. He was trapped in his own skin, drowning in blood.

And still they laughed.

The sound of their boots faded eventually, but the laughter stayed, rattling around in his skull long after the dream had ended. He lay there in the grass, watching the sky blur and spin, stars melting into one another. The cold crept in from the earth beneath him and wrapped around his spine. Somewhere, through the haze of pain and breathlessness, he thought of Bobby. His boy. God, his boy.

And then he thought of Ennis.

He wanted to cry. To scream. To beg someone to find him. But more than anything, he wanted Ennis. Ennis, the one person who might’ve been able to make it all make sense. And then, just as quick, he hated himself for that.

Because even as he lay there, dying in a ditch, Jack couldn’t stop reaching for a man who had spent half their lives warning him not to reach at all.

Hadn’t he always said it? We can’t be seen. We can’t get caught. Hadn’t he pulled away, time after time, afraid of exactly this? And Jack, fool that he was, had wanted too much anyway. He always did. He pushed. He hoped. He dreamed when the world told him not to. Now, here he was. Left to bleed in a ditch like roadkill.

Why would Ennis come for him now? Why would he ride in to save him, after everything? Jack had been warned. The danger was never abstract. Ennis had lived with that fear coiled in his gut since they were nineteen. And now Jack understood it. Maybe this was the price. And maybe Ennis had been right all along. 

He often woke drenched in sweat, chest heaving like he’d just run a mile, sheets tangled around his legs, heart hammering against his ribs as if it were trying to punch its way out. It always took a minute to come back to himself. To remember where he was. To realize there was no blood in his mouth, no tire iron raised above him, no laughter echoing across the roadside. Just the hum of the house. The tick of the clock in the hallway. The soft whir of the ceiling fan overhead. His hands would tremble as they reached up to wipe at his face, his jaw aching from how hard he’d clenched it in his sleep. Sometimes he bit his tongue. Sometimes he woke up tasting blood.

But then he’d breathe through it. Sit up slowly, rub his eyes, and remind himself: Ennis hadn’t been right. Not about all of it.

Sure, the dreaming had been foolish for a long time. Years spent wishing on things he had no right to want. All that hoping, all that pleading, it had felt like yelling into an empty canyon more times than not. But then something changed. Ennis had changed. After everything, the hospital, the long silences, the hurt they’d carried like extra weight, he’d started showing up. Calling. Staying. Trying.

One day, that side of the bed wouldn’t be empty. One day, Jack would roll over and see Ennis there, asleep on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the morning light. One day, there’d be two coffee mugs on the counter, two pairs of boots by the door, two toothbrushes in the cup by the sink. One day, he’d never have to watch him leave again.

And maybe, just maybe, all the pain, the scars, maybe it was worth it. Because if it led him here… to a future where he didn’t have to go without Ennis Del Mar ever again…

Then maybe, for the first time in his whole goddamn life, Jack Twist had won.

Chapter Text

Every moment apart from Jack stretched out endlessly, like a two-lane highway winding through the foothills with no sign of cresting, no end in sight, just mile after mile of empty road. But Ennis supposed that wasn’t anything new. That emptiness had been the backdrop of his life for twenty years, filling the spaces between their stolen weekends and shadowed motel rooms. Time had always passed slowly when Jack wasn’t around, like trudging knee-deep through molasses, but now it felt different. Worse, in some strange way. Like time had slowed to a crawl not because he didn’t know when he’d see Jack again, but because he did. Because this time, the wait wasn’t indefinite. This was the last time they’d have to be apart. The last stretch of distance before Jack was his.  No more hiding, no more pretending. That truth was a comfort, but it made the waiting damn near unbearable.

The only thing that cut through the monotony of his days were the phone calls. Ennis had started treating them like little finish lines, something to look forward to after a long day’s work. He’d throw himself into whatever the boss handed out, fence repair, hay baling, post-hole digging, anything that kept his hands busy and his head quiet. Ten-hour days were normal. Twelve, even better. The more tired he was by sundown, the less time his mind had to wander toward the ache in his chest.

He always made the call after work, once the sun had dipped behind the hills and the light started fading. He’d drive out to the Sinclair station on the edge of town, shoulders aching from whatever job had eaten up the day. The phone booth sat off to the side, glass smudged and the floor littered with old receipts and gum wrappers. Inside, it was always warmer than outside, the air heavy with the leftover heat from August dragging its feet into September. Still, Ennis would step in, shut the door behind him, and pull a few quarters from the pocket of his jeans. Then he’d pick up the receiver, press the familiar buttons with the pads of his fingers, and wait for Jack’s voice to come through the line.

It was strange, getting used to calling Jack so often. For most of their lives, they’d barely spoken on the phone at all. Two calls in sixteen years, and both of them had been damn near unbearable. Now, he was hearing Jack’s voice every day, and somehow it didn’t feel strange at all. Like this was the way it should’ve been all along, if things had gone different. If he’d been braver.

Ennis didn’t let himself think too long about that.

Because the thing was, each time Jack answered, it chipped away at the years they’d lost. At the distance. At the fear. Hearing his voice, even just for a few minutes, made everything else fall away. Jack could be talking about anything, what he ate for dinner, what the weather was like down in Childress, how Bobby was doing in school. Didn’t matter. Ennis hung on every word like it might fall through the line if he wasn’t careful. As long as the quarters held out, Ennis stayed on the line. And when they finally ran out, when the call cut off with that soft click, Ennis always hung up slowly, like maybe if he waited just a second longer, he could pull Jack back through the wire.

Afterward, he’d climb back into his old truck, engine groaning like it shared his exhaustion, and drive the long way home. Just to kill a little more time. Then it was the usual: crack open a beer, maybe two, maybe five, and sit in the dim light of the trailer until sleep took him. Most nights he passed out on the couch, mind swimming with whatever scraps of Jack he’d managed to hold onto. And every now and then, sleep would bring him something close to peace. Dreams of Jack, laughing, younger, the way he’d looked back on Brokeback, grinning beneath that beat-up hat, firelight dancing in his eyes. Dreams where they were still up in the mountains with no one around, where the world didn’t matter and everything they wanted was just within reach.

They never lasted long. But Ennis clung to those dreams anyway. Because until he could hold Jack again for real, until that next drive south took him someplace permanent, those pieces were all he had. And for now, they’d have to do.

And sometimes, on days like today, life had a way of throwing a wrench straight into Ennis’s careful routine. It wasn’t often he let anything shake up the rhythm he’d carved out for himself, but trouble always had a habit of finding him when he least wanted it. He’d only meant to swing by Stoutamire’s office, grab his paycheck, and be on his way. Child support didn’t pay itself, after all, and Ennis wasn’t about to give Alma any more reason to run her mouth. The sooner he got that envelope of cash in hand, the sooner he could head down to the Sinclair station, make his call to Jack, and salvage what was left of the day.

Ennis kept his head down, fingers thumbing through the bills that made up his week’s pay, already mentally dividing it between child support, gas money, and whatever was left for beer and smokes. He barely registered the creak of the old chair behind the desk until a voice, rough as gravel, cut through the quiet.

“Del Mar.”

The sound of his name made Ennis glance up sharply. Stoutamire was staring at him over the rim of his wire-framed glasses, eyes narrowed in that way that always made Ennis feel like he was a kid again and about to get chewed out for something he didn’t remember doing.

“Yes, sir?” Ennis asked, already bracing for whatever bad news was coming his way.

The foreman didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He looked about as pleased as someone who’d just bitten into a rotten apple. “Your girlfriend called again.”

For a second, Ennis just stood there, blinking like he’d misheard. His brows knit together, confusion twisting his face up like someone had just told him winter was coming in July. Girlfriend? The word didn’t sit right, didn’t fit anywhere in his life. He didn’t have a girlfriend, hadn’t in a long while. Who the hell was calling up to his work and pretending otherwise? Maybe it was Junior or Jenny, Lord knew Stoutamire wasn’t exactly sharp when it came to personal details. He could’ve mistaken his daughters for some mystery woman easy enough.

But then Stoutamire squinted, waving a dismissive hand like he was swatting at a fly. “Carly... or Callie... somethin’ like that. No, wait—Cassie.”

Ennis’s stomach dropped.

Shit.

Cassie. How the hell had he forgotten about her? The waitress from the Riverton bar, the one he’d seen off and on, never serious, never promising anything. She’d been easy company, someone to pass the time with when the nights got too quiet and the bottle wasn’t enough to drown out the loneliness. He’d told himself it was nothing, just a way to keep from going crazy in that empty trailer. But clearly, Cassie hadn’t seen it the same way.

Stoutamire didn’t seem to care about the look on Ennis’s face. He just grunted, scribbled something onto a ledger, and went back to pretending Ennis wasn’t standing there like a man who’d just remembered he left the stove on back home.

Ennis shifted uncomfortably, running a hand down his face. He could already hear Cassie’s voice in his head, that mix of frustration and concern she always carried when it came to him. He hadn’t meant to ignore her, hell, he hadn’t meant to think about much of anything outside of Jack these past few weeks, but now it was catching up to him. And he sure as hell didn’t have an easy answer for where he’d been or why he hadn’t called.

With a quiet sigh, Ennis tipped his hat lower over his brow, muttering a gruff, “Thanks,” before turning on his heel and heading for the door. 

There went his damn phone call to Jack. Ennis was about to say Cassie be damned and let her figure it out herself, but where had all those years holding back his true feelings for Jack gotten him? Where had all the years being quiet gotten him? Nowhere good that was for sure. With a sigh, Ennis popped open the door to his truck and hopped up into the bench seat. He would call Cassie tonight and get things straight. Althought that wasn’t as simple as he thought.

Ennis Del Mar was no stranger to forgetting things. He forgot to fix the leaky faucet in his trailer more times than he could count. He forgot where he’d left his lighter at least twice a day. Hell, sometimes he even forgot to eat if work ran him hard enough. But one thing he conveniently managed to forget, until it was far too late, was just how much Cassie Cartwright loved to talk.

The woman could run her mouth from sundown to sunup without so much as a pause to breathe. And now, thanks to that long-winded call spent awkwardly nodding along to stories he barely followed and apologies he couldn’t quite make sound convincing, he was standing outside the Sinclair station with no quarters left jingling in his pocket, no Jack on the line, and a date set for later tonight at the Wolf Ears bar over in Signal. 

❖

Ennis made it to the bar later that night, the overhead lights were half-burned out and cast a yellowish haze across the room. The joint was never anything fancy, just a ramshackle building with a neon sign that buzzed and flickered, walls decorated with half-faded rodeo posters, and a jukebox that whined old country ballads through tinny speakers. The chairs were rickety and mismatched, scarred with cigarette burns and gouges left by restless patrons, and the bar top itself looked like it might cave in if someone leaned too hard.

Ennis had dragged a chair up to a small table in a quiet corner, one that wobbled slightly whenever he shifted his weight. His fingers curled around a Budweiser bottle, the condensation beading on the glass and running down over his knuckles. A faint trail of watery rings marked where he’d set it down repeatedly, never settling long enough to let it grow warm. He stared at the scratched-up surface for a moment, feeling each scuff and burn mark under his fingertips, mind drifting a thousand miles away. He’d agreed to meet Cassie here tonight, though even now, as he glanced toward the neon-lit bar clock for the fifth or sixth time, he still wasn’t exactly sure why he’d said yes. Guilt, maybe. Or obligation. Hell, maybe it was just because he was tired of ducking behind buildings when he saw her on the street, tired of the notes she slipped under his trailer door, written in hopeful letters.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that Cassie was supposed to be done soon, it was her shift, after all, but Ennis had been too preoccupied thinking about Jack Twist to pay much attention to other folks’ schedules. Hadn’t that always been the case? Ever since he was nineteen, hunched over a campfire with Jack on Brokeback Mountain, Ennis’s mind had always circled back to Jack in its idle moments, never fully at rest when they were apart.

He took a pull of the beer and released a low sigh. The truth of it was, he didn’t even want to be here. He could’ve been laid out on the creaky mattress, hand shoved down the front of his jeans, chasing something warmer than the chill creeping through the thin walls. Could’ve closed his eyes and let the memories play like a reel behind his eyelids, Jack’s laugh, breathless, the way he used to tilt his head back when he really got going, or the drawled “fuck” he’d let out when Ennis had him right on the edge. Instead, he was sitting in a grimy bar, wondering how to have a conversation he didn’t want to have with a woman he didn’t love.

As though summoned by his doubt, Cassie’s voice rang out across the floor. “Ennis!” she called, her tone high and eager, cutting through the half-drunk murmurs of the other patrons. Glass of white wine in hand, Cassie hustled over, blond curls bouncing around her cheeks.

Ennis watched her sit down with a bright smile that felt too big for this dim place. She leaned forward, hips pressing against the edge of the worn table, and shot him a look that might’ve once made him blush, back before he’d realized just how impossible normalcy was for him.

“Hey, cowboy.”

The word dropped between them like a stone into a still pond, sending a ripple of discomfort through Ennis’s chest. He tried not to let the grimace show on his face. Cowboy. That was Jack’s word, always had been. It riled him something fierce to hear it tumble out of Cassie’s mouth, soft and teasing. He couldn’t begin to explain why, so he just nodded stiffly, eyes sliding away from hers.

“Hey,” 

He couldn’t imagine calling Cassie anything affectionate, darlin’, honey, sweetheart. Those were words he saved for his daughters, or for Jack on those occasions when the sentiment rose up so strong he couldn’t swallow it back. Even his horses sometimes got more sweetness from him than Cassie ever would. And yet, here she was, looking at him with bright eyes, too much hope brimming in them. She’d never really understood he was a dead-end street. She kept chasing a possibility that didn’t exist.

A bitter thought curled at the edges of Ennis’s mind: the knowledge that Jack had tried to fill his own void, too. He’d admitted to finding comfort elsewhere in those years when Ennis was too afraid to come around, too buried in his own fear of the world’s reaction. Jack had confessed to nights in Mexico, to messing around with a ranch foreman. And as much as Ennis wished he could be angry at Jack, he couldn’t be, not really. He knew what that ache felt like, that desperate need to fill an empty space. Even though Ennis still couldn’t stand imagining another man’s voice calling Jack darlin’, couldn’t stomach the thought of someone else’s hands roaming where only his had any right to go.

He swallowed, taking another pull of the Budweiser to quench the dryness in his throat. Cassie started talking about her day, about customers at the bar, about the slow winter season, but Ennis barely heard. His focus kept sliding away, back to the memory of Jack’s grin, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the sound of his voice that could cut through all of Ennis’s walls in a single breath. There was no one else on earth for Ennis but Jack Twist. He’d known it deep down all along, but half his life he’d spent fighting it, or trying to keep it neatly tucked away in the shadows. Now, he was too tired to pretend any different.

Cassie’s voice slipped into a lull, and Ennis realized she was waiting for some kind of response. He blinked, feeling the weight of her gaze on him. Guilt tugged at him, not because he’d done anything wrong by her in particular, but because he couldn’t give her whatever it was she was searching for. She was chasing a dream he’d never made real promises about, all because he was too polite, or too chickenshit, to tell her outright there is no future here.

She lifted her glass of wine, took a cautious sip, and tapped her fingernails against the table. The acrylic tips made a hollow clicking sound. “So,” she ventured, forcing a smile that wobbled at the edges. “How you been, Ennis? Haven’t seen you around as much.”

A question he didn’t want to answer, not really. But he swallowed the knot in his throat, forced himself to meet her eyes for a moment, “Been… busy,” he said at last, fingers dancing around the cold, damp neck of the beer bottle. “Workin’ a lot.”

Cassie nodded, understanding, like she was trying to pretend she hadn’t noticed the way his eyes kept wandering, drifting somewhere far beyond this little table, past the flickering neon signs and stale cigarette smoke. “Yeah,” she said softly, “Figured maybe you’d just been keepin’ to yourself lately. Didn’t know if I’d done somethin’ wrong.”

Ennis winced before he could catch himself, jaw tensing under the weight of it. He hated that, hated how easily people assumed their own failings when he was the one too goddamn cowardly to speak plain. Cassie hadn’t done anything wrong. That was the worst part. She’d been kind, patient in a way he didn’t deserve. Sweet, even when he’d barely given her crumbs. But he’d let it go on too long, because it had been easier than owning up to what he really was. Easier to pretend, “Nah,” he said, eyes dropping to the table between them. “Ain’t nothin’ you done.”

But even saying it didn’t ease the tension in his chest. It just made the cold coil tighter, like winter creeping in through the seams of a drafty trailer. No matter how he turned it over, it still ended up in the same place, he couldn’t be what she wanted. And maybe he never really tried, not in a way that mattered.

She tilted her head, searching his face with a look that made him feel twelve kinds of sorry, “You sure? ‘Cause I—well, I thought we had a good time, last time. And you said maybe you’d call, but then…” She trailed off, words falling off like leaves in wind. She didn’t finish, didn’t need to. He knew what came after but then. Knew it like the back of his hand. The silence. The way he never called. The way he ran from the good things, like they were traps.

He didn’t answer. Just reached for his beer, lifted it to his lips to buy himself time, the mouthful of cold bitterness giving him nothing but a numb distraction. He hoped it would be enough for her to let it go, to back off. But Cassie had always been more stubborn than that. She leaned in, still waiting, still hoping maybe he’d come around.

Ennis looked at her again. Really looked. And she was pretty, hell, beautiful, in that warm, sunny way that once might’ve lit up something in him. The kind of woman a man was supposed to want. And there had been a time, long ago, when he thought maybe if he leaned into that, into soft hands and big smiles and the kind of affection that didn’t leave bruises, maybe it’d all settle right. Maybe he could make himself believe it.

But no amount of trying had ever dulled what he felt for Jack Twist. And it sure as hell hadn’t changed who he was.

He set the bottle down with a dull thud and cleared his throat.

“Cassie…”

She perked up a little, like she’d been waiting on him to finally say something she could hold onto.

“…Ain’t fair to you.”

The words hung there, and for a long moment, she didn’t respond. Just blinked at him, wine glass still in her hand, shoulders going still.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, softer now. “Ain’t never tried to lead you on. I just… I don’t got it in me to give you what you’re wantin’. Never did.”

Cassie didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed on him, searching his face for whatever pieces of truth she hadn’t already put together. Then she looked down, lips tugging into a faint, almost amused smile. A sound followed, part exhale, part laugh, and not bitter like he’d expected. If anything, it sounded like a weight slipping off her shoulders.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, fingertips skimming the rim of her glass. “I kinda figured.”

No spite. No sharp edges. Just the tired cadence of someone who’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop and had finally heard it hit the floor.

She set the glass down, careful, like she didn’t want to make more noise than necessary. Then leaned back against the booth, her expression softening, “It’s alright, Ennis,” she said. “I just wanted the truth. That’s all.”

And he knew she meant it. Knew she deserved it. He just wished he hadn’t taken so long to say it. His hands curled around the edge of the table, knuckles tight, trying to keep himself from fidgeting. There wasn’t much else to say. Anything more would just be dragging the thing out, picking at scabs that didn’t need reopening. Ennis had never been good with goodbyes, never known how to soften a blow or make things clean. But this, right here, might’ve been the closest he’d come to doing right by someone.

“You know,” Cassie said after a long pause, “I always knew there was somethin’ off. Somethin’ holdin’ you back. I used to think it was Alma. Or maybe just... time. But it’s more than that, ain’t it?”

Ennis stared at the scratched-up tabletop, jaw tight. His throat closed around whatever answer he might’ve given, and in the end, he didn’t say anything at all. Didn’t nod. Didn’t flinch. Just breathed through it and hoped she’d understand what he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Cassie didn’t push. Didn’t name it. And maybe she didn’t need to. Maybe she’d already filled in the blanks long before tonight.

“I don’t hate you,” she said softly, almost like she was talking to herself. “I could’ve. I’ve hated men for a whole lot less than this. But I don’t.”

Ennis looked up, met her eyes. There was no fire in them, no accusation. Just a sad sort of fondness, “Thank you,” he murmured, the words catching in his chest.

She smiled, small, lopsided. “Don’t thank me. Just… take care of yourself, Ennis. Whatever it is you’re chasin’. Whoever it is.” Her gaze met his, steady. “I hope you find it.”

He nodded again, slower this time. That was all he could give her. All he had left.

❖

Ennis had been dreading this conversation since the idea was first spoken aloud, since those tentative mentions of Colorado and starting a ranch together had filled the corners of Jack’s hospital room in Childress. At the time, it had felt like a fantasy, far-off enough to admire without reaching. But now that dream was turning real. Tangible. And with that came the weight of reality pressing down like a stone in his gut.

It wasn’t just the move he was dreading, though that was part of it. He’d uprooted his life more times than he cared to count, bounced between trailers and jobs like a man trying to outrun his own shadow. Telling Junior and Jenny he was moving again felt like turning over another piece of the past, one more reminder of how unstable things had been since the divorce. But deeper than that, deeper than the fear of disappointing them, was something older. The part of him that still believed he’d set himself on a straight path to hell the minute he first laid eyes on Jack Twist. The guilt never went away completely, even now, even after all the years and the blood and the bruises that came from denying what they had. And now, he wasn’t denying it anymore. He’d made his choice. He was choosing Jack. Not just in secret, not just in motel rooms and weekend trips, but for real.

And he couldn’t keep that choice hidden from his girls anymore.

He’d managed to push the conversation off for weeks, always finding a reason to hold off, too busy with work, wrong time of year, too close to Jenny’s tests at school, too much on Junior’s plate. But now? Now it was real. Jack had called the day before, voice bright with excitement, practically vibrating through the phone line as he told Ennis he’d done it, put money down on a place outside Evergreen. Said it like it was nothing. Like this wasn’t the most permanent thing they’d ever done.

There was no more stalling after that.

He stood in the kitchen now, fingers curled loosely around a chipped mug of black coffee that had long since gone cold. The girls were due over any minute. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his work shirt, and he felt the sweat dried into the collar, the way it clung to his skin. Didn’t matter. He didn’t want to look too polished. Didn’t want to spook them by acting like this was some kind of announcement worth dressing up for.

A quiet sigh slipped out of him as he closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He tried to take a steady breath, to brace himself, but it caught halfway down, like his body wasn’t ready to follow through. There was no roadmap for this kind of thing. No easy way to tell your daughters that the man they’d always called their father had been living with half his heart tied up in another man since before they were born.

He heard the crunch of gravel outside. Tires rolling slow. Ennis straightened up, set the mug down, and flexed his fingers once like he could shake the nerves out of them. He moved to the door and opened it just as Junior climbed out of her car, Jenny following close behind, both of them smiling. 

They didn’t notice anything was different at first, not in the way they moved, or spoke, or filled up the small space of the trailer with their everyday noise. Junior stepped in first, arms already half-open. She wrapped him in a hug, the kind that always made something tight in his chest loosen a little. Jenny followed behind, offering only a distracted wave, her attention already lost to whatever she was digging out of the bag slung over her shoulder. She didn’t even glance up as she breezed past him, her boots scuffing against the threshold. Just like that, they were inside, chatting about traffic and school and the weather, like it was any other visit.

He watched them quietly. They looked older every time he saw them, grown in ways that snuck up on him, little markers of time he hadn’t been there to witness. Junior carried herself with the calm self-assurance of her mother now, shoulders squared, chin held high, as if she'd walked through fire and come out knowing exactly who she was. But her eyes, those were his. Sharp around the edges, too careful, too used to disappointment. Jenny, by contrast, had the softness of youth still clinging to her. Her hair matched his, blonde and thick, but everything else, her posture, her frown, even the impatient little way she flipped through her papers, belonged to her mother.

He loved them more than he could say. More than he ever had said, really. The words had never come easy, not with them, not with anyone. And yet he carried that love like a weight on his shoulders, worn down from all the years he couldn’t be what they needed, from all the birthdays he’d missed and the school recitals he’d shown up late to, if he showed up at all. He’d left too many pieces of their childhood behind in county lines and half-hearted promises. And there was no going back to fix it.

They looked so normal. So young. Standing in his trailer, the sun through the blinds catching in Jenny’s hair, Junior dropping her purse to the floor, like nothing in the world was waiting to change. And for a moment, Ennis felt the old instinct rise up like bile. That urge to bury it. To nod and smile and let the silence do the talking, same as he always had. Because what was the truth good for, anyhow, except for bruising people?

But that time had passed. Jack had bought the damn ranch. Lureen had signed the divorce papers. And Ennis had made his choice, finally, fully, without turning his back on it. He couldn’t ask Jack to do all the brave things while he kept hiding in the shadows.

Ennis took a step back from Junior’s hug, just enough to catch her eye. He offered a thin smile, one that didn’t quite reach the corners of his mouth, and reached up to adjust his hat, more to buy himself a second of silence than anything else. Then he turned toward the kitchen, “Go on and sit down, both of you. I got somethin’ I need to say.”

That alone was enough to make Jenny pause, her brow lifting just a little. Junior gave him a measured look, like she was trying to gauge how serious this was, and whether it was the kind of thing that required worry. Ennis didn’t meet their eyes as he moved toward the kitchen table, hand grazing the back of one chair before he lowered himself into it. He waited until they followed suit, until the scraping of chairs and the shuffle of feet settled.

And then he looked at them. 

They were his girls. No matter how far he’d wandered, no matter how much of their childhood had been shaped by absence and silence, they were his. And maybe this wasn’t the life he’d wanted to hand them, but it was the truth he had. The only truth left.

The words didn’t come easy. They never did, not for Ennis. Talking had always felt like a second language, one he wasn’t fluent in. He could fix a fence with half the tools missing, could back a trailer into a narrow chute on the first try, but he’d never quite figured out how to say the things that mattered without feeling like his tongue was made of lead. Still, he cleared his throat and forced himself to meet their eyes, first Jenny’s, and then Junior’s. She was always the more patient of the two. Always waiting to understand before she judged. God, he hoped she still had it in her.

“You girls remember Jack Twist?”

The question came out flat, like he was asking about the weather. But the weight behind it settled in the air, and he saw it, clear as day, the moment the name hit them. Jenny blinked once, eyes narrowing slightly. Junior furrowed her brow, searching the name like it was a half-remembered song.

They looked at each other, and then back at him, the confusion starting to twist at their features. Of course they didn’t know. They’d heard the name in passing, maybe caught it in a sentence or two, usually spoken too quickly or too sharply. Ennis could picture it now, Alma muttering it under her breath, bitter and low, when she thought they weren’t listening. “Your daddy’s off with Jack Twist again,” like it was something rotten that needed spitting out.

He ran a hand down his face, rough with day-old stubble, then rested his forearms on the table, eyes dropping to the ring of moisture his coffee cup had left behind.

Ennis cleared his throat again, buying time, though there was none left to spare. “Your mama... she never much liked when I mentioned him. ‘Specially not when I took off on those fishin’ trips. I reckon she figured it out long before I could say it out loud. Hell, maybe you did too. I don’t know.”

Junior looked up at him then, eyes narrowing just slightly, not in suspicion, but in thought. You could almost see it happen, the moment the name finally found a place to land in her memory. Something shifted in her face, like a puzzle piece clicking into place after years of sitting just out of reach.

“Jack,” she said slowly, testing the name again. Then she nodded, the motion small but sure. “He was the one who came by that time you had us for the weekend. At that little house over by the grain elevators.”

She glanced sideways at Jenny, nudging her elbow gently. “You remember that, Jen? That man who pulled up in the truck while we were waitin’ on Daddy? Tall. Blue eyes. Didn’t say much. Just stood there by his truck lookin’…” She paused, frowning, then finished, “Awful sad.”

Jenny frowned, clearly sifting through the fog of childhood, and shrugged. “I remember someone. I don’t remember his name.”

Ennis swallowed hard. That memory had lived in his own mind for years like a splinter he couldn’t dig out, Jack standing in the yard, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, hope flickering behind his eyes like a candle about to be snuffed out. He’d looked so damn small that day, even with the whole horizon behind him. And Ennis, in his fear, had made himself smaller still. Had shut the door. Had walked away.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That was him.”

Junior didn’t say anything right away. Her gaze lingered on Ennis, like she was re-sorting old memories with new context, reshuffling everything she thought she knew about her father and fitting Jack Twist’s name into all the blank spaces that had never made sense before. Fishing trips. That tension that used to hang between her parents when certain names got mentioned too loud.

“Well, what’s he got to do with anythin’, Daddy?”

Jenny spoke up then, the question laced with impatience, her brows pinched as she sat forward in her seat. She was trying to follow, but the lines weren’t connecting for her, not the way they had for Junior. That had always been the difference between them. Junior listened to the space between his words, read his silences like a second language. Jenny wanted answers neat and handed over, and Ennis couldn’t blame her. He was lousy at providing either.

Ennis turned his gaze toward Jenny, not unkindly, just tired. Not of her, but of this, of having to dig all this out with his bare hands after years of burying it. “You remember when I drove down to Texas a few months back?” he asked. “Said it was a work thing.”

Jenny blinked, confused but listening now. Junior didn’t say anything, just watched him, like she already knew where this was headed but was letting him get there in his own time.

“There was… an accident,” Ennis said. The word tasted wrong in his mouth the second it left. He paused, lips pressing into a thin line. “Jack got hurt.”

Calling it an accident didn’t sit right. The word felt too clean, too easy, like something you could chalk up to bad luck and move on from. But there hadn’t been any bad luck about it, not for Jack. No wet roads, no faulty equipment, no wrong place at the wrong time. What happened to Jack had been chosen.

Ennis felt the familiar churn settle in his gut, a cold dread that never fully left him since the night he got that call. Calling it an accident was like letting those bastards off easy. Like pretending it hadn’t been a choice. But it was a choice. Someone, no, several someones, had made the decision to hurt Jack. They’d looked at Jack Twist and seen something they didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, and they made a decision. To beat him bloody. To leave him broken. To make sure he couldn’t get up again. That wasn’t an accident. That was hate wearing a familiar face. That was cruelty carried out with hands and fists and a goddamn tire iron. 

Ennis could see it plain as day in his mind, Jack’s blood in the dirt, eyes barely open. His body curled in on itself, not like a man, but like a wounded animal left to die in a field no one would think to check. There hadn’t been anyone there to stop it. No one to help. Just him, alone, bleeding into gravel while the world kept spinning like nothing had gone wrong. The image had taken root in Ennis’s mind months ago and refused to let go. Some nights it jolted him awake, cold sweat slicking his back. Other times it hit when he least expected it, behind the wheel, halfway through a chore, right before he picked up the phone to hear Jack’s voice on the line. His hands still shook if he let the memory in too deep. If he let himself go there, even for a second.

But he didn’t want to go there. Not with his girls sitting across from him, wide-eyed and quiet. They didn’t need to see what that memory did to him. They didn’t need to carry the same fury that had been riding him ever since that phone call came in from Childress. Jack’s pain was his to hold. His to make peace with. If peace was even possible.

So Ennis swallowed hard, pushing the worst of it down deep where it couldn’t spill out. He shifted in his chair, glanced down at the table, and let out a breath that shook a little on the way out.

“And… seein’ him like that, seein’ Jack laid up in that bed, not knowin’ if he was gonna wake up, or walk, or ever come back to himself. It scared me.” He paused, gave a small, dry laugh that didn’t sound like much of a laugh at all. “Hell, don’t reckon I’ve ever been that scared in my life. They told me he might not walk again,” he said, barely more than a whisper now. “And I ain’t lettin’ him go through what’s left alone.”

“I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is…” Ennis paused, felt the weight of it settle on his chest like it was pressing the breath right out of him. He looked down, thumb dragging a slow circle against the side of his coffee mug. The words had been there the whole time, circling the drain, just waiting for the courage to catch up.

“I’m movin’,” he said, finally lifting his gaze. “Goin’ up to Colorado to be with Jack.”

Simple words. So simple it almost didn’t seem fair, how they could carry so much weight. He’d been circling that sentence for years, tripping over every excuse not to say it out loud. And now that he had, the silence that followed was so loud it almost rang in his ears.

Jenny blinked, like the words hadn’t quite landed right. Then her face twisted, her brows pulling together as confusion morphed into something more pointed, something almost accusatory. “Wait,” she said, her voice rising a little, “like… like some kinda queer thing?”

The word came out stiff and wrong, like it had been dragged straight from a grown-up conversation she wasn’t supposed to hear. She didn’t say it with cruelty, not exactly, but there was something careless in the way it left her mouth, like it had been rehearsed somewhere else. Too close to something Alma might’ve said, in that tone she used when she wanted to cut deep without raising her voice.

Before Ennis could say a word, Junior’s elbow shot out and caught her sister in the ribs. Not hard, but sharp enough to jolt her, “Jesus, Jenny,” Junior hissed, “Don’t say that. Not like that. You sound just like her.”

Jenny recoiled like she’d been slapped, more from the call-out than the elbow. She sat back in her chair, arms folding across her chest in that defensive posture Ennis recognized from years of tense drop-offs and quiet arguments. Her chin lifted, but her eyes didn’t meet his. “What?” She leaned back in her chair like she was digging in, trying to put distance between herself and the conversation, even though she’d been the one to spark it, “I’m just askin’. Ain’t like anybody ever said nothin’ clear. Mama always called it some weird thing with his friend. Said it wasn’t natural. So how else was I supposed to know?”

It stung, hearing it in his daughter’s mouth, even softened by confusion. He couldn’t fault her, not really. Alma had been the one who stayed. The one who raised them, packed their lunches, signed their permission slips. Jenny had always favored her mother, leaned into that sharp, no-nonsense way of seeing the world, especially when it came to Ennis. He’d never known quite how to bridge the distance between them.

Jenny looked so much like Alma in that moment, mouth tight, trying to sound older than she was but still clinging to what she'd been told like it was gospel. And God knew Alma had never been shy about casting judgment when it came to Jack. Not in words Jenny could’ve understood at the time, but in tone. In silence. In the way she spat the word friend like it meant something dirtier than it did.

He couldn’t blame Jenny for echoing what she’d heard growing up. He hadn’t exactly fought it. Hadn’t offered much truth to stand in its place. He’d let silence fill the cracks, let Alma’s version stand unchallenged. And now it was showing up in his daughter’s mouth like secondhand smoke.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, the air hitching slightly at the end, “I know what your mama said,” Ennis said finally. He didn’t raise it, never had been the yelling type, but there was a weight behind the words that made both girls fall still. “And I ain’t sittin’ here to run her down. She did what she thought was right.” 

He paused, his gaze traveling between them, but settling on Jenny, her arms locked across her chest, eyes fixed on a spot over his shoulder like she couldn’t bear to look at him. Her mouth was set in that tight line that reminded him so much of Alma it made his stomach twist. Every bit of defiance and pride and hurt that woman ever carried was etched into their youngest daughter’s face.

“But she didn’t understand Jack.” he said, “And I didn’t give her much reason to. Didn’t give any of y’all much reason. That’s on me.” He looked down at his hands, callused fingers curling lightly together, then back up. “I should’ve told the truth. You both deserved better.”

Jenny’s stared at a spot just past his shoulder, blinking fast like she was trying not to show anything at all. Then, without looking at him, she muttered, “Well, you didn’t.”

Ennis froze, the words landing sharp in the center of his chest. Like a truth she’d been keeping in her back pocket for years, waiting for the moment it might finally stick.

“You left,” she added, her voice harder now. “You didn’t tell us nothin’.You were barely around, and when you were, it felt like you couldn’t wait to be somewhere else. You didn’t come to school stuff, didn’t call unless it was your weekend. You walked out and left Mama to deal with everythin’.” Her voice wasn’t angry so much as matter-of-fact, like she’d been keeping score for years.

Ennis stared at her for a long second, mouth working like he wanted to say something, but nothing came. He didn’t deny it. Because she wasn’t wrong. He had left. Not just the house, but the day-to-day, the grind of being present. He’d told himself at the time that he was giving Alma space, giving the girls a stable home, but deep down he knew the truth: he’d taken the path of least resistance. Disappearing had always come easier than fighting for a place he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“You left,” she finished, quieter this time. “And now you’re just... leavin’ again.”

Junior shifted, her hands curling in her lap. “Jenny—” she began, ready to step in, to mediate the way she always had when her sister and father locked horns. But Ennis raised a hand, palm steady in the space between them

“No,” he said, “Let her talk.”

Ennis looked back at Jenny, and though his voice was soft, it cut through the silence. “I didn’t leave you, Jen. I left your mama. I know I wasn’t always there the way I should’ve been,” he said finally. “And I ain’t proud of that.”

Jenny let out a dry, bitter scoff and shook her head. Her eyes never quite settled on his, they kept darting to the wall, the window, anywhere but him, “So what now? You just gonna go play house with this guy like nothin’ happened? Pretend we’re all one big happy family, only this time it’s with your... whatever Jack is?”

Junior stiffened beside him, but Ennis didn’t react. He didn’t take the bait. He just looked at her with that quiet steadiness she’d always found so frustrating, like he was anchored to something she couldn’t reach.

“Ain’t nothin’ about this pretend,” he said, “And I want you both to be part of that life. I ain’t askin’ you to change how you feel. But I want you to know the door’s open.”

That was all he could offer, and he knew it might not be enough.

For a moment Ennis thought Jenny might finally say something else. Her eyes flicked toward him, and for the first time all night, they landed there. She looked at him like she was trying to scrape together the pieces of a man she used to call her daddy and couldn't quite make them fit the shape sitting in front of her now. Like she was looking at a stranger who wore his voice.

Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She blinked hard, then bent down without a word to grab her bag from beside her chair. The strap slipped over her shoulder in a practiced motion, “I’m goin’ to wait in the car,” she muttered, tossing the words over her shoulder as she rose to her feet, not to him, but to Junior.

The screen door creaked open, then slammed shut behind her. The sound echoed through the trailer. Ennis winced. His eyes followed the motion until the screen stilled, and then he blinked hard, trying to clear the sting that had crept up without warning. He’d known this might happen. Had told himself over and over that it was a possibility, that one of his girls might not take it well. But telling yourself something and being faced with it head-on were two different animals. And standing there, feeling the absence Jenny left behind,  Ennis had to admit the truth.

He’d earned this.

He’d made his choices. Years ago, he’d chosen silence. Chosen to keep Jack in the shadows, to call what they had a friendship, to let others do the talking and never correct them. He’d chosen the kind of distance that couldn’t be bridged by birthdays or weekend visits. He could tell himself it had been about survival, about safety, but the fact remained: Jenny had been left to fill in the blanks. And Alma had handed her the pen. He’d left her to guess at what she wasn’t being told, and now she was living with the answers he’d been too much a coward to give.

A quiet rustle pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned just enough to meet Junior’s gaze, warm brown eyes that looked far older than her years, filled with a kind of understanding that made his throat tighten all over again. She offered a cautious smile, like she was trying to sew something closed before it tore all the way through, “I’m happy for you, Daddy,” she said softly. “Really. I mean that. Promise you’ll let me know when you’re headin’ out? I wanna visit when you get settled. I’d… I’d like to meet Jack proper, too.”

The words landed warm, like a coat pulled over his shoulders in the cold, and for a second, he couldn’t speak. Ennis swallowed against the lump in his throat, nodding slowly. There weren’t words big enough to hold the gratitude he felt in that moment, so he gave her the ones he could manage, “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, darlin’. I’ll let you know.”

Junior stood slowly, the legs of her chair scraping gently against the linoleum floor. Ennis rose with her, gaze following each quiet movement as she bent to gather her purse, the worn leather strap slipping easily over her shoulder, “I’ll talk to her, Daddy,” she said, full of that quiet conviction she’d always carried, even as a girl. “I promise.”

Ennis didn’t doubt her for a second. That was the thing about Junior, she didn’t say what she didn’t mean. Her words didn’t waver, and her eyes didn’t flinch. She was steady in a way he never quite understood, like she’d been born knowing how to hold the world together even when it wanted to split in two. Maybe she could talk sense into Jenny. Maybe she’d get through. She had a better shot at it than he ever did. God knew Junior had always had a gift for cutting through messes he couldn’t even begin to untangle.

But Ennis knew better than most how long that road could stretch. He knew the kind of stubborn it took to look away from the truth. Knew, too, how long it took to stop lying to yourself. He’d spent damn near twenty years sidestepping the truth, telling himself it wasn’t the right time, that it was safer to keep his mouth shut. Twenty years to admit what had been plain since that first summer on Brokeback, that Jack was the love of his life, and that no amount of denial had ever made it less true. All it had done was cost him time. 

So no, he didn’t expect Jenny to forgive him right away. Maybe not ever. But Junior’s promise still mattered. It was something to hold onto.

She stepped toward him then, without warning, and lifted her arms around his neck in a warm, full-bodied hug. Her hands pressed against his back, and for a second, Ennis just stood there, startled by the suddenness of it. Then, slowly, his arms came around her, pulling her in tight. She was taller than he remembered, when the hell had that happened? When had she grown past the little girl who used to ride on his shoulders when they went into town, who’d clung to his leg when he said goodbye before work? But even with her grown-up frame, she still felt the same in his arms. Still his. He shut his eyes for the briefest moment, letting the comfort settle in. It had been a long damn day. This, he hadn’t realized he needed.

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. He could feel the steady beat of her heart against his chest, the warmth of her presence anchoring him in place. When she pulled back, there was a softness in her eyes that reminded him she was still his little girl, no matter how tall she stood now or how grown she was.

“I’ll stop by sometime after work next week,” she said with a small grin, stepping back just enough for him to see the flicker of excitement she was barely holding in. “Got big news.”

The way she said it made his heart hitch just a little. There was something bubbling under the surface, barely contained. Good news, that much was clear. Something she was waiting to share until the time was right. And Lord, if there was ever a time he needed a reason to look forward, it was now.

Ennis let a crooked smile pull at the corner of his mouth, slow and worn but real. He lifted a hand to adjust the brim of his hat, fingers lingering at the crown like the motion could buy him another second to keep the emotion at bay, “Well,” he said, “You bring that news on by, sweetheart. I’ll be here.”

❖

The good news hadn’t been what Ennis expected, not even close. Junior was engaged. Not to Troy, the clean-cut baseball player she used to bring around sometimes, the one with the easy smile and too much cologne. No, she was marrying Kurt. Oilfield Kurt. A roughneck, from what little Ennis had gathered. And even with all that unknown, Ennis trusted her. Trusted that if she said Kurt loved her, then that was the end of it. He had no business arguing. Who the hell was he to stand in the way of someone chasing love? He’d spent half his life doing just that, turning away from the one person who’d ever really looked at him like he mattered. And he wouldn’t wish that kind of emptiness on Junior. Not for anything. 

Kurt. He kept reminding himself of that. Again and again. Had been ever since the news came through. Probably would keep reminding himself until the wedding day and long after. Not Troy. Kurt, he thought, for the eleventh or twelfth time that morning, as he pushed through the glass doors of the county courthouse. The slap of his boots echoed against the linoleum floor, drawing a glance from the receptionist behind the front desk. The heat hit him hard after the cold outside. He blinked against it, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the fluorescents overhead, the snow glare still fresh behind his eyelids.

He unzipped his jacket halfway, careful not to jostle the envelope tucked into the inside pocket. A week’s worth of overtime folded in cash, more than he was used to carrying, but just enough to take care of what needed doing. He hadn’t planned on making the trip out here today, but the opportunity presented itself. The ranch had offered up some overtime leading into Thanksgiving week, and Ennis, as usual, hadn’t turned it down. Didn’t have any big holiday plans. Didn’t have anybody knocking down his door to share a turkey with him, either. Just the trailer, the quiet, and maybe a cold beer if he remembered to pick one up on the way home. So he worked. Long days that bled into longer evenings. Work helped, especially now. The more tired he was, the easier it was to push back the constant pull toward Texas. Toward Jack.

The overtime stacked up quicker than he realized. Enough that, when he counted it out last night, he had more than he needed. More than enough to finish off what he owed for Jenny’s child support. It wasn’t due until January, but early was better than late. Better than having it hang over him like it always seemed to. One less burden. One less reason to feel like he’d come up short. Now, he could focus on saving up towards the ranch. 

That part still didn’t sit easy all the time. Jack had said it plain, he used the divorce money from Lureen to put the down payment on the land up in Colorado. Ennis hadn’t argued. Couldn’t. They didn’t have much else between them. But a part of him still felt a little uneasy about using the money Jack had gotten in the divorce to help fund it all. Some of it was pride, maybe, or habit. Ennis had spent so long scraping by, it didn’t sit easy to think about leaning on someone else. But logic was louder than pride most days, and the truth was, Jack had done what needed doing. Same as always.

Ennis moved forward in the line, shoulders stiff, hands jammed deep into his coat pockets. Ahead of him, a woman tried to calm her two restless kids, one hanging off her arm while the other dropped and picked up the same toy car over and over. Next to them, a man in a stained ball cap argued with the clerk about a parking ticket, his voice climbing louder with each sentence. Ennis barely heard it. Just stood there under the sharp buzz of the fluorescent lights, the smell of old paper and warm air clinging to his coat, and waited for his turn. The envelope pressed firm against his ribs, a reminder that he was keeping pace, that he was doing what needed doing. He wasn’t sure when that started feeling like a victory.

Maybe it was just age. Or maybe it was Jack’s voice still echoing in his head even from nearly nine hundred miles away, always so sure, so damn hopeful. Always talking about what could be, if they just held on long enough. Ennis used to think that was all it was, talk. Something nice to believe in if you had the luxury. But lately, it didn’t feel so far off. There was land waiting for them in Colorado. Now there was a plan.

That counted for something. And even if it felt like he was moving slow, like he was ten steps behind, Ennis was still moving. Doing his part. The best way he knew how.  

When his number was finally called, he stepped up to the counter, kept his eyes low, and pulled the envelope out like it might burn him. The woman behind the glass had a kind smile and a name tag that read Margie, and she greeted him like she recognized him, though he didn’t recognize her. “How can I help you today, sir?”

Ennis cleared his throat, the words dry on his tongue. “Just here to square up the child support,” he said, voice gravelly from lack of use

Margie nodded and took the envelope without fuss, counting the bills with quick fingers, her long red nails clicking against each fold. The sound reminded him of dominoes clicking down one after the other. “Looks like you’re ahead of schedule,” she said after a moment, lifting her gaze to meet his. She slid a receipt through the slot at the bottom of the glass. “You’re all squared away, Mr. Del Mar. That’s a good feeling, huh?”

He gave a small nod, took the paper without meeting her eyes, and muttered, “’Preciate it.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out, the sound of his boots fading into the low hum of fluorescent lights behind him.

Outside, the cold hit harder than it had all day, the kind of cold that snuck past your collar and settled in deep, biting at the skin beneath. The courthouse doors creaked shut behind him with a slow, heavy groan, the echo bouncing off the bare stone around him. Ennis zipped his jacket the rest of the way up, fingers stiff from the chill, and stood still for a moment at the top of the steps. He watched his breath bloom white in the air, curling like smoke before it vanished into the dull gray sky above. The sky looked empty, flat and washed-out, the way it always did just before the next snowfall. The last storm had left behind crusted piles of slush along the edge of the parking lot, half-melted and refrozen in uneven ridges. Looked like more was on the way.

He walked back to the truck slowly, boots crunching over rock salt and old ice, not in any real hurry to get back to the trailer. The envelope was gone. Cash handed over, receipt folded up and stuffed in his back pocket. It was done. Finally. One last payment, made early, and that should’ve left him feeling lighter. Should’ve been a weight off. But it didn’t shift much inside him. That pressure behind his ribs, the one that had started back in early fall, just after he left Jack in the hospital bed in Texas, was still right where it’d been. He’d started thinking of it like a second shadow, always there, always close.

He climbed into the truck, the hinges whining under the weight of the door as it creaked closed behind him. The cab was freezing, the cracked leather seat stiff and unforgiving beneath him, seams split just enough to pinch through his jeans when he shifted. He didn’t reach for the key right away. Just sat there, exhaling slow, watching his breath bloom white against the cold interior. The windshield fogged up in seconds, blurring the world outside into vague shapes and gray smudges. The heater wasn’t worth a damn, not for the first ten minutes, anyway. He dragged his sleeve across the glass, cleared a small patch, and leaned forward, squinting out at the slush-glazed lot like it might offer up some reason to go home.

Instead, he reached across and popped open the glovebox.

The idea had snuck in without him noticing, sometime between handing over that envelope and crossing the parking lot. He hadn’t planned on it, hadn’t told himself, Tonight I’ll call him. But the idea had been trailing him like a stray dog all afternoon, quiet at first, easy to ignore, then more persistent. Nipping at his heels. It followed him down the courthouse steps, across the lot, right up to the moment he opened the glovebox.

Call Jack.

Ennis knew how to ignore a lot of things. Regret, mostly. Hunger. Grief. He’d spent years learning how to shove things down deep and keep walking. But this wasn’t something he could ignore. His hand found the small plastic container tucked in the back of the glovebox.. The lid snapped open with a soft, familiar click. Quarters. More than usual. All those long days of overtime, the hours he’d piled on just to keep his mind from drifting too far south, had at least made sure he wasn’t short on change. He ran his thumb over the edges, counting automatically, eyes unfocused. Their edges were worn smooth with use, catching what little light filtered in through the windshield.  He hadn’t planned on it. Hadn’t let himself think too hard about it. But the truth was, he missed Jack. Maybe more tonight than usual. Maybe more than he could afford to.

He closed his fist around the change and sat back, feeling the metal press into his skin. Just a few minutes. Just to hear his voice. That was all. 

Ennis slid the quarters into his coat pocket, the chill of the metal leeching through the thin fabric and into his fingertips. The coins clinked softly, a familiar sound that settled against his ribs like reassurance. He gave them a quick pat, made sure they were secure, then lingered for a moment, his hand resting on the door handle like it might warm beneath his grip if he gave it long enough.

But it didn’t. And the cold wasn’t waiting.

The second he cracked the door, the wind slammed into him, slicing across his face so hard it felt like a slap. He hissed through his teeth, wincing as the sting burrowed into the raw skin of his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His eyes watered instantly, and he had to squint against the gust, breath puffing out in short, visible bursts. The cab of the truck, uselessly lukewarm, groaned behind him as he stepped down onto the patchy asphalt, half-covered in salt and last week’s frozen melt.

Didn’t matter how cold it was. Could’ve been a goddamn blizzard, and he still would’ve made the walk. If it meant hearing Jack’s voice, even for five minutes, he’d take the frostbite. Hell, he’d take worse.

He turned up his collar and started across the lot, boots crunching over the crust of rock salt scattered across the pavement. Patches of ice glinted underfoot, and he picked his steps carefully, not in any hurry but not dawdling either. The wind funneled around the courthouse, slapping at him from every angle, rattling the chain-link fence at the far end of the lot. He ducked his head, bracing into it, and veered toward the side of the building. He knew the phone booth was around here somewhere, he’d seen it before, tucked to the side of the courthouse near a back entrance, obscured by a utility box and barely lit by the flicker of a dying security light. That’s where he headed now, keeping his eyes low, shoulders hunched against the wind that howled around the corner of the building.

Ennis ducked into the phone booth quick as he could, shoulder braced against the wind as he yanked the door shut behind him. The metal frame rattled in protest, glass panels creaking against the gusts, but it held. The stillness hit him like a wall, not warm by any stretch, but at least sheltered. His breath still fogged the space, swirling in front of his face and clinging to the scratched-up glass. He exhaled hard, breath fogging up the glass again, and scrubbed a hand down his face to wipe away the sting of cold clinging to his skin.

The phone hung crooked on its cradle, cord twisted and stiff with cold. He pulled it free and cradled it between his shoulder and ear, the plastic icy against his skin. His left hand dipped into his coat pocket, fishing out the quarters. He fed them into the slot one by one, the machine clinking with each deposit. When the last one slid home, he paused for half a second, just long enough for the doubt to creep in, but then pushed it down and started dialing. He didn’t have to think about the number anymore, Jack’s number was burned into him, etched into the muscle memory of his hands like a scar.

The phone rang once, then again. On the third ring, it cut off with a mechanical click, and for half a second, Ennis held his breath, expecting Jack’s familiar voice. But the voice that came through wasn’t Jack’s. And it sure as hell wasn’t Lureen’s, either. Younger. But with that same West Texas drawl tucked into the vowels. Ennis stiffened. Had to be Bobby. He cringed inwardly, suddenly aware of how dumb this was gonna sound, some strange man calling up their house in the dead of winter, asking for his father. His fingers tightened around the receiver, cold plastic slick in his grip.

“Hello?”

There it was. Even that one word sounded too much like Jack. Same cadence, same hitch of curiosity behind it. Ennis swallowed, tongue thick in his mouth.

“Lookin’ for Jack.” He kept his tone flat, careful not to say anything that might catch too much attention. He hoped Bobby wouldn’t ask questions, wouldn’t press, wouldn’t say who’s callin’ in that polite, nosy teenage way. He just wanted to talk to Jack. Just Jack.

There was a pause on the other end. A bit of rustling. Then Bobby yelled, loud enough Ennis had to pull the receiver back slightly, “DAD! Someone’s lookin’ for you!”

Ennis winced, shoulders curling inward at the volume. His breath fogged the scratched glass of the booth as he muttered a soft curse under his breath. Loud kid, no question whose boy he was. Had Jack’s voice, Jack’s drawl, and apparently Jack’s inability to use an inside voice. A few seconds passed before he heard Jack’s voice, distant at first, like he was walking in from another room.

“Christ Almighty, son,” Jack muttered, the fondness stitched into every word, even under the annoyance. “Inside voice, yeah? Thought we went over that back in Kindergarten.”

“Sorry,” Bobby muttered, his voice sheepish now. There was a muffled handoff, the phone scraping as it changed hands.

And then—

“Yeah?” Jack said, like he didn’t already know. Like he hadn’t felt the same pull that had brought Ennis out here in the cold. “Who’s this?”

Ennis almost smiled. Almost. That old teasing lilt in Jack’s voice, like he was pretending not to recognize him just to hear him say it. Typical Jack.

“It’s me,” Ennis muttered, “Hope I ain’t callin’ too late.”

“Shit, no,” Jack said, and Ennis could hear the smile behind it. “You call whenever you want, cowboy. I don’t care if it’s three in the goddamn mornin’.”

And just like that, the cold didn’t seem to bite quite so hard. The tension in Ennis’s chest loosened. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the booth, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, letting the sound of Jack’s voice roll through him like heat after a long freeze.

“Been thinkin’ about you,” Jack said after a moment, voice softer now. “All damn day. Kept lookin’ at the phone, wonderin’ if it’d ring. Figured it might.”

Ennis cleared his throat. “Paid off the rest of Jenny’s child support today,” he said, not entirely sure why that was the first thing out of his mouth. Maybe because it was the one thing he’d done right in a long time. “Early.”

There was a pause. Then Jack let out a slow whistle. “Well I’ll be. That’s a hell of a thing. Bet that feels good.”

Ennis shrugged out of habit, even though Jack couldn’t see it. “Feels like somethin’, anyway.”

“You’re gettin’ there,” Jack murmured. “Piece at a time. You’re doin’ good, Ennis.”

And for once, Ennis believed him. It didn’t make the cold go away. Didn’t fix everything waiting for him back at the trailer. But it settled something inside him, quieted that nagging voice that always told him he wasn’t enough. He let his hand rest against the glass, felt the cold bite into his skin, and just listened.

“I got good news too, cowboy,” Jack said, rich with that telltale mischief that always meant he was about to run his mouth in some way that would drive Ennis halfway up a wall. Ennis didn’t need to see his face to know Jack was grinning, he could hear it, plain as day, tucked into every damn syllable.

Ennis shifted against the cold glass of the phone booth, mouth tugging into the faintest smile despite himself. “Oh yeah, rodeo? What’s that?”

Jack let the silence hang just long enough to be theatrical, Ennis could damn near see him leaning back in his chair, soaking up the moment before dropping the punchline. “Got myself a haircut today.”

Ennis snorted under his breath, already suspecting there was more to it. Jack didn’t pull this kind of build-up for nothing. “That right? You call that good news?”

“Now don’t go runnin’ your mouth,” Jack’s voice dipped into that playful tone that used to drive him crazy back when they were young and too stubborn to admit they missed each other. “You’ll be real glad to know, I shaved off the mustache too. Finally.”

That did it. Ennis let out a quiet chuckle, turning slightly so his back leaned against the glass, shoulder brushing the frame of the booth. “Well, hell. Took you long enough.”

“Did it for you,” Jack said, and there was something proud in his voice, even if he was trying to keep it light, “Figured if I was gonna be a free man again, I oughta stop lookin’ like a divorced man.”

“You looked like a damn fool is what you looked like,” Ennis grumbled, but the warmth in his voice gave him away.

“Yeah, well, I been called worse,” Jack shot back easily. “Bet you’re smilin’ now, huh?”

Ennis didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at the coin box, letting the warmth sneak up on him like it always did when Jack got to talking like that. “Maybe.”

Jack chuckled, a soft, familiar sound that filled the booth like sunlight cracking through cloud cover, and for a second, it was easy to forget the miles. Easy to forget the cold nipping at his boots or the ache in his back. Easy to believe they were just two men talking across a kitchen table, not across state lines. “Missed you today,” Jack said, quieter now, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it.

Ennis leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the glass, letting the cold bleed into his skin. His eyes slipped shut, the words coming without hesitation this time.

“Missed you too.”

Chapter Text

Bobby drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, the thud of his fingertips on the leather echoing in the quiet cab of his truck. His breath fogged faintly against the cold glass, a reminder that winter still clung stubbornly to Childress, even if the sun was shining weakly through the haze. He glanced at the clock on the dash, scowling at how long he’d been sitting there. He was supposed to be at Cody’s place by now, maybe shooting pool in someone’s garage, maybe wasting the last days of winter break doing anything other than sitting outside the physical therapy office, waiting for his father to come hobbling out.

His mother had pawned the responsibility off on him with little more than a distracted wave of her hand and a comment about being "buried in paperwork." She usually handled these trips, keeping up appearances like she always did, polished and proper for the world to see. But when he asked about it earlier, she’d waved a hand over a pile of files stacked on her desk and said she was too tied up with paperwork. You'll have to take your father today, Bobby. Be a dear.

Most kids his age would’ve been pissed, seventeen, nearly done with high school, college acceptance letter already tucked in a drawer back home. He was grown, or close enough to it, and didn’t exactly relish being roped into chauffeuring duties. But Bobby wasn’t like most kids. Because underneath the impatience, beneath the irritation of a wasted afternoon, there was something else. He was grateful.

So much of his life had shifted under his feet over the past few months, like someone had pulled the rug and left him standing on bare floorboards. For the longest time, he’d believed the foundation of his life was solid, maybe not perfect, but stable. His parents were his parents. Sure, they weren’t like the families his friends had. Sure, his mom worked late, his dad went off on fishing trips that never seemed to involve much fish, but they were a family. They took the Christmas photo every year. They went to church on Sunday. They ate dinner in the same room even if they barely said anything. That counted for something, didn’t it? He’d told himself that was just how some marriages worked. Not everyone’s folks acted like they were in some Hallmark commercial.

At least, that’s what he used to believe.

It wasn’t until a few months ago that the cracks became impossible to ignore. Like he’d been peering at his life through a dirty mirror, content with the blur, until someone came along and wiped it clean, forcing him to see things as they really were. His parents didn’t love each other. Not in the way couples should. They didn’t touch. Didn’t laugh together. Hell, thinking back, he couldn’t even remember the last time they’d shared more than a few words that weren’t about him or the business.

The memories came creeping in, the family photos for the Newsome Christmas cards, where smiles were more for L.D.’s benefit than any real holiday cheer. After his grandfather passed last year, even that thin veneer had crumbled. Bobby started to notice things he’d ignored as a kid. The way his father would vanish on those so-called fishing trips, gone for days at a time. The edge in his mother’s voice when she’d shut herself in the study, working late into the night. And then, like clockwork, the arguments when Jack came home, voices rising behind closed doors while Bobby lay awake, pretending not to hear.

Now, there wasn’t anything left to pretend about. The divorce was happening. Papers were being signed. Plans were being made without him, like he was just another detail to sort out. His mother was moving in with his grandmother, who hadn’t been the same since L.D. passed. His father, well, he was heading to Colorado once he was strong enough to travel. Something about needing a change of scenery, a fresh start. They’d even decided to sell the house, the only place Bobby had ever called home. Told him over dinner one night, calm as you please, like they were discussing the weather.

It left Bobby wondering how long they’d been waiting to pull the trigger. How many other things had slipped past him while he was busy being a kid, too naive to see the cracks forming in the walls around him?

Bobby’s hand hovered over the radio dial, fingers twitching to turn it on, eager for George Strait’s voice to fill the cab and drown out the thoughts that had been gnawing at him since he’d parked. Country ballads about lost love and lonesome highways were much easier to stomach. But before his fingers could twist the dial, his gaze flicked toward the entrance of the building one more time, an old habit, like watching a pot that refused to boil, and this time, finally, the automatic doors opened. And there stood his father.

Bobby didn’t move. He knew better than to leap out and offer help, Jack wouldn’t take kindly to it. Pride was stitched into every thread of his father’s being, same way it had been hammered into Bobby from the time he was old enough to swing a rope. Don’t fuss. Don’t fidget. Don’t let anyone see you struggle. That was the way of things in the Twist-Newsome household.

He leaned back in his seat, fingers tapping restlessly, and let his mind wander where it always seemed to these days. back to the memories of his childhood. The ones where his mother’s hands were always reaching to smooth down his shirt before a rodeo, like appearances could shield him from the world’s sharper edges. Where his grandmother’s disapproving gaze followed the length of his hair, clucking her tongue as if every stray curl was a sin, “You’re lookin’ scruffy, Bobby. Clean yourself up. You’re a Newsome, for God’s sake.”

But it was his grandfather’s voice that lingered the most, laced with something meaner than discipline. “You ain’t growin’ up to be a damn faggot, are you, boy?” The word spat like it tasted rotten, the same way L.D. used to throw it at Jack when he thought Bobby wasn’t listening. But Bobby had always been listening. Even when he didn’t fully understand the weight of that word, he understood that look, the one his grandfather wore like a predator catching scent of weakness. That glint in his eye, like he was waiting for proof so he could pounce.

Back then, Bobby hadn’t known what it all meant. He didn’t get why folks in town smiled like they'd won a prize whenever someone got outed, didn’t understand why the whispers about queers carried the same thrill as gossip at a Sunday picnic. He’d watched men laugh over ruined reputations like it was sport, heard women murmur prayers with smirks tugging at their lips, as if dragging someone through the dirt made them holier. There was always this sick kind of satisfaction in it, like watching a fire burn something down you never cared for in the first place.

He never understood why painting a target on someone’s back made anyone more righteous, more Christian. The older he got, the more bitter that realization became, that salvation, for some, was just an excuse to sharpen their knives. Now, as he watched his father draw closer to the truck, Bobby couldn’t stop the question that crept into his mind more and more these days, crawling out of the quiet places in his mind like a weed pushing up through cracked concrete.

What if it was me?

What if they knew? What if someone saw him and Cody the way they really were? Not as boys who’d grown up together, not as best friends glued at the hip since childhood, but as something else entirely. As something they’d been told was wrong. What if someone caught the look in Bobby’s eyes when Cody leaned close? What if they noticed the way Cody’s hand lingered just a second too long on Bobby’s back, or the way Bobby tilted toward him like a sunflower toward the sun?

What would they do with that truth?

His stomach twisted so hard he thought he might be sick. He swallowed against the lump rising in his throat, bile and fear mixing bitter on the back of his tongue. He’d heard the stories, same as everyone. The ones passed down like small-town ghost tales, only these were real. Boys caught behind gas stations. Boys left bleeding in parking lots. Boys who just… stopped showing up. And always, always, the names were vague, the details blurred, but the message was crystal clear: step out of line and it could be you. He remembered his grandfather laughing about it. Telling stories about “them types” getting what was coming to them. Bobby hadn’t understood it all back then, but he understood the sound of cruelty dressed up as entertainment. Understood the weight behind the word faggot, the way L.D. said it like it tasted bad, like it was a curse that stuck to your skin.

And now, now Bobby had to wonder.

Would they say that about him? Would they grin like that if it was him laid out on the asphalt one night, blood pooling beneath his head, breath coming shallow and short?

Would they smile, God, would they smile, if it was Cody found curled on the pavement, ribs cracked, lip split wide open? Would they watch the ambulance lights fade and mutter that it wasn’t right, but, well, what did you expect? Would they snicker behind their hands and say he should’ve known better? That he brought it on himself? Would they drag his name through the dirt like that? Would they laugh about him the same way they once laughed about Jack? 

Would they whisper about Bobby Twist with that same breathless delight, the same smug tone folks used when someone got what was “comin’ to ‘em”? Would they turn his name into a cautionary tale, spit it out like a warning to their sons? Don’t be like him. Don’t end up like Bobby Twist. And if that was how the world saw him, if that was all he became in the end, would anyone bother to say his name with love again? Or would they just cross themselves, shake their heads, and pretend he deserved it?

Bobby didn’t have much time to sink deeper into those dark thoughts, not when the familiar creak of the passenger door yanked him back to reality. He glanced over just in time to catch that signature furrow in Jack’s brow, the one that always showed up when something didn’t sit right. It wasn’t anger, just that quiet, puzzled frustration Jack Twist carried when life threw him a curveball he hadn’t asked for.

“What the hell’re you doin’ here?” Jack asked, rough with fatigue, but laced with genuine surprise. His hand hovered near the door handle like he half-expected to be in the wrong truck altogether. “Thought your momma was comin’ to get me.”

Bobby shrugged, playing it casual as he shifted in his seat, though he could still feel the tension buzzing under his skin. “She was s’pposed to,” he replied, “Said she had too much paperwork to deal with. Figured I’d make myself useful.”

Jack huffed, a dry sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, more like an exhale weighed down by years of knowing exactly how things went in his marriage, “Mm,” Jack muttered, more to himself than to Bobby. “Ain’t that just like her.” There wasn’t any venom in his tone, just that worn-out resignation that came from two people living parallel lives under the same roof for far too long. If anything, Jack sounded like a man tallying up debts he’d long since accepted would never be paid.

Truth was, Jack couldn’t blame her. If the roles were reversed, he doubted he’d want to haul around the man who’d spent years keeping one foot in a marriage and the other in someone else’s bed, especially when that someone was a man. Especially when it had lasted sixteen years. Still, guilt pooled in his chest as he leaned heavily on his cane and maneuvered himself closer to the truck. Each motion was stiff, his body reminding him that healing wasn’t a straight line.

Bobby watched his father maneuver into the seat, the cane scraping lightly against the floorboard as Jack propped it within arm’s reach. His hands twitched on instinct, itching to offer help, to steady him, but he knew better. Jack could smell pity a mile away, and he’d swat it down faster than a fly at a picnic. Still, Bobby must’ve let something slip across his face, some flicker of worry he couldn’t quite mask, because Jack caught it immediately. His head snapped around, blue eyes narrowing in that way that always made Bobby feel like he was a kid again and about to get chewed out for tracking mud through the house.

“Robert James Twist,” Jack snapped, edged with a particular brand of parental authority that could make a grown man sit up straighter. “Don’t give me that damn face. I ain’t dead, and I sure as hell don’t need you lookin’ at me like I’m about to keel over.”

Bobby immediately raised both hands, his shoulders hunching in mock surrender as his lips pressed into a pout. “Wasn’t even sayin’ nothin’,” he grumbled. “You’re the one makin’ assumptions.”

Jack snorted, adjusting the angle of his cane and slamming the door shut with a grunt. “Didn’t need to. Your face done said it all.” He gave Bobby a sideways look, one corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You get that from your momma.”

That earned a chuckle from Bobby as he shifted the truck smoothly into reverse, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat as he twisted around to watch behind him. The Silverado responded easily to his touch, rolling backward with a low rumble of the engine. For a fleeting moment, he was pulled back into a memory, one from nearly two years prior, back when he was fifteen and had just earned his learner's permit. Jack had taken him out on a dusty county road to practice, patience wearing thin but still teaching him how to ease the accelerator instead of stomping it, how to brake softly instead of jarring them both forward. Back then, Jack had been the one in control, calm yet firm as he guided Bobby’s every uncertain move.

Now, as Bobby straightened out the truck and gently pressed the gas, easing them onto Seventh Street, he wondered if his father would ever again sit behind the wheel with that same ease. He hated the twist of worry in his gut at the thought, the helpless sense that nothing about their lives would ever fully return to the way it had once been. Lost in these troubling thoughts, Bobby was startled back into the moment by the unmistakable growl of his empty stomach. He grimaced slightly, realizing in his rush to leave the house and cross town, he'd skipped lunch entirely. Beside him, Jack was quietly massaging a knot from his thigh, wincing slightly as he shifted position. His gaze flicked toward Bobby, head tilted slightly, giving him a look that made Bobby think of the puzzled way an old cattle dog might stare when something didn't quite add up.

"You eat anything yet today?" Jack asked gruffly, eyebrow raised in quiet suspicion, like he already knew the answer and was just waiting to confirm it.

Bobby shook his head lightly, offering his father a sheepish half-smile as they cruised past the familiar sight of the high school, its red brick gleaming in the afternoon sun, empty now for winter break. "Nah," he admitted, glancing briefly at Jack before returning his eyes to the black stretch of road ahead. "Skipped lunch gettin' out to you."

Jack sighed, sounding somewhere between amused and gently exasperated. He shifted again in his seat, clearly trying to ease the ache in his back that had become a constant companion since the accident. "Hell, son, ain't no need to go hurryin' back home just to irritate your momma with more trouble." He gave Bobby another thoughtful glance, then nodded slowly as if coming to a decision. "Tell you what, why don’t we head on into town and grab us somethin’ to eat? Could both use it, I reckon."

Bobby felt a small wave of relief wash over him at the suggestion, realizing he'd been secretly hoping for exactly that. The idea of heading home right now, back to the suffocating quiet that filled their house lately, was about as appealing as walking barefoot on a cactus. He nodded firmly, his grip relaxing a little on the steering wheel. "Sounds good to me," he said, feeling some of the earlier heaviness lift from his chest. "Been cravin’ one of those greasy cheeseburgers from the diner anyway."

Jack let out a snort, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a faint smile despite the discomfort he felt. "You're always cravin' somethin' greasy. God forbid you eat a damn vegetable once in a while."

Bobby chuckled, giving his father an exaggerated, mocking look of disgust as he turned onto the main road that led toward the diner. "Hell, Dad, lettuce on the burger counts. Ask anybody."

Jack shook his head with an affectionate kind of exasperation. "Boy, you got more nerve than sense," he groused, lips quirking in a small grin despite himself. "Now hush up and drive, I’m starvin'."

When they pulled into the diner parking lot just off Highway 287, Bobby eased the truck into the spot closest to the door, tires crunching over loose gravel. He didn’t bother pointing out, again, that they could’ve had a reserved spot, could’ve parked right by the damn door, if Jack would just let him apply for the handicap placard. But Bobby had learned years ago that certain fights with his father weren’t worth the energy. Jack Twist would go to his grave limping before he let anyone slap a label on him, even one that’d make things easier. Especially one that’d make things easier. Pride clung to him like a second skin, and no amount of pain, or common sense, could peel it off.

Bobby shifted the truck into park, the engine rattling softly to a halt, and cut a glance toward his father, catching sight of that familiar wince as Jack stretched out his stiff leg. Concern flared on his face before he could stop it, a quick twitch of sympathy that crossed his features like lightning, and just as fast, Jack caught it.

“Lord Almighty, boy,” Jack grunted, dragging his palm down over his face. “There it is again.”

Bobby blinked, playing dumb even though he knew exactly what his dad meant. “There what is?”

“That look. You keep lookin’ at me like I’m some kinda stray dog that got kicked too many times. I told you to cut it out, Bobby. I ain’t helpless yet.”

Bobby rolled his eyes, a sigh puffing past his lips as he clicked his seatbelt free. The belt retracted with a tired whine, echoing his own internal frustration. “I didn’t give you no look, Dad,” he protested, though even he knew it wasn’t entirely true. He pushed open the driver’s side door, letting in the cool evening air. “Hell, I’m just hungry, is all. Listenin’ to you complain about how I look at you ain’t exactly gonna fill my stomach.”

Jack snorted softly at that, trying and failing to disguise the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. He grabbed hold of his cane, gripping it firmly as if daring it to betray him, and swung open his own door with a quiet grunt of effort. The hinges squeaked, sharp and piercing in the dusk, the familiar creak echoing off the diner’s brick walls.

“Well, don’t just sit there gawkin’, then,” Jack shot back, carefully maneuvering himself out of the truck, planting his feet on the gravel, “I ain’t interested in sittin’ here watchin’ you waste away.”

Bobby shook his head, lips curving despite himself, and stepped around the front of the truck, gravel crunching beneath his boots. He hovered just close enough to catch his dad if something went wrong, but not so close that Jack’d notice the safety net and bark at him for it. He knew the line. Jack had drawn it years ago. Pride ran deep in the Twist family, deeper than even stubbornness, and Bobby knew all too well the sting of pity from someone you loved.

Jack steadied himself with the cane and shot his son a pointed glance. “Quit hoverin’, Bobby. You’re makin’ me twitchy.”

“I ain’t hoverin’,” Bobby replied, deadpan, lifting both hands like a man surrendering to the law,  “Just takin’ in the view. Childress is lookin’ real scenic tonight. Real... flat.”

Jack scoffed, eyes narrowing playfully. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, son. Now, let’s get inside before you starve to death on me.”

“I’d never dream of it,” Bobby let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head as he followed his father toward the diner entrance, “Wouldn’t dare insult your finely tuned bullshit detector.”

They made their way inside the diner, the little bell above the door jingling softly as they stepped through. Instantly, Bobby was hit with a wave of nostalgia as familiar smells wrapped around him, fresh coffee, sizzling bacon, and the sweet scent of pies cooling behind the counter. Another memory broke loose at that moment, vivid and warm: sneaking off to this very diner after rodeo practice, back when he was young enough that his boots barely reached the floor from the tall booths. Those afternoons had been their little secret, just him and Jack tucked away in a corner booth, sharing slices of warm apple pie topped with generous scoops of vanilla ice cream. He could still feel the sticky sweetness on his fingers, still hear his father’s quiet laughter whenever he tried to lick every last crumb from the plate.

Bobby’s throat tightened unexpectedly at the thought, a rush of affection flooding his chest. He glanced sidelong at his father now, watching the slow, careful way Jack moved toward an empty booth, cane tapping softly against the worn linoleum floor. How could anyone look at this man and see anything but kindness? How could anyone, his grandfather, hell, even his own mother, meet those gentle blue eyes and feel nothing but resentment?

It seemed impossible, cruel even, that the phrase “You’re just like your father” could be thrown at Bobby like an insult. Those words used to sting, especially when Bobby was younger and didn’t understand why. He knew better now. Knew that what his mother meant wasn’t really about Jack’s parenting, or even his past, it was about his softness. His ability to be gentle, to care deeply and openly. That kind of tenderness had no place in L.D. Newsome’s house, and Lureen, try as she might to bury it, had inherited some of her father’s bitterness. She’d said it like an accusation, like being kind was some flaw passed down in the blood. But Bobby didn’t see it that way. Not anymore. Being like Jack wasn’t a failure, it was the best thing about him.

His father had been nothing but good to him his entire life. Patient when Bobby struggled through his reading, never once calling him dumb like the kids at school did, or worse, like some of his teachers had implied with their sighs and side glances. Jack had fought for him, found him a tutor when no one else seemed to care, raised hell at the schoolhouse until they stopped treating Bobby like he was slow. Jack had never once made Bobby feel less than. He was the reason Bobby had any confidence at all, the reason why college wasn’t just a far-off dream, but an attainable reality. Without his father’s unwavering support, Bobby knew he’d have never dared imagine himself anywhere beyond high school.

He slid into the vinyl booth opposite Jack, letting the weight of that thought settle over him. Bobby wasn’t ashamed to be anything like his father. In fact, if he grew to be half the man Jack Twist was, Bobby figured he'd turn out just fine.

They ordered their food without much fuss, Jack predictably going for his usual, a cheeseburger piled high with all the fixings, fries, and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper to wash it down. Bobby followed suit, though he hesitated a beat longer before settling on the same burger, minus the onions, and swapped the soda for a root beer. The waitress scribbled their order onto her notepad and swept away, leaving them to a quiet, slightly awkward lull as Bobby idly swirled ice cubes around his plastic cup. Tiny droplets of condensation gathered, sliding slowly down the red plastic before pooling onto the paper napkin folded beneath it.

Jack cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. He leaned forward, the vinyl booth cushion creaking softly under his weight as he lowered his voice like they were conspirators sharing something important. “So, Bobby, hear you got prom comin’ up in a few months.” He raised an eyebrow, blue eyes glinting with a hint of curiosity. “You decided who you’re takin’ yet, or you still playin’ hard to get?”

Bobby nearly choked on the sip of root beer he’d just taken, coughing lightly into his sleeve as his face went hot, fast. The blush crept up from his neck to the tips of his ears before he could stop it, and he ducked his head slightly, pretending to study the condensation sliding down the side of his cup. His stomach twisted, uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. Truth be told, prom had barely crossed his mind, even though a handful of girls had already approached him about going. Nice girls, too, pretty, polite, church-going girls with long blonde hair and bright smiles. The kind of girls his mother would approve of without hesitation, well-dressed, well-mannered, always smiling like they knew their place in a family portrait, the kind who looked like they belonged on the arm of a Newsome boy. But none of them made his pulse quicken. None of them made his stomach flutter or his thoughts stumble over themselves like Cody did.

He couldn’t picture it, walking in under those streamers and disco lights with anyone but him. Not when he’d already spent too many late nights imagining the way Cody might look in a starched pearl snap and pressed jeans, boots shined and hair combed back. Maybe they’d match shirts, something subtle, navy or gray. Maybe they'd laugh about it later, maybe they'd sneak out early and go for a drive instead, just the two of them and the empty backroads. That was the version of prom that lived in Bobby’s chest, warm and so far out of reach it felt like dreaming with his eyes open.

“Uh,” Bobby stumbled, lifting his gaze from the melting ice cubes and forcing a half-hearted shrug. “I ain't... I mean, guess I ain’t really thought about it too much yet.” Bobby didn’t dare look at his father again right away, too scared that Jack might see through it. See all the thoughts Bobby had already had about prom, about Cody, about everything he couldn’t say out loud.

Jack’s expression shifted into mild surprise, brows drawing together in confusion as he settled back against the booth’s worn vinyl. He gave Bobby an assessing glance, clearly puzzled. His son was popular, well-liked at school, and never seemed short on attention, surely he must have had his pick of the litter. Jack tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to catch a clearer look at his son from another angle, maybe trying to reconcile what he was hearing with the boy he thought he knew.

“Well now,” Jack drawled slowly, folding his arms across his chest as he studied Bobby carefully, “That don’t make a whole lotta sense. Good-lookin’ boy like you, oughta have your pick lined up by now. Ain’t none of them gals catch your eye?”

The question landed soft, but it still made Bobby flinch. Not because of how it was said, there was no bite in Jack’s tone, no accusation. Just honest bewilderment. A father trying to figure out his son. A man reaching for a puzzle piece that didn’t fit where he thought it would.

Bobby had rehearsed this moment so many times it had started to feel like a bad habit, like biting his nails or picking at a scab that never quite healed. Every night for weeks, he’d laid in bed staring up at the ceiling, the glow of his alarm clock slicing through the dark, counting the slow seconds while his mind ran circles around itself. He’d picture Jack sitting across from him, just like now, and he’d try to get the words out. In his mind, the conversation always twisted into something awful. Sometimes Jack’s face turned to stone, mouth pulling tight with disgust like the truth Bobby was carrying had curdled the air. Sometimes Jack’s voice, usually so warm, turned sharp and cold, laced with words Bobby wasn’t sure he’d survive hearing. Other times, Jack just stood up and walked away, leaving Bobby sitting alone in the ruins of whatever courage he’d managed to scrape together.  Bobby had spent enough time around his grandfather to know exactly how men like L.D. Newsome would’ve reacted. Bobby had heard that voice enough to echo it in his own head now, spitting venom from the grave: Ain’t raisin’ no sissy. Ain’t no boy of mine gonna grow up twisted. It made his stomach turn just thinking it, even if he knew Jack wasn’t like that. He could still remember the way L.D. had spat those words like they were poison in his mouth, especially when Jack came back from one of those long “fishing trips” looking a little too content, a little too far away in his own head.

But even through all that dread, all those imagined endings, Bobby had never stopped hoping. Beneath the fear, deeper than the anxiety that clawed at him every time he thought too long about who he was and who he loved, lived a small, stubborn hope. One that clung tight to a single, shining belief: If anyone could hear the truth and still look him in the eye, it’d be his dad. Jack had never been like the other men Bobby grew up around. He wasn’t his grandfather, sneering and snapping at anything that didn’t fit his narrow view of what a man should be. 

Jack didn’t snap when Bobby messed up. He didn’t raise his voice or slam his fists on the table. He didn’t look through Bobby like he was a problem that needed solving. He didn’t throw around slurs like horseshoes at a county fair. Jack had always been… different. Softer in the ways that mattered. Fierce when it counted.  Still, knowing all that, remembering every soft word, every second chance Jack had given him, didn’t make it easier when the moment finally arrived. Courage didn’t feel like some blazing fire in his chest. It felt like a frayed rope he was clutching with both hands, terrified of what would happen when it finally snapped.

Bobby’s hand drifted to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair as if searching for some anchor, some grounding point to keep him steady. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, flushing his ears as he darted a glance around the diner. The clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from a booth across the room, it all carried on like nothing was about to change. No one paid them any mind. Just a father and son in a corner booth, sharing a meal. No one could’ve guessed that Bobby Twist’s world was about to tilt on its axis.

He swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump lodged in his throat.

“No, Dad. I—” His voice cracked, so he cleared it quickly, his gaze flickering down to the table where his fingers tightened around the sweating plastic cup. He could feel the chill of it seeping into his skin, grounding him. “I… I don’t wanna go with any of the girls. Least not these ones. They’re too much like Mom.”

He dared a glance upward, catching his father’s furrowed brow, the way Jack’s head tilted just slightly, like he was trying to hear Bobby clearer.

This was it. The line he’d been circling for years. He took one more breath, deep, shaky, and stepped over it.

“I’d…” His voice faltered again. He forced himself to say it before the fear dragged him back under. “I’d rather go with a boy.” His throat closed up on the last word, and he had to shove the name out fast, before he lost the nerve altogether, “I wanna take Cody.”

Bobby felt like he’d dropped a live grenade between them, his chest tight, pulse thundering in his ears. All he could focus on was the plastic cup beneath his hands, gripped so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. The condensation slicked his palms, cold water dripping down between his fingers, but he didn’t dare let go. If he did, he wasn’t sure his hands wouldn’t start trembling.

For a long moment, Jack said nothing. His expression didn’t twist with disgust, didn’t harden into something unrecognizable. Instead, he just stared at Bobby like he was piecing something together that he’d known, deep down, for longer than Bobby had probably known himself.

Jack leaned back slowly against the worn leather of the booth, exhaling through his nose like a man who’d been holding his breath without realizing it. His fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the table, a thoughtful rhythm more than anything tense. His eyes, those sharp, knowing blue eyes, never left Bobby’s.

“Well,” he said, calm as you please, like they were talking about something ordinary. Like Bobby had just told him he’d flunked a quiz or was thinking about switching electives. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

There was no judgment in his tone. No anger. Just a quiet acceptance, laced with a hint of understanding that made Bobby’s chest ache.

Jack reached for his Dr. Pepper, taking a slow sip like he needed a second to gather his thoughts. His palm brushed over the condensation clinging to the side, smearing a dark streak of water across the cheap formica tabletop, almost mirroring what Bobby had done not minutes before.

“You know,” Jack continued, almost reflective now, “When I was your age… didn’t even know it was possible to say somethin’ like that out loud. Not without…” He trailed off, a shadow flickering behind his eyes, memories Bobby couldn’t begin to guess at. Jack shook his head faintly, clearing whatever had crept in. “Takes guts, Bobby. More’n most folks got.”

Bobby stared at his father for a long moment, the words settling around him in a quiet hush. He had expected a lot of things, anger, disappointment, even awkward silence, but calm acceptance wasn't among them. He tilted his head, brows pinching, the confusion spreading across his features like storm clouds rolling in. Something about his dad’s tone didn’t sit right. Not because it was wrong, but because it felt too close. Too knowing. Jack hadn’t responded like someone trying to comfort his son from the outside. No, his voice had carried the weight of memory, not sympathy. When I was your age. That phrase clanged around inside Bobby’s head like a bell rung too hard, echoing in every corner of his chest. 

Bobby’s stomach knotted. It twisted in on itself so tight it nearly made him queasy, and not from fear this time, but from the understanding that he was hearing something he never imagined he’d hear. Not from his father. Not from the man who’d married his mother, who had helped him saddle his first horse, who had carried him, half-asleep, into the house after long days. Who’d navigated Bobby’s upbringing in a home that, at least from the outside, looked as conventional as any other. It was hard to imagine Jack harboring anything similar inside himself, yet there was something in his father's tone, a hidden depth Bobby had never noticed before.

"Wait," Bobby finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper, "What… What do you mean, Dad? When you were my age…?" His eyes searched his father’s face, trying to find the lines of a story he hadn’t realized he was living in the middle of.

Jack's gaze dropped momentarily to the table, fingers tracing patterns in the puddle of condensation left by his cup. For a moment he looked hesitant, as though carefully weighing how much he could afford to reveal right here in the diner. He cleared his throat gently, eyes flicking back up to meet Bobby's, steady but cautious.

"I mean," Jack began slowly, choosing his words with care, "When I was your age, I knew what it felt like not wantin' what everybody expected me to want. Not feelin' the way folks said I oughta feel."

Bobby blinked again, his thoughts stumbling to keep pace with the revelation forming just out of reach, “So… wait,” he said, voice cracking under the weight of realization. He shook his head a little, trying to clear the fog that was closing in. “You’re tellin’ me you—?”

Jack lifted a hand, palm up, gently cutting Bobby off. His expression softened, his eyes gentle despite the faint tension in his jaw. "I reckon what I'm sayin' is… maybe the apple didn't fall far from the tree." He paused, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not as far as you'd think, anyhow."

Bobby stared at his father like he was trying to see him through a fogged-up window, heart pounding, breath catching in his throat. Confusion flickered hot behind his eyes, but it was the panic that curled around the edges that made his hands tremble. It hit all at once, this sudden, dizzying sense that the floor under him had shifted, that the rules he'd been raised with, the image of his family, the man across from him, all of it had been quietly rewritten while he wasn’t looking.
 

"If you're… y'know, like that, then what about Mom? About us?" He swallowed thickly, fingers gripping the edge of the table now as though steadying himself against a sudden tilt in his world. "You're still my real dad, right?"

Jack’s expression shifted sharply from calm reassurance into something fiercely protective. He leaned forward, ignoring the ache that pulled at his spine, eyes blazing with an intensity that Bobby had rarely seen. “Bobby, look at me,” he said firmly, “Ain’t nothin’ like that, you hear me, son? You’re mine, always have been. Don’t you go worryin’ otherwise.”

The words hit Bobby like a wave, grounding, but they also left him struggling in their wake, fighting to surface from his confusion. His mind twisted back, trying to find moments, clues, something to hold onto that might’ve hinted at this hidden part of his father. But there was nothing obvious, nothing concrete. Just vague memories, long weekends his father disappeared, the arguments behind closed doors, the distance between his parents that now felt clearer, more painful. He pressed a hand to his forehead, thumb and forefinger digging gently into his temple like he could rub the thoughts away. “Then… you an’ Mom…” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Didn’t know how to ask what he meant, not really. But Jack seemed to understand anyway.

Jack’s shoulders sagged as he leaned back against the booth, weariness settling over him like a heavy blanket. He rubbed at the back of his neck, jaw tight as he searched for the right words. “Me an’ your momma… we tried, Bobby. We did. Thought if I tried hard enough, pretended enough, maybe it'd start feelin’ right.” He shook his head slowly, regret coloring his expression. “But it never did. You can't spend your life pretendin’, son, it eats you up from the inside. I don’t regret what we had,” Jack said, voice soft now. “Not for a minute. ‘Cause it gave me you. And I’d do it all over again if it meant I still got to be your dad.”

Bobby looked down at his hands, his thoughts whirling like a storm he couldn’t quite control. It was as if his life, once familiar and clear, had suddenly become something entirely different. Yet, in all that chaos, one thing remained steady, the honesty in Jack’s eyes, the truth etched plainly across his face.

“Is…is that why you and Mom are gettin’ a divorce?” His voice was barely audible, uncertain and slow like he was feeling his way through a dark room. As soon as the question left his lips, a wave of heat rushed up his neck, blooming in his ears. It felt dumb now, childish, even. Obvious. Like saying the sky looked a little blue today. Of course it was. What else could it be? He suddenly felt foolish, like asking had only confirmed how far behind he really was.

Jack, meanwhile, let out a chuckle, the tension seeming to ease just slightly from his expression, replaced by a sort of amusement at Bobby’s flustered state. "Bobby, listen," Jack said gently, leaning forward a bit, his voice low enough that only his son could hear him over muted diner conversation. "Ain't like your momma an' me suddenly woke up one day and figured it all out. Truth is, we been driftin' apart for years, long before I ended up like this." He gestured vaguely at his leg, cane leaning close at his side, the silent reminder of how everything had changed.

“I’m real sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, son,” Jack continued softly, sincerity threading through every syllable, his expression shifting to something regretful. It wasn’t fair, and Jack knew it. Bobby had been kept in the dark so long he barely knew where the light switch was. "Shoulda told you the truth sooner, but I reckon your momma and I both thought we were protectin' you. Hell, maybe we were just protectin' ourselves."

Bobby's mind was already racing ahead, desperate to grasp onto something, hell, anything, that might help him make sense of it all. And then, like a switch flipped in his mind, an awful thought rushed in from nowhere and hit him dead in the chest. His spine stiffened. His eyes went wide. He jolted upright so fast the salt shaker rattled against the formica. Randall Malone, the ranch foreman who always seemed to hover around his dad just a little too close, always watching Jack with an intensity Bobby never quite understood.

“Oh God—” Bobby blurted out sharply, the words escaping louder than intended, earning a startled glance from the older couple two booths over. He quickly pressed a hand over his mouth, feeling his stomach churn. Lowering his voice to a strained whisper, Bobby continued, eyes flickering back to Jack with barely disguised panic. “Dad…please don’t tell me you’re leavin’ Mom for Randall Malone.”

The name Randall left Bobby’s lips with a sour bitterness, like something spoiled had touched his tongue. Truth was, he’d never much liked Randall, or his wife LaShawn who chattered endlessly, wearing on Bobby’s patience until it frayed thin. Bobby didn’t like either of them. Never had. Something about Randall always rubbed him the wrong way. Bobby had chalked it up to his own sour mood or maybe jealousy, but now? Now, it felt like everything had been hiding in plain sight.  He couldn’t imagine, refused to imagine, that the man sitting across from him, his father, would leave his mother behind for someone like that.

Jack’s expression twisted sharply into confusion before rapidly giving way to distaste, as if the mere suggestion of leaving Lureen for Randall Malone had physically sickened him. He shook his head emphatically, eyes wide with genuine surprise. "Jesus, Bobby, no," Jack said quickly, almost horrified at the thought, his voice rough with a sort of incredulous amusement. "Randall ain't got a damn thing to do with me leavin' your momma. Sure, we had…somethin', I guess, but it wasn’t…" 

Jack hesitated, searching Bobby’s face as if worried he might misunderstand further. "Wasn't like that. Randall was just somethin' to fill an empty space. A distraction. Weren’t nothin’ like what I’ve got with—” He stopped short, just for a second, like the name stuck in his throat. Then he exhaled through his nose, eyes softening as he surrendered to it. “Not like what I have with Ennis.”

Bobby blinked. The name landed like a stone in a pond, sending slow ripples across the surface of his thoughts. His brows furrowed almost immediately, confusion blooming all over again. He tilted his head, squinting slightly like the word had come from a language he didn’t speak, “Ennis?” he echoed, cautious, trying it out loud like it might jog something loose. “Who the hell’s Ennis?”

Jack’s expression softened instantly, smoothing away the hard edges left behind by the mention of Randall. A slight, distant smile curved his lips, his gaze shifting as though he was looking past Bobby, somewhere far beyond the diner walls, caught in the memories that danced through his mind.

“You don’t know him,” Jack murmured gently, “He was around long before you, Bobby, hell, even before your momma. Me and Ennis, we go way back. ‘63. Brokeback Mountain. We weren’t much older’n you are now.”

Bobby didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. The pieces were falling into place now. He remembered hearing his dad mention Brokeback before, never in detail, just in passing. A story half-told with a strange glint in his eye, a far-off kind of fondness that Bobby never understood until now. It had always seemed like just another one of those things adults remembered fondly. But it wasn’t.

This wasn’t just some old camping trip. This was the story. The one his father had never told.

Bobby swallowed hard, trying to process what it meant to suddenly know there had been a whole other part of his father’s life, one buried under silence and expectation. A door he hadn’t known was there had swung wide open, and on the other side was a version of Jack Twist he was only now beginning to understand.

His voice came out quieter this time, gentle, like he didn’t want to shatter the fragile truth now blooming between them. “Does Mom know about Ennis?”

Jack nodded slowly, the smile fading into a regretful line. “Yeah, son. She knows. Always has.” He let out a quiet sigh, reaching up to rub the back of his neck, the old ache settling deep into his bones. “Guess we all just figured pretendin’ was easier than talkin’ about it.”

Bobby leaned back slightly in the booth, eyes wide, taking in the look on his father’s face. His world had shifted tonight in ways he couldn’t have imagined, and yet, amidst all the confusion, he found himself feeling a strange kind of relief. It felt like something heavy had been lifted from his shoulders, like his father’s honesty had somehow made it easier to breathe.

“Guess we ain’t pretendin’ anymore, huh?” Bobby finally said, a faint smile forming at the corner of his lips.

Jack chuckled softly, relief clear in his voice as he met Bobby’s eyes. “No,” he said firmly, warmth spreading through his chest as he saw the quiet acceptance in Bobby’s gaze. “No more pretendin’. Reckon we done enough of that to last us both a lifetime.”

Chapter Text

After that night at the diner, something shifted between Bobby and his father. Bobby found himself volunteering to pick Jack up from his physical therapy appointments, even when it meant skipping out early on something else. It was never a big production, keys in hand, waiting by the door while Jack wrangled his coat and cane. If anyone asked, he’d just say he happened to be free, but the truth was, it felt good to be needed. Even better, maybe, to know he wasn’t the only one carrying something heavy on the inside. He hadn’t expected to find this kind of guidance from Jack. Hell, most of his life, he’d been sure his father was a closed book. Now it turned out there were whole chapters Bobby had never read, pages full of advice he never thought he’d want but was grateful to get.

That afternoon, the sky was a dull gray, clouds hanging low over the endless fields on the outskirts of Childress. The truck’s heater was working overtime, warm air blasting at their feet, windows fogged faintly around the edges. Jack sat in the passenger seat, staring out across the flat, empty miles, silent for so long Bobby almost thought he’d dozed off. But then Jack let out a long, thoughtful sigh and turned his head. "Bobby."

It was just his name, but Bobby’s pulse jumped anyway. He reached for the volume knob on the radio, thumb and forefinger turning it down until the music faded to a distant lull, “Yeah, Dad?”

Jack shifted in his seat, drumming anxious fingers against his thigh, then smoothing his jeans like he could iron out whatever tension was sitting between them. “You ever think about talkin’ to your momma? Tellin’ her how you been feelin’?”

Bobby felt his stomach knot itself up tight at the question, making it hard to even sit still behind the wheel. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it. Hell, he thought about it too much. It kept him up at night, restless in his bed, staring at the ceiling while his mind spun out every awful possibility. At first, all that fear had been tangled up in telling his father, but now that bridge had been crossed, and the road ahead led straight to his mother.

The idea of telling her felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, toes hanging over the rocks, knowing full well there might be nothing but cold water below. Bobby didn't want to find out if she would catch him, or let him fall. For most of his life, he had been her good boy, her pride, the proof that she had done something right. And he figured, for the longest time, that her idea of perfect had been stitched up with all the same threads his grandparents had used: clean-cut, well-mannered, straight as a fencepost. Anything less would be a stain, a black mark that wouldn't wash out no matter how hard he tried.

Too often now, Bobby caught himself hearing his grandfather's voice in the back of his head, slipping out from old memories he wished he could scrub clean. He could hear the way his grandfather spoke about Jack when he thought Bobby was too young to understand, spitting out the word "queer" like it tasted foul in his mouth. That same tone haunted Bobby when he thought about confessing the truth to his mother. What if that same ugliness dripped from his mother's mouth?

He could already imagine sitting across the dinner table from her, the same table where they had shared every Thanksgiving, every Christmas morning, every celebration that was supposed to stitch them closer together. Could he survive looking up and seeing only coldness where her warmth used to be? Could he survive seeing the love in her eyes drain away, replaced by something cold?

Would she look at him like a stranger? Some foreign thing she no longer recognized?

Would she say it, the way his grandfather had said it about Jack? Would she brand him with that word, shove it between his ribs and leave it there to fester?

Would she still see him as her son, the boy she patched up after he crashed his bike, the one she cheered for at rodeo competitions? Or would all of that vanish like breath on a cold morning, gone the second the truth hung in the air between them?

Bobby didn't know. And if he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

"Bobby…" Jack hated it, that look he caught flickering across Bobby's face now and again. It was the same look Jack had worn for half his life, back when he was still fool enough to think hiding his heart would keep it from breaking. Jack shifted uncomfortably in the seat, his hand drumming a restless rhythm against his knee once again before falling still. 

His next words came as if he were setting something fragile between them and praying it didn't shatter, "I ain't gonna lie to you. It's gonna be hard. Might be real hard. But your momma…" Jack paused, eyes tracing the horizon like he was searching for the right words. "She loves you, son. More'n anything on God's green earth. Always has."

Bobby let out a humorless laugh, the kind that scraped at his throat and burned more than it relieved. It didn't sound like him, it sounded like something he'd heard before in voices lowered to a hush behind closed doors. He kept his eyes locked hard on the stretch of highway ahead, the yellow dashed lines blurring and sharpening with every blink.

"Yeah?" he muttered, the word brittle between his teeth, "Granddad loved me too, didn't he? What d'you reckon he'd say now... if he knew what I was?"

The words hurt coming out, scraping him raw on the way up, but he made himself say them anyway. It was better than locking them down where they could fester. Better than pretending he hadn't spent years worrying he might open his mouth one day and find his grandfather's hate pouring out instead of his own voice.

Jack's mouth pressed into a thin line, and he didn't answer right away. Instead, he stared out across the fields speeding past outside the window. Bobby could see the way his father's jaw worked, the muscles jumping as he ground his teeth together, wrestling down the anger he wasn't aiming at Bobby, but at all the men like his father who'd made boys like them afraid to breathe easily.

"Your granddad was a sorry son of a bitch," Jack said, each word landing like a hammer. "Mean as they come. Mean enough to make a man like me think he wasn't worth the dirt under his boots. And if I didn't hate him then, I sure as hell do now. For puttin' that poison in your head. For makin' you believe," Jack turned then, fixing Bobby with a look so fierce it almost hurt to meet it, "For makin' you believe there's anythin' wrong with you."

Bobby blinked hard, his vision blurring at the edges despite every ounce of stubbornness he tried to summon. His throat worked around a lump he couldn't quite swallow down. He bit the inside of his cheek until the bitter taste of blood bloomed there, anything to keep from crying like some scared little kid in front of his father.

"You ain't in this alone, son," Jack's voice settled around Bobby like a hand against his back, keeping him upright. "I know it feels like it sometimes. Like you're standin' there in the dark and nobody's ever gonna reach for you. I know that feelin' 'cause I lived it. But you listen to me real close now, alright? I promise you, no matter what your momma says, no matter how this goes... I ain't gonna let you walk through it by yourself."

Bobby clung to those words like a man holding onto driftwood in a storm. He didn't know what waited for him on the other side of this, didn't know if his mother's love would survive the truth he was about to hand her, but at least he knew he wouldn't be alone when the water closed in around him.

❖

Bobby lingered outside his mother's office longer than he'd care to admit, his boots planted on the hallway carpet like they'd grown roots. Every time Bobby glanced over his shoulder, there was Jack, slouched on the couch like he didn't have a care in the world, giving him that damn thumbs-up again. Like that simple gesture could somehow make this easier. It didn't. But Bobby knew it came from a good place, so he mustered a weak smirk in return before turning back to stare down the office door like it was the gates of hell.

His palms were sweating again, no matter how many times he wiped them against the denim of his jeans. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in places it shouldn't, his throat, his ears, even the tips of his fingers. Every breath felt too shallow, like his lungs weren't working right. He hadn't felt this keyed up since the last time he sat in the chute, knuckles white around the bull rope, waiting for the gate to fly open. With a shaky breath, Bobby finally raised his hand and knocked, each rap of his knuckles sounding louder than it should've in the quiet house. It was just a door. Just his mom. But Christ, it felt like he was about to jump off a cliff with no promise of what waited at the bottom.

He heard the familiar click of keys on her adding machine, the rhythmic tapping that usually filled this part of the house when Lureen was working late. For a moment, he figured she might not even hear him. But then came her voice, softening the moment she glanced up and saw who it was.

"C'mon in, honey. You know you don't gotta knock."

Bobby forced a smile. Yeah, he knew. But knocking gave him those extra few seconds to breathe, to pretend he had a choice. He crossed the threshold, boots sinking into the carpet, silently hoping she'd forgive him for not kicking them off like she usually preferred. Then again, he figured boots on the carpet would be the least of her concerns once he said what he came here to say.

He sat down in the chair opposite her desk, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve now that his palms were too clammy to rest comfortably. Lureen gave him that look, the one she reserved just for him. All warmth and motherly pride, the kind of look that used to make him feel safe when he was little. Now it just twisted the knife deeper, knowing he was about to shatter whatever image of him she still held onto.

"Everythin' alright, sweetheart? I already took care of your cap and gown order. Didn't forget anythin' else, did I?" She smiled, always on top of things, always the picture of a mother who had her son's future planned out nice and neat.

That made Bobby's throat tighten. God, she really didn't see this coming.

He shook his head, a nervous laugh escaping before he could catch it. "No, Mom… it ain't that. You've been great with all that stuff. It's just… there's somethin' I need to tell you."

The weight of those words hung between them, thick enough to choke on. His stomach twisted up so tight he thought he might be sick right there on the carpet. His brain screamed at him to shut up, to turn this into a conversation about college or rodeo or anything else that wouldn't turn his world upside down. But he couldn't back out now.

Lureen tilted her head slightly, her smile fading into something more cautious. "Alright… What is it?"

It almost made it worse when she went back to her adding machine, fingers tapping away like this was just another casual chat. Bobby stared at her hands moving over the keys, trying to find the courage buried somewhere in his chest. His voice barely worked when he finally pushed the words out.

"Mom, I… I know you've been askin' about prom. About why I ain't found a girl yet." He paused, swallowing hard, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. His hands were trembling now, so he clenched them into fists against his knees. "It's 'cause… I don't want to take a girl."

The tapping didn't stop. For a second, Bobby thought maybe she hadn't heard him right. Hell, maybe she was just ignoring it, pretending if she didn't look at him, it wouldn't be real.

"I… I'd rather take a boy," he finished, voice cracking despite how hard he tried to steady it. His eyes dropped to the floor, staring at the pattern in the carpet like it could anchor him through the storm he was sure was coming. "I like boys, Mom."

The adding machine kept clicking. Bobby's heart sank. He could hear his pulse thundering in his ears, drowning out everything else. Christ, she was really gonna pretend he hadn't said a damn thing. Maybe that was worse than yelling, worse than anger. Maybe silence meant she was already writing him off, filing this moment away as something best forgotten.

"That's nice, honey."

The words were automatic, distant, like she was answering a question she hadn't actually listened to. But then, just as quickly, the typing stopped. Bobby's breath caught as he saw her head snap up, eyes wide like she'd just been slapped awake.

"I'm sorry?" Lureen's voice was laced with confusion as her brows knit together. "Hold on… What did you just say?"

Bobby felt his mouth go dry. His chest was tight, panic clawing its way up his throat. He forced himself to meet her eyes, even though every instinct screamed at him to look away, to run.

"I said…" he began, barely above a whisper now, "I said I like boys."

For a few terrible seconds, Bobby wished he could take it all back. Wished he could snatch the words right out of the air, stuff them back inside his chest where they could rot away in peace. Anything to erase the stunned look on his mother's face, the way her shoulders had stiffened like someone had punched the air out of her.

He dropped his gaze again, his fingers tightening around the hem of his jeans until the denim bit into his skin. The room felt too hot all of a sudden, like he was trapped under a magnifying glass, every flaw he ever had laid bare under the weight of her stare. He braced himself for it, the sharp recoil, the disgust he'd spent years imagining in the dead of night when he thought about what would happen if she ever knew.

Lureen sat frozen for a long moment, her hands idle on the desk, her thoughts spiraling in too many directions to catch hold of any single one. The words she meant to say, so many of them, evaporated before they could reach her tongue, dissolving into the air between them. Nothing she'd rehearsed in her mind had prepared her for this moment. For her son, looking at her with eyes full of dread, like the truth he'd just shared might come back at him like a slap across the face. And God, wasn't that the worst part of it? That he thought she might look at him like something ugly.

She could never see him as anything ugly. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next.

Instead, she saw her little boy, the one who used to beg her to cut the crusts off his sandwiches and crawled into her bed when the wind howled too loud against the windows. That boy was still sitting in front of her, but he was older now. Taller, stronger, with Jack's square shoulders and blue eyes. His voice had dropped, and his boots tracked in more dirt than she liked. But underneath it all, he was still her Bobby. Always had been. Always would be. She wasn't angry. That wasn't what this was. But there was a part of her that had clung tightly to the kind of life she once wanted for Bobby. A simple life. A safe one. The kind where he married a sweet girl from a good family, had a couple of kids, settled down into something normal. A life where nobody questioned him, mocked him, whispered behind his back, or used the word "queer" like it was poison on their tongue.

She had prayed for that future. Literally. She had sat up in bed more than once after Bobby had gone to sleep, hands folded in her lap, begging whatever God would listen to make it true. Not because she couldn't love her son for who he was, she loved him more than anything, but because she knew the world could be cruel, and she wanted to spare him from it. From the scrutiny. The small-town snickering. The way people twisted their mouths when they thought something didn't fit the picture they wanted to see. She had wanted him to be happy, and she had mistaken ease for happiness.

She thought of Jack. The younger version of Jack. The man she'd married. The way he used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was talking, the way he used to pull her close while dancing in the kitchen when the radio played something slow. He hadn't looked at her like that in years. That man had faded quietly out of reach before Bobby was old enough to notice. And she had waited, God, how long she had waited, for him to come back to her. Waited until waiting became her whole life.

Now she was putting the house up for sale. The same house she'd once pictured filled with the next generation of Twists. There'd be no Christmas stockings for grandkids over the fireplace. No Jack beside her at the kitchen table telling stories while Bobby's children giggled into their plates.

But even as those old dreams slipped through her fingers, she knew this, at least Bobby hadn't been forced to wear a mask like his father had. At least he wasn't going to break himself trying to fit into a life that would never belong to him. Tears stung her eyes before she could stop them, but she didn't try to blink them away. Instead, she reached out across the desk, laying her palms flat on the cool wood, wordlessly inviting him in.

Bobby took her hand without hesitation, his grip tight, like he was hanging on for dear life. Lureen felt it then, that swell of sorrow that came not from disappointment, but from the knowledge that her son had walked around for years with this fear clutched to his chest. That he had imagined, more than once, her recoiling from him. That he had played this moment out in his head a dozen times with a dozen ugly endings. And still, he had come here anyway. Still, he had told her the truth.

Despite all the poison her father had put out into the world, dripped slow as oil, year after year, woven through football games, rodeo meets, Thanksgiving dinners, even on quiet afternoons when Bobby would hunch over her office desk with his schoolbooks while L.D. spewed bile about "queers," calling Jack a fairy, sharpening his tongue for anyone who strayed out of line, Bobby had still come to her. He'd carried this secret, this delicate, heavy truth, right up to her door and laid it bare between them, knowing full well that it could all blow up in his face. He must've known the risks. How could he not?

Lureen's chest ached at the thought. She had watched Bobby endure it all, had seen the way he would stiffen and withdraw, shoulders tensing whenever his grandfather started in on one of his rants. She remembered the way Bobby's eyes would flick to her, searching her face for any sign that she was on his side, that she would shield him from the worst of it. And she had tried, oh, how she had tried, to smooth things over, to distract L.D., to send Bobby off on errands, anything to keep that hate from seeping in too deep. But there was only so much shelter a mother could offer against a man like her father.

Through all those years, Bobby had carried this secret like a stone in his pocket. He'd come to her now, heart in his hands, knowing full well how badly it could go. He'd risked everything, her love, his place in the family, maybe even the only home he'd ever known, by telling her the truth. And in that moment, Lureen understood just how much courage it took to walk through that minefield, to set himself down in front of her and wait for judgment to fall. Maybe it made Bobby braver than she could ever claim to be. Braver than she'd been at his age, when she'd swallowed down her own doubts and fears, done what was expected, married Jack even when the edges never quite fit. Braver than she'd been for years, holding her silence, watching her father's words warp her home, and telling herself that keeping peace was the same as keeping love alive.

Looking at her son now, tears rolling silently down her cheeks, Lureen felt a rush of pride so sharp it almost hurt. Bobby had chosen honesty. He'd chosen to trust her with the truth of who he was, even if it meant risking everything. She blinked hard, trying to hold back fresh tears as she reached across the desk for his hand. There was grief in her, yes, grief for the dreams she'd quietly clung to, the ones where her son grew up and followed a path that made sense to the world. But wrapped around that grief, was pride. And love. So much of it it almost frightened her. "You're braver than anyone I know, Bobby," she whispered,  "You always have been. I'm so damn proud of you."

Bobby gave a sheepish laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. He let her hold his hand, but reached back with his other, ruffling a hand through his curls in that familiar way he always did when nerves started creeping up his spine. "So… you'd still be proud," he muttered, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth, "if I told you it was Cody I was thinkin' of takin'? To prom, I mean."

Because Lord, if there was one thing Bobby Twist knew, it was what his mama thought of Cody Weller. Hadn't exactly kept it to herself over the years. They'd been thick as thieves since they were both barely out of elementary school, running around in matching pearl-snap shirts during Peewee Bullriding meets. There were old photo albums at home full of the two of them grinning side by side, faces dust-smudged, knuckles scraped raw from backyard wrestling matches or stupid dares gone sideways. Best friends. Inseparable. By the time they hit high school, Bobby might as well have had his own room at the Weller place, and Cody spent so many nights crashed on the Twist family couch she'd stopped bothering to fold up the spare blanket. They showed up at each other's houses unannounced, cleaned out the fridge like it was their God-given right, and spent more time in the barn loft or down by the lake than they did under any grown-up supervision. Nobody ever questioned it. Boys needed a friend they could count on, folks said. Nobody thought twice when they showed up everywhere together.

Nobody would've thought twice if they showed up to prom together, two old friends sticking close in a sea of awkward teenage couples. They could've played it off easy, grinning for the pictures, cracking jokes at the punch bowl, leaving no one the wiser. But Bobby knew better. So did Cody. Somewhere along the line, it had stopped being just friendship. Somewhere along the way, those long nights lying under the stars, swapping stories and stealing glances when they thought the other wasn't looking, had turned into something else.

And if anyone else could miss the difference, Lureen Newsome sure as hell wouldn't. She'd watched them grow up side by side, watched the way Bobby softened around Cody, how their laughter always carried a little further than it should, how they found excuses to be near each other even when they didn't have to be. She'd sat through years of dirt bikes gone sideways, near-misses at rodeos, Cody flashing that shit-eating grin of his when he'd gotten them both in trouble. Cody Weller's name had come up plenty of times at their dinner table, usually paired with words like reckless, bad influence, and when's that boy gonna cut his damn hair?

Lureen exhaled slow, letting it sit in the air between them. She leaned back in her chair, dragging a weary hand across her face, wiping away the tears with the heel of her palm. There was no stopping it now, no putting it back where it came from, "Lord above, Bobby," she said, shaking her head with a faint, tired smile, "You just had to pick that boy, didn't you?"

Bobby's shoulders relaxed just slightly, the barest hint of mischief curling at the corner of his mouth now that the worst part was out in the open. He tipped his head, letting the words tumble out casual-like, easy as breathing, though his pulse was still rabbit-fast in his chest.

"Well yeah, Momma," he said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world, "He's my boyfriend. Who else am I supposed to take?"

For a moment, Lureen just stared at him, blinking slow like her mind was trying to rewire itself around what she'd just heard,  "Your what?" she repeated, more stunned than anything. Like she'd stepped on something unexpected in the dark.

And Bobby, bless him, didn't flinch. He sat up straighter in his chair, planting his elbows on his knees, meeting her gaze head-on. There was a tremble hiding beneath the words, nerves coiled tight in his gut, but he didn't let them take his voice from him.

"My boyfriend," he repeated, slower this time, clearer, steady as he could make it. "Has been for a little while now."

Lureen leaned back in her chair, the old wood groaning beneath her like it shared the weight pressing against her chest. Her arms rested heavy in her lap, fingers curled loosely, and for a long moment, she didn't say a word. Just sat there, letting it all settle, the truth of it, the strange kind of comfort that came with knowing more, even when that knowing stung a little. A boyfriend. Her boy had a boyfriend.

And not just any boy, but Cody Weller. Who she'd spent the better part of the last decade cursing under her breath for every late-night call from the sheriff's office that started with, "Now, don't panic, but we got your boys down here again.", every broken bone and missed curfew. Cody, who'd been in and out of her living room so many times over the years that she sometimes swore she was raising two boys instead of one. He was like some stray mutt that no amount of shouting or shoe-throwing could scare off. Always coming back, tail wagging, dragging Bobby along for whatever trouble he'd cooked up next. She'd spent years warning Bobby to be careful around him, waiting for the day he'd wise up and leave Cody in the dust.

And now here they were.

She let out a breath, and shook her head, more in resignation than disbelief, "Well," she said finally, "Guess that explains a whole hell of a lot."

Bobby blinked, thrown off by the absence of shouting or disappointment, his shoulders still wound tight, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He gave her a cautious glance, like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or brace for impact.

"That a bad thing?" he asked softly, testing the waters. "Me pickin' him?"

Lureen huffed out something close to a laugh, though it was tired and lined with years of worry, "Bobby, I been prayin' for years you'd outgrow that damn boy. And now I find out you fell in love with him instead." She shook her head again, letting the truth of it settle, "Reckon the universe has a sick sense of humor."

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck, boyish all over again, like the years had rolled back to when he was ten and caught sneaking cookies before dinner, "Yeah, well… guess I never had much of a chance. Been him since we were ten, Momma. I just didn't know it back then."

Lureen let her gaze linger on him, really seeing him for the first time in what felt like years. Not just her boy anymore. A man, nearly grown, carrying the same stubborn heart that wouldn't quit, the same fierce loyalty that kept him up at night worrying about people who didn't always deserve it. He wore Jack's strength in the way his shoulders squared when he spoke his truth, and her sharp tongue in the way his words cut straight to the point. But this part, the tenderness, the honesty, that was his alone.

She sighed, leaning forward to take his hand again, squeezing it tight, "Well," she said, softer now, "Then I hope that boy treats you right." A flash of that old fire sparked in her eyes. "'Cause if he don't, Robert James... I'll kill him. Haircut or no haircut."

Bobby laughed then, really laughed the kind of laugh that shook loose the last of the fear clinging to his ribs, "Yeah," he whispered,  "I know."

❖

Prom, just like Bobby expected, turned out to be more stiff collars and side-eyes than anything worth dressing up for. He and Cody had done what they always did for school dances, met up with the other boys from the rodeo team in the high school parking lot, trading insults and chewing the same tired jokes. It should've felt familiar. Should've felt like old times. But it didn't. The other boys greeted them the same as always, but there was something in the glances passed between them. Quick flicks of the eyes, raised brows, a few too-long stares. Not disgust, exactly, more like confusion dressed up in silence. Concern, even. The kind of look that said Can you believe this shit? without needing to speak. All because Bobby and Cody showed up without girls on their arms.

It'd been that way for a while now, though. Ever since the conversations started shifting, when the locker room talk turned to first kisses, fumbling with bra straps, swapping stories about motel rooms and pickup truck backseats. That was when Bobby first started noticing the divide. He and Cody had stopped joining in somewhere around sophomore year. Didn't have much to contribute, and didn't bother pretending. They weren't like the others. Hadn't been for a long time. But he didn't say anything. Didn't call it out. Drawing attention to it would've just kicked up more dust, and Bobby had learned a long time ago that some fires weren't worth feeding. It was easier to let the looks roll off his back than give them a reason to turn their whispers into words.

Cody, though? Cody wasn't wired like that.

Bobby had seen it in him all night, simmering under the surface like a pot about to boil over. The whole drive into town, Cody hadn't said much, fidgeted more than he spoke, boot bouncing against the floorboard, fingers drumming against his thigh like he couldn't sit still. Bobby tried to distract him with dumb jokes and half-hearted comments about the radio, but it didn't stick. Cody was already miles deep in that restless head of his. And Bobby knew exactly when it started. Back at the house, when Grandma had been fussing with Bobby's tie, tugging it tighter than it needed to be, lips pursed like she was trying to bite back what she really wanted to say. She didn't manage.

"Can't believe you're really takin' another boy to prom, Robert James," she said, nose wrinkling like something had spoiled in the room. "You look like one of them damn queers."

Cody froze where he was leaning against the counter, halfway through a sip of his Coke. The bottle hovered in midair, cold glass pressed to his lip, but his eyes had locked hard onto the back of her head like he was working through the odds, how fast he could get across the room, how bad it'd look if he said what he was thinking. Bobby didn't react, not outwardly. He just swallowed around the lump in his throat, cheeks burning, and forced out a quiet, brittle, "I reckon I'll survive," with a smile so paper-thin it could've torn in half if anyone looked too hard at it.

That topic might've lit a fire under the night, but it fizzled quick when Jack and Lureen came bustling in, "There y'all are," Lureen said brightly, like maybe she'd heard and decided to pretend she hadn't. The camera swung from her neck, ready, fingers already fiddling with the settings. Jack followed behind her, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, eyes scanning the room. He caught the tension like a scent in the air, but didn't name it. Just nodded at Cody and said, "Lookin' sharp, fellas," as he moved to lean against the counter, watching.

"Y'all ready?" she chirped, clapping her hands and motioning Bobby and Cody closer. "C'mon now, smile pretty. I want a good one of y'all together."

Bobby moved first, like his boots knew the way before his brain caught up. He stepped into the frame and slung his arm around Cody's shoulders like it was second nature. Cody followed a beat later, falling into the rhythm they'd practiced in secret: lean in, look easy, don't flinch. He hooked his arm around Bobby's neck, tugged him close enough to jostle him a little, and Bobby almost laughed when he realized Cody was giving him bunny ears behind his head. At some point, Cody got him in a headlock, knuckles grinding against his scalp, and Bobby laughed for real, one of those belly laughs he hadn't let out in weeks. His mom caught it right as it happened, the moment Cody let go and Bobby was still grinning, hair sticking up, red-faced and breathless.

Jack chuckled low in the background, and even Lureen smiled, more genuine this time, as she adjusted the camera strap around her neck. "That's the one I'm puttin' in the album," she said, and for a second, it almost felt like the night might go off without a hitch.

Almost.

Because Bobby, in that brief lull, let himself believe it. Let himself think maybe things were gonna be okay. That maybe, just maybe, they could ride out the night without another blow-up or sideways insult.

Now they were parked on a gravel-strewn backroad that looked like every other they'd ever pulled off onto, somewhere between nowhere and a pasture full of mesquite and barbed wire. The truck idled, the headlights dimmed but still catching on the dust swirling in the air outside. Bobby should've known the stretch by heart, he and Cody had driven it enough, windows down, mouths on each other in the dark, boots kicked off and shirts undone, doing things neither of them dared breathe a word of back in town. This road, like so many others, had seen more truth than any church pew ever had.

But tonight wasn't like those nights. Tonight, Bobby sat twisted sideways in the driver's seat, one leg tucked under him, his thigh pressing awkwardly into the steering wheel. His hand was wrapped around a half-thawed Ziploc of ice, dripping steadily onto his jeans, and he held it gently to Cody's face, right over the bruise blooming beneath his eye. The skin was already going from red to purple, swollen tight, the kind of hit that'd be tender for days. Water was running in rivulets down Cody's cheek, disappearing into the collar of his pearl-snap shirt. Of course, Cody refused to hold it himself, said it was fine, didn't need nothin', but Bobby had ignored him and done it anyway, because that's just how it went. Cody got his fool self punched, and Bobby cleaned up after.

He didn't say anything for a long while. Just kept pressing the ice gently to the swelling skin, like if he was careful enough, maybe it'd undo the damage. Maybe it'd fix more than just Cody's busted face. But that was a fool's hope. This was Cody, after all. You could put him in a suit, send him to prom, tell him to behave, but the second someone lit the match, he'd go up in flames like a firecracker in a dry field.

"Y'know," Bobby said finally, breaking the silence without looking at him, "You really didn't have to punch that guy."

Cody shifted, jaw twitching as he turned just enough to glare at him. The movement made him wince, pain flaring behind his swollen eye, but he didn't let that stop him. His brows pulled together like he was trying to make sense of the fact that Bobby would even suggest such a thing, "He called you a fuckin' faggot, Bobby," Cody snapped, each word thick with disgust, not for Bobby, but for the sound of it, like he hated even repeating it. "Ain't no world where I'm lettin' that slide."

Bobby flinched, not at the word, but at the way Cody said it. Loud. Unapologetic. Like it didn't burn in his mouth. It still did in Bobby's. Always had, "Yeah, well," Bobby muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the ice pack instead of Cody's face, "It ain't like it's the first time. Probably won't be the last."

Cody let out a sharp huff through his nose, like a bull about to charge. "An' maybe if someone'd cracked 'em in the jaw the first time, they'd've learned not to open their damn mouths again." He squinted through the swelling, his gaze locked on Bobby like he was trying to make him understand something he couldn't say any other way. "Wasn't even a real hit. That was a love tap, an' you know it."

Bobby sighed, tired already, his shoulders slumped low. "Cody—"

"Naw, don't 'Cody' me," he shot back, already fired up and riding it like a rodeo high. "You think I'm just gonna sit there, listen to some piece'a shit spit that word like it don't matter? Not a fuckin' chance. You" he jabbed a finger toward Bobby's chest, "You ain't just somethin' folks get to spit on. Not while I'm breathin'." He sniffed once, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand, smeared with dried blood and bruised across the knuckles, "Don't care if it makes a scene. Don't care if it gets me kicked outta prom or hauled into the back of a cruiser. I'll take that hit every damn time if it means protectin' you."

Bobby didn't know what the hell to say to that. Every word that passed through his mind felt either too much or not enough, too soft, too heavy, too scared to stick the landing. Nothing felt right. Every phrase he turned over in his head sounded like a lie or a dodge or just plain inadequate. So he said nothing. 

Cody shifted beside him. He never had been good at sitting still. His boot tapped out a nervous rhythm against the floor mat, leg bouncing like it had a mind of its own. He glanced out the windshield, then to the passenger mirror, as if half-expecting headlights to crest the hill, like someone might come haul them back to town and make them answer for everything that had happened. His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, the fire in him banked low but not out, "You mad at me or somethin'?" His voice had gone quiet in the way Cody rarely was, like he was already bracing for the answer, "I mean… I know you're thinkin' somethin', Bobby. You always get real quiet when you're mad. Just figured I oughta ask 'fore I start guessin' wrong."

Bobby didn't answer with words. He didn't need to.

He dropped the bag of ice into the cupholder, fingers lingering for a beat before pulling back. The melted condensation left his skin damp, but he didn't bother to wipe it off. Instead, he shifted closer, the worn vinyl seat creaking under his weight. His knee knocked into the console as he turned, angling his body toward Cody.

Cody didn't flinch. He just looked at him, eyes a little wide, breathing shallow. His lips were parted, chest rising and falling in slow pulls like he was trying to stay calm. Bobby reached out, careful, palm grazing the edge of Cody's jaw. His fingers spread along the curve of his cheekbone, stopping just short of the swelling. He held there for a second, thumb resting beneath Cody's eye, then leaned in and kissed him.The first contact was light, dry. A faint press, lips barely moving. Cody breathed in sharply through his nose. Then, slowly, he responded, his mouth opened just slightly. His hand came up and grabbed the front of Bobby's shirt, knuckles dragging against his chest. He clutched tight, like he needed something to anchor him, and kissed back.

It built gradually, the rhythm finding itself. Their lips brushed, parted, pressed again. Soft, then firmer. Cody tilted his head, chasing the contact, his breath catching when Bobby pulled back just enough to move in again. Cody's grip didn't loosen. He held Bobby close with one fist knotted in cotton, the other hand hovering like he wasn't sure where to put it. Bobby's other arm braced against the seat, keeping them close without crowding him. They stayed like that for a long moment, lips moving until the line between one breath and the next began to blur.

When Bobby finally eased back, he didn't go far. Their foreheads came to rest together, close enough that he could feel the heat still rolling off Cody's skin. The truck was quiet again except for the steady hum of the engine and the cicadas buzzing through the tall grass, their song rising and falling with the wind that stirred past the fenceline and over the mesquite.

"I ain't mad," Bobby said finally, "Just don't like seein' you hurt."

Cody let out a rough breath that might've been a laugh if it didn't catch so hard in his throat. He sniffed, wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, then looked down at the streak of dried blood across his knuckles like he'd only just noticed it, "Yeah, well," he muttered, trying for casual but not quite landing it, "you should see the other guy."

That pulled a tired smile from Bobby, soft at first, then crooked as it settled. "Hope he looks like shit."

"Oh, he does," Cody said, that familiar wild spark flickering up behind the bruising. "Dumb bastard went down like a sack'a feed. Barely got his mouth open 'fore I shut it for him."

That earned a laugh out of Bobby, and Cody grinned wider in response. For a moment, it felt almost easy between them again. Like maybe things didn't have to be so damn complicated all the time. The laughter lingered there, catching in the space between them like a secret neither of them would ever tell, but both of them would remember.

❖

Graduation came and went in a blur of too-hot gowns, sweaty handshakes, and camera flashes that made Bobby squint. The gymnasium had smelled like floor polish and too many bodies packed into one place, and the speech from the valedictorian had already blurred in his memory before he even made it back to his seat. Still, when he looked down at the stiff piece of paper with his name on it, Robert James Twist, in formal black ink, something inside him stuttered.

Twelve years. All that time, all that effort, and it boiled down to this thin rectangle of cardstock. It didn't feel like enough. Didn't feel like it meant much, either. Because this wasn't the end. Not even close. In a few short weeks, he'd be hauling boxes into a dorm room at Texas A&M, surrounded by strangers, starting four more years of classes and late nights and expectations. Another four years to earn another piece of paper. He was already lined up for the business track, expected to learn the ropes of what L.D. had built, even if part of him didn't want it. The rodeo team had helped sweeten the deal, but it didn't change the fact that it was never really a choice. Not like it had been for Cody.

Cody didn't have a family name waiting to be inherited. He didn't have a business lined up or a last name that carried weight. What he had was grit and the kind of talent in the arena that turned heads. Sul Ross State University had a damn good rodeo program and Cody had set his sights on it like it was the only thing tethering him to a future that didn't look like working oil rigs until his back gave out.

But Sul Ross wasn't in College Station.

It was eight hours west. Alpine, Texas. Dry, remote, lonely. And a hell of a long way from Bobby.

Eight hours. 

That number had been echoing in Bobby's head since Cody first said the name of the school out loud, like it might stop stinging if he repeated it enough. But it hadn't dulled. It chased him through graduation rehearsal, through family dinners, through the backseat of Cody's truck, where everything still felt warm and possible. It clung to him in the quiet moments. Eight hours. Eight fucking hours.

It felt heavier than the diploma he'd held in his hand, heavier than all those years of good grades and polite smiles and doing exactly what was expected. Bobby had clung to the faint, stupid hope that maybe Cody wouldn't get in. Maybe they'd figure something else out. Maybe Cody would stay. Or maybe, God, maybe, Bobby would be brave enough to ask him to.

But Bobby wasn't brave. And Cody had always been the one with the spine for hard things.

And maybe that's why it didn't catch Bobby off guard, when Cody pulled him into a hug that lasted a little too long, arms tight like he didn't want to let go but knew he had to. He held on just long enough for Bobby to feel the shape of it. Then he pulled back, jaw tight, eyes shadowed, and said maybe it'd be better if they went their own ways. Cleaner that way. Easier. Bobby wanted to be angry. He wanted to shout or slam a door or call Cody a coward for giving up on something that still had breath in it. But all the fire he thought he had in him turned out to be smoke. Because what was left to fight for if Cody had already decided?

Cody had said they could still be friends. Said it like it was some kind of consolation prize. But how the hell were they supposed to do that? How were they supposed to rewind the clock, erase the nights spent tangled up in each other, the soft confessions mumbled against collarbones, the plans that never made it past the cab of Cody's truck? How was he supposed to look at Cody across a room and pretend he hadn't memorized every inch of him?

Now he was sitting in the driveway, way past curfew, the engine ticking as it cooled. His hands were clenched tight on the steering wheel, and his eyes burned from the effort of not crying. His chest ached. Not from the goodbye. But from the silence that followed. From the knowledge that there wouldn't be another knock on the window, another night spent sneaking out, another drive out past the edge of town where it was safe to be something more than friends.

Bobby scrubbed both hands over his face, hard enough to leave his skin raw, trying to clear his head. He already had to sneak back in without waking anybody up, he didn't need to do it with puffy, red-rimmed eyes and tear tracks down his cheeks. He sucked in a breath, but it hitched in his throat. He sat there a second longer, then exhaled hard and moved to open the door. The creak of the hinge was too loud in the quiet. The night didn't have the decency to be noisy, not even a breeze to rustle the trees, just that awful, flat hush that made everything feel twice as close. Bobby swung his boots down to the gravel and shut the door behind him harder than he meant to. The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot. He winced.

God, he was so fucking tired of the quiet. Tired of pretending like everything was fine. Tired of walking through his own damn house like it was a minefield, never sure when something, or someone, was gonna blow. He was tired of smiling through gritted teeth, of bottling everything up just to keep the peace, of feeling like the ground was always shifting under his feet and no one else seemed to notice. He just wanted it to be over. All of it. The divorce, the low-voiced arguments behind half-closed doors, the careful scheduling of who was gonna be where and when. He wanted the countdown to stop ticking in his head, the one that told him exactly how many days were left until he packed up for College Station and everything splintered for good. Because that's what it was gonna be. He should've been excited. Instead, it felt like waiting for a guillotine. No shared dorm move-in. No matching school shirts at orientation. No more family dinners, fake or not. Just two separate lives, and him somewhere in between, expected to be okay with it. 

He wanted his dad to be done with therapy already, healed up enough to head off to wherever Ennis was waiting. Colorado, Wyoming, Mars for all he cared. He hadn't met the man, didn't even have a face to put to the name, but if that's where Jack wanted to be, then Bobby wanted him to go.  And he wanted his mom to stop pretending she wasn't lonely. To either start dating again or admit she was never going to. Stop circling the drain like she was waiting on someone to drag her out. Bobby didn't care anymore. He just wanted out. Wanted to close the damn book on this part of his life and toss it on the fire. But it wasn't that easy. Nothing ever was.

The gravel crunched under his boots as he crossed the driveway, jaw tight, trying to swallow the lump clawing up his throat. He focused straight ahead, locked onto the porch steps like they were the only thing tethering him to the present. Because if he let his eyes stray, if he let his gaze catch on the siding of the house or the porch rail or that goddamn rocking chair, he'd be buried in memories before he could catch his breath.

But they came anyway.

The porch swing where he used to curl up beside Jack, head resting against his dad's shoulder while Buck Owens played from the radio inside. The front step where Lureen used to crouch with her camera, snapping crooked school photos for the family album, telling him to smile bigger, hold still, dammit Bobby, this one's goin' in the album. The path from the driveway to the porch, the same one Jack had carried him up, sleep-heavy and half-dreaming, after long rodeo nights when Bobby was too tired to walk on his own. The flash of chrome when they'd surprised him with his first truck, both his parents grinning like fools, Jack jingling the keys in front of his face like they were made of gold.

God, he wanted to be a kid again. Just for five minutes. Just enough time to slip back into the world before, before divorce papers and college decisions and the awful understanding that the way he looked at boys meant something he couldn't ignore forever. Before he had to be brave, before everything fractured. Back when he didn't have to think about any of it. When love was easy. When family was whole, or at least pretending better than they did now.

He blinked hard. Shook his head like that could knock it all loose. He didn't have the luxury of nostalgia tonight. He was barely keeping it together as it was, and those memories, they didn't soothe. They burned.

He reached the steps, climbed them slow, each footfall heavier than the last. Reached for the door. But before his fingers even brushed the knob, it swung open. 

Part of him expected Lureen, arms crossed, mouth drawn into that razor-thin line, eyes full of questions he didn't have the energy to answer. Ready with her usual script: Where the hell have you been? You know what time it is? You think this house runs without rules just 'cause your daddy's laid up? That voice still lived somewhere in his mind, automatic, even now. And even though he was seventeen, almost grown, part of him still shrank beneath it. Still expected to nod, to mumble "sorry," to pretend it mattered.

Except it wasn't her.

It was Jack. Standing barefoot in the doorway, dressed in flannel pajama pants and a plain T-shirt, leaning hard on his cane. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and sleep clung to his face in the way it did when pain kept him from resting easy. There was no lecture waiting on Jack's tongue. No fury. No disappointment. Just the creased, bleary look of a man who hadn't been asleep long and didn't understand what he was seeing.

Jack blinked at him. Voice scratchy. "Bobby?"

Bobby's mouth opened, but the words got stuck somewhere between his chest and throat, caught behind the pressure that had been building all night. He didn't even know what he'd meant to say. Maybe something small, sorry, or didn't mean to wake you, or just hey, Dad. But whatever it was, it dissolved before it reached his tongue. His throat was too tight. His chest too full. The burn behind his eyes surged without warning, and he barely had a second to brace for it before his face twisted and he was crying.

Jack's expression changed in an instant. Gone was the groggy confusion, the bleary surprise of being woken in the middle of the night. His brow drew tight, mouth softening into concern. His hand tightened on the cane, like it was instinct now to brace for something hard when his boy was hurting. He took a careful step forward, his limp more noticeable in the hush of the night.

"Hey," Jack murmured, "Hey now… what's all this, huh?"

Bobby shook his head hard, tried to swallow it down, but it was useless. A broken sound escaped him anyway, and he dragged a shaky hand down his face like he could wipe the tears away before they landed. "I'm fine," he said, but the lie cracked straight down the middle. He sniffed and tried again. "I'm—shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

Jack let out a soft scoff, like he couldn't believe that was the thing Bobby was worried about. "Don't be sorry," he said, shaking his head like it was the dumbest thing he'd heard all week. He stepped aside, holding the door open wider. "C'mon in, huh?"

Bobby hesitated, still rooted to the porch like he was stuck between the past and whatever the hell came next. But Jack reached out, free hand brushing his shoulder, and that simple touch was enough to jolt him into motion. He crossed into the house with that lump still knotted tight in his throat, chest heaving like he'd run ten miles. The door closed behind him with a soft click. Jack turned and looked him over again, not like he was studying damage but like he was checking to make sure Bobby was still standing. He didn't press. Just said, "You okay?" Like maybe Bobby might tell the truth this time.

And Bobby wanted to lie. Wanted to say yeah, or 'm fine, or something that wouldn't make his voice crack. But the second he opened his mouth, the air just hitched in his throat. His shoulders rose with the effort of holding everything in, but it spilled out anyway.

He shook his head, eyes glued to the floor. "No," he whispered.

Jack didn't react much, just the slightest nod, like that was alright. Like it was allowed. He shifted his weight and motioned with his chin toward the couch.

"Sit down a minute," he said. "Ain't like I was sleepin' worth a damn anyhow."

So Bobby did. He sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed, trying to pull himself back together. Jack eased down beside him, moving slow, the cane resting against the armrest now. After a long while, Bobby spoke again. Voice flat.

"Cody's goin' to Sul Ross."

Jack's head turned slightly, just enough to show he was listening. He didn't interrupt, didn't prod.

"It's in Alpine," Bobby added, still staring down at the floor.

Jack gave a slow nod. "That's a ways out."

"Eight hours," Bobby muttered. The number sounded like a bruise he kept pressing just to make sure it still hurt. "We broke up."

Jack's face tightened, a flicker of pain cutting through him despite how hard he tried to school it. He didn't want Bobby to see it, not when his boy was already unraveling right in front of him. But God, it hurt. Seeing that grief written across his son's face, hearing it in the way he said eight hours like it was a damn death sentence. And those eyes, Jack's eyes, if he was being honest with himself, were red-rimmed and glossy, trying so hard not to spill over. Bobby sucked in a shaky breath and blinked fast, like if he could just beat the tears back long enough, they might change their mind. But they didn't.

"Aw, hell," Jack murmured, "C'mere." He opened his arms without expectation, and for a second, Bobby didn't move. 

But then something broke, and Bobby collapsed into him like a dam giving way. No hesitation, just a sudden, desperate need to be held. He folded into his father's arms with the full weight of everything he'd been carrying, all the heartbreak, all the loneliness, all the pressure of being good and strong and okay when he wasn't. His face pressed into the side of Jack's neck, breath catching on a sob so hard it knocked the wind out of him. His fingers clenched at the back of Jack's shirt, gripping tight like it might hold him together if he could just hang on.

And Jack held him. Tight. One arm wrapped braced across Bobby's back, the other hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, fingertips gentle in his hair. He rocked him just slightly, like when Bobby was little and couldn't sleep after a nightmare. That memory settled into Jack's chest, how many nights he'd done this before, with a boy too scared to say why he was crying, just needing to be held. The difference was, this time, Bobby wasn't small. He was grown. Nearly off to college. But it didn't matter. He still fit in Jack's arms like he always had. Still leaned into him like he didn't know how to carry the weight on his own.

"I'm so fuckin' tired," Bobby gasped, the words barely making it out between sobs. "I loved him. I… I didn't even get to say it. And now he's just… gone."

Jack shut his eyes. The words landed like a blow, not because they surprised him, but because they were so goddamn familiar. He remembered that silence. That unbearable space where a goodbye should've gone.

Jack's hand didn't stop moving. "I know, son," he said softly, "I know it hurts. I know."

And he did. Jack had lived through more kinds of pain than he cared to count. He'd felt it behind the wheel of his truck after that  first summer on Brokeback, riding away with tears burning in. He remembered the silence after Ennis's divorce, when he'd shown up like a fool thinking maybe, maybe this time, and gotten shut out all the same. He remembered the fight in May of '83, when he'd stood outside his truck thinking maybe that was the end of it, maybe it had all been for nothing. And later, the worst of it, laid out on the dirt with blood in his mouth and a ringing in his ears after the tire iron came down. Not from the pain itself, but the clarity that some people would rather kill you than let you be who you are. That kind of pain left something behind. A crack inside that never quite closed. 

But this, this was different. This was worse. Not because it hurt him, but because it hurt Bobby. His boy. And Jack couldn't take it from him. Couldn't block it, soften it, trade places with him, no matter how much he wanted to. If it were a choice, he'd have taken every bit of Bobby's heartbreak on himself without blinking. But it didn't work like that.

"It'll get better, bud," Jack said after a long pause. He pressed a soft kiss into Bobby's hair, lips resting there for a moment before he leaned his cheek against the crown of his son's head. "I promise. Don't feel like it now, I know. But it will. It don't stay this hard forever."

He could feel the way Bobby tensed under his arms, the way his breathing hitched like he didn't believe a word of it. Jack didn't blame him. Hell, if someone had told him back in '63 that one day he'd be living in the same house as Ennis, that they'd be making it work after all the years apart, he'd have laughed in their face. When pigs fly, he'd have said. That's when Ennis Del Mar's finally gonna come around. Turns out, all it took was a few decades and damn near dying. Jack sighed through his nose and shook his head against Bobby's hair, a quiet sound more worn-out than bitter.

"Y'know," Jack said, voice gentler now, "Your momma ain't home tonight. She's up at your grandma's, helpin' her with some stuff." He paused, rubbed Bobby's back once more before easing them both upright a little. "What d'you say we watch a little NASCAR, huh, bud? I taped the race. Figured you weren't gonna be back tonight, but…" He let the sentence trail off, gave a half-smile. "We could put it on. Kill some time."

Bobby didn't answer right away. He blinked slowly, like he was waking up from something, and looked up at Jack through wet lashes. There was a flicker of that little boy Jack used to carry in from the truck after long days at the rodeo, all sunburnt cheeks and heavy eyelids.

"Is Earnhardt racing?" he asked, voice so small it caught Jack off guard. It was barely above a whisper, and for a second Jack was tossed back ten, twelve years, to the nights Bobby would pad into their room with sleep-tousled hair and that same voice. The one he used when he was small and afraid of thunderstorms, when he'd crawl into bed between Jack and Lureen and whisper, Daddy, I'm scared, like the words themselves could keep the monsters out. Jack hadn't heard that voice in years, and he hadn't realized how much he missed it until it was back.

Jack let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Hell, I dunno, bud," he said, drawing the word out slow like he used to when teasing. Then he leaned in close, dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, the kind that used to come with grins and shared secrets, wanna sneak a cookie? wanna skip school just this once?

"You wanna find out?"

That did it. Bobby's face cracked open into something that wasn't quite a smile, but close enough. A spark of life, a flicker of the kid Jack remembered. He sniffed once and nodded, voice a little steadier now.

"Hell yeah I do."

Jack nodded toward the TV across the room, easing himself back against the cushions with a quiet groan. "Go on then, bud. Turn it on. Let's see if that ol' number three's still got it."

The TV flicked on with a soft click, and the screen glowed to life, casting light across the room. The familiar buzz of commentators filled the space, names and numbers, lap counts and sponsor calls. Jack sat still for a moment, taking it in. It was the same cadence he'd heard for years, stitched into memories of long weekends with Bobby sprawled across the carpet in front of the set, making his own play-by-play out loud. He remembered the way Bobby's little face used to light up whenever Dale Earnhardt's car surged forward, that black No. 3 tearing around the track like it was meant to win every time. Those were good memories. Safe ones. Untouched by all the shit life had layered on top since.

Bobby wandered back over and lowered himself onto the couch beside him again. This time, he didn't sit at a distance. He folded into the space next to Jack without hesitation, close enough their shoulders brushed and stayed there. His knees came up tight against his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. His eyes flicked to the screen, but they were unfocused, like he was staring through it, seeing something else entirely. Jack didn't press. He simply reached for the remote and dialed the volume down until the announcers were just background noise. A low hum. Like crickets outside the window or the buzz of a porch light on a summer night. After a while, Bobby shifted, just slightly, letting his head fall against Jack's shoulder. He didn't say anything. Didn't need to. The weight of it, the trust in that simple gesture, said more than words could've managed. Jack's arm moved without thinking, settling around Bobby's back, anchoring them both to the couch, to the room, to right now.

He closed his eyes for a moment, let himself feel it, the shape of his son tucked into his side, the hum of the TV, the ache in his leg that reminded him he was still here. Still alive. Still lucky enough to be needed.

Chapter Text

Ennis never figured he'd see the day. Not like this. Not with his whole life packed up in the back of a pickup, leaving behind the crooked fences and ragged hills of Wyoming for good. And sure as hell not leaving it behind for a man. For Jack. Even now, packing up the last of his things, locking the trailer door one final time, it didn't feel real. It felt like one of those long, lonely winter nights when his mind played tricks on him, building up stories just to give him something warm to hold onto. He half expected to blink and find himself back inside, the cold air whistling through the thin walls, with nothing but the distant hum of the highway and his own heartbeat for company. But when he closed his eyes and breathed in deep, he could still hear it clear as day, Jack's voice on the other end of the phone just a few weeks back. Telling him the doctor had cleared him for travel. That he was ready. That they could finally do this.

There'd been a little more waiting after that. Couldn't leave right away, much as Ennis wanted to. Jack and Lureen still had to drive Bobby down to College Station, get him settled for his first semester. Ennis had stayed put, pacing the floor of that worn-out trailer like a caged dog, counting down the days. But now, with Bobby off at school and Jack and Lureen back in Childress, there weren't any obstacles left. No more hospital stays. No more physical therapy appointments. No more child support checks to send out each month, weighing him down like a chain he couldn't break.

For the first time in years, there weren't any loose threads pulling him back. No excuses. No reasons to stay. Just the open road ahead and Jack Twist waiting at the other end of it. And all that was left for Ennis to do was drive.

And drive he did. Fourteen hours stretched out before him like an endless highway. He'd made this drive before, God knew he had. Had done it on less sleep and with more fear burning in his gut. That first time, chasing the fact that Jack might already be gone before he ever got there, every mile had felt like a race against death itself. But this was different. This wasn't desperation driving him now. This was something bigger. Maybe it felt longer because there was no uncertainty left to shield himself with. Before, there'd always been questions: was Jack awake, was he waiting, was there a chance for anything more than  weekends in the mountains and regrets. Now there weren't any questions left. This was it. No turning back, no excuses. They'd finally laid it all out in the open.

Every highway sign he passed felt like a marker counting down to something irreversible. The Colorado border. Then New Mexico. Then Texas, wide and hot beneath the mid-afternoon sun. With each state line, he felt the weight of the years pressing in, years of silence, of wrong turns, of missed chances. When he crossed the state line just outside of Texline, the battered green Welcome to Texas sign loomed up like a marker on the edge of a whole new life. It was nothing fancy, just steel and sun-bleached paint, but Ennis felt it like a jolt to the chest. His hands tightened on the wheel, that nervous coil in his gut drawing so tight it damn near made him sick. His stomach flipped, nausea clawing its way up his throat. For a moment, he actually thought about pulling over, thought about opening the door and letting his insides spill out onto the roadside dirt, letting the nerves shake themselves out of his body once and for all.

But he didn't. He just clenched his jaw, sucked in a steadying breath through his nose, and kept going, eyes flicking back to the rearview mirror like he was half-expecting Wyoming to chase after him, demanding he turn around. 

A few minutes later, he rolled into Texline. The place was as dry and empty as he remembered, nothing but a gas station, a few cracked sidewalks, and the long horizon stretching out like it had no end. He filled the tank, bought a soda he didn't really want, and stood under the fluorescent lights for a moment too long, just watching the dust swirl outside. The girl at the register didn't bother with a smile. Didn't ask where he was headed or make conversation about the heat. She just rang him up with the kind of disinterest Ennis was grateful for. He didn't have it in him to explain himself. Not today. Not ever, truth be told.

Back in the truck, Ennis slid behind the wheel, the seat still warm from the sun beating through the windshield. He turned the key, engine rumbling to life beneath him. Gravel crunched loudly beneath his tires as he eased out of the gas station lot, dust kicking up in the rearview, before the road leveled out and stretched long and flat in front of him once again. Nothing but highway and heat haze, the kind of endless road that made a man wonder if he was getting anywhere at all or just driving circles in some cruel joke of a dream. Three more hours. Jesus Christ. It felt like he'd been driving since the dawn of time, and Childress was still out there, distant as the moon. Texas was its own kind of purgatory, just wide enough to make a man feel small, just long enough to make him question if he'd ever reach the other side.

Ennis shifted in his seat, boots scraping against the floorboard, and blew out a slow breath through his nose. The sweat was already clinging under his shirt, and the sun hadn't even hit its highest point yet. He squinted through the windshield, eyes fixed on the ribbon of road ahead, and muttered, "Why the hell's this state gotta be so goddamn big?"

The empty fields didn't offer him an answer. Just a stretch of highway and a sky too big to care about one man's complaints. So he did what he always did, kept driving. Nose pointed south, following the curve of Highway 87, chasing the fading afternoon light all the way to Childress.

❖

Ennis didn't exactly know what he expected Jack's house to look like. He figured it'd be nice, Jack had married into money, after all, and Lureen's folks didn't seem like the type to let their daughter live in anything less than polished respectability. Jack had also never been shy about having a little extra cash to throw around. Always showing up to their trips in a shiny new truck, the chrome so clean it caught the morning sun like a mirror. Always bringing Ennis something, little gifts tucked in the glovebox, a new fishing knife, a thermos, a soft flannel shirt in Ennis' size, like he'd been thinking about him in the aisles of some store down in Texas.

Ennis could never return the favor. Couldn't afford to, not really. Most times he could barely keep the rent paid on the apartment in Riverton, let alone afford gifts. Even back when he and Alma were still hanging on by a thread, he'd be scraping together enough for groceries and gas, counting coins before payday hit. And the idea of coming home with some fancy gift from "a friend", something Jack bought him, well, that would've raised too many questions. Alma wasn't dumb. She saw things Ennis tried his damnedest to keep hidden.

So yeah, he figured Jack's house would be bigger, nicer, more put together than anything he'd ever called home. But still, a part of him couldn't quite picture it. Couldn't imagine Jack walking halls lined with expensive wallpaper, sitting down to dinner at some polished dining room table like he belonged there.

Hell, truth be told, Ennis didn't even know what to expect from Jack.

Sure, they'd kept in touch on the phone, more than they ever had before, if he was honest with himself, but a voice on the line wasn't the same as seeing a man face to face. Ennis hadn't been able to make the trip down to Texas, not with work pulling him in ten different directions and child support payments for Jenny chewing through what little he made. Every time he thought about packing up and going, there was always another job that couldn't wait, another bill that couldn't go unpaid. That's how it always was with him, life pulling him one way, and Jack waiting in another.

But the thought of seeing Jack, his Jack, hobbling around on a cane, slowed by injury and circumstance, hit Ennis in the chest. That wasn't the Jack Twist he knew. Wasn't the Jack he carried around in his head on lonely nights. The Jack he knew always moved like he had something to prove, like the world couldn't catch him even if it tried. From the very beginning, back on Brokeback, when Jack ignored Ennis's muttered warning about that jumpy little bay horse, grinning like a fool even as the damn thing skittered sideways and nearly tossed him, he carried himself like he was made of steel and nothing could touch him.

They'd spent whole summers roughhousing like boys who didn't know better, even after they damn well should've. Wrestling by the river, pushing each other into the cold water, laughing like they weren't growing older and harder every year. And even into their thirties, they were still doing it, hunting trips, long rides up into the backcountry, sitting around the fire with rifles laid across their laps, boots kicked up and whiskey passed between them. Jack always moved like he was ten feet tall and couldn't be knocked down.

So no, Ennis couldn't picture it. Jack hobbling. Jack hurting. Jack slowed down. But that was the truth now. That was the man waiting for him in Childress. And Ennis was scared to death he wouldn't know how to look at him without showing it.

Still, Ennis drew in a breath and steeled himself, trying to smooth the tightness out of his face, to school his features into something neutral. He killed the engine with a quiet click, the silence in the cab pressing in on him like the heat outside. For a long moment, he just sat there, hands resting on the wheel, the weight of the drive settling deep in his bones. But heavier still was the weight of what came next. He'd carried plenty before, grief, guilt, a failed marriage, paychecks spent before they hit his hands, long nights spent figuring out which bill couldn't get paid that month. Child support payments that left him scraping the bottom of his wallet. Jobs that came and went like Wyoming wind, blowing him from ranch to ranch, never rooted anywhere. But none of that felt as heavy as this.

This was different. This was forever.

He stared through the windshield, watching the breeze stir the branches in Jack's front yard, and felt his throat tighten.

Was he ready?

Ready to step across this line and never look back?

Ready to wear the word sinner across his back like a brand, burned so deep it'd follow him straight into the grave? Was he ready to burn for it, to let those flames he'd been outrunning since 1963 finally catch hold and consume him whole?

 The flames had been licking at his heels since that first night on Brokeback, since the warmth of Jack's body in that cold tent chased away everything else that ever tried to keep Ennis warm. He'd been running from that fire ever since. Running from himself, from Jack, from the part of him that wasn't content with quiet misery. He'd spent so many years trying to claw his way back from that fire, trying to shake off the hunger that started the moment Jack looked at him across the dusty lot outside of Joe Aguirre's trailer. Tried to drown it in women, in work, in silence. Tried to believe that God would pull him back to shore if he just kept his head down. But no matter how far he tried to steer himself, his path always curved back toward Jack. Jack's arms had always been warmer than God's silence. 

And maybe that made him damned.

But if it did, Ennis figured he'd rather burn beside Jack than freeze alone without him. Because Ennis didn't want salvation if it meant living without Jack.

With another slow breath, Ennis let his hand fall to the door handle, fingers rough and calloused against the metal. For a second, he just held it there, thumb resting on the latch, feeling the quiet hum of the world pressing in from all sides. It was a hell of a thing, trying to step forward when it felt like the whole weight of eternity was balanced on your shoulders, like one wrong step might send it all crashing down.

But hell, he figured he could carry it.

He'd carried worse before, grief, shame, a lifetime of keeping his heart locked down tight where no one could see it. What was a little fire and brimstone compared to the thought of waking up next to Jack Twist every morning? He could shoulder that weight if it meant hearing Jack's soft, sleepy voice at dawn. If it meant coffee poured into two mugs instead of one. If it meant falling asleep with Jack's warmth pressed against his back, not cold, empty sheets.

So he curled his fingers tight around the handle, pulled the door open, and stepped out into the heat of the afternoon. 

One step closer to forever, whatever shape it decided to take. One step closer to the kind of life Ennis had only dared to picture in the quiet moments between sun up and sundown, when the work was done and the loneliness crept in like cold through the cracks. The gravel crunched under his boots, each step sounding louder than it should have in the stillness of the afternoon. That sound, boots on gravel, was the only familiar thing about this whole goddamn situation. Everything else felt foreign, too big, too good, too real. His throat tightened with every inch he closed between himself and the porch. Dry as sand, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Part of him, maybe the biggest part, wanted to spin on his heel, march back to the truck, and take off down the road without looking back. Just disappear into the horizon like he had a hundred times before. Would've been easy. He was good at that. Leaving.

But he didn't.

The house loomed in front of him, bigger and finer than anything he'd ever called home. White siding, clean windows, a porch swing that didn't look like it had seen much use lately. He climbed the steps slowly, like each one might give way beneath his weight, and paused at the front door. His heart was thudding in his chest, uneven and fast, and his hand trembled a little as he reached up to knock.

But he didn't even get the chance.

The door swung open before his knuckles met the wood, catching him mid-motion, leaving him standing there with his hand half-raised like a fool caught in the act. And for one second, it wasn't 1984 anymore. It was Riverton, 1967, Jack stepping out of that bright red pickup, grinning like he'd hung the damn sun in the sky just for Ennis. That feeling hit him hard, sudden as a lightning strike, a rush of warmth that burned away the nerves in his chest. That wild, stupid joy that had once sent him barreling down the stairs without thinking, arms thrown around the only man who'd ever felt like home. And before he could stop himself, before he could think of all the reasons why this was foolish or wrong or impossible, Jack was in his arms again. 

Ennis tried to be gentle, he really did. It was like holding something fragile for the first time, unsure where the edges were, afraid that if he squeezed too hard or moved too fast, it might break in his hands. His arms wrapped around Jack with careful restraint, every muscle fighting against instinct, against years of rough, desperate touches had taught him to take what he could before the clock ran out, before the world caught up with them. But now? Now there was no mountain to climb back down from, no calendar counting down the days until they parted ways again. Just Jack. Alive. And Ennis, scared damn near to death of hurting him. He counted the rhythm of Jack's breath against his chest, feeling the sharp edges of his shoulder blades through the soft fabric of his shirt. Lighter than he remembered. Too light. Goddamn it, it shouldn't have been like this.

And then, right when he thought the quiet might break him in half, he felt it, that huff of laughter against his shoulder, muffled by flannel but unmistakably Jack. A second later came that familiar little click of Jack's tongue, that soft tsk Ennis knew all too well, the same sound he used to make right before calling Ennis out on his bullshit.

"Hell, cowboy," Jack drawled against his neck, brushing against skin that hadn't been touched in far too long. "I ain't gonna break. Ain't like I'm made of glass."

Ennis let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, breath catching in his chest as he shook his head. He loosened his hold just enough to pull back and look at Jack, eyes catching on the creases that hadn't been there before, on the spark that hadn't dimmed one bit.

"Never said you was," Ennis muttered, trying to keep the tenderness out of his voice and failing miserably. But Jack was staring up at him with that same crooked, knowing smile, blue eyes lit with that fire that never had the decency to die down.

"Then quit holdin' me like I am," he said, and Jesus, there was that voice, the one that dared him to feel something without shame, that pulled him forward when all he wanted to do was stand still and stay safe. Jack had always had that power over him, ever since that first summer on Brokeback, standing there with a crooked grin and a heart too big for his own damn good, daring Ennis to step off the ledge and fall with him.

That surge of reckless joy, the same wild, unthinking pull that had driven Ennis to shove Jack up against the wall outside of his Riverton apartment all those years ago, rose up in him like a tidal wave. For a split second, it overtook everything else. He wanted to pin Jack to the siding of the house, crush their mouths together until the air left their lungs, until nothing existed but the two of them tangled up in each other like they'd been starving for it. Because he had. He was. Every cell in his body was lit up with the need to touch, to feel, to confirm that Jack was here.

But just as fast, it flickered into something else.

Not hesitation exactly, but caution. That ever-present shadow of fear that had crept in after the hospital. Jack wasn't the same as he'd been back then, not in body. His gait was slower now, sometimes stiff with the lingering echo of pain. Ennis couldn't just slam him into things anymore, not without thinking. Not without that voice in the back of his head whispering, be careful. Don't break him. Don't ruin this.

So instead of shoving Jack back and pressing him mouth-first into the wall, Ennis settled. He didn't kiss him, but let his hands tighten around Jack's waist. Another squeeze, firm, like maybe if he just held him a little harder, he could imprint the moment into his skin. His palms roved a little, across the curve of Jack's back, down to the jut of his hips, like he was still trying to convince himself that Jack was here, warm and solid under his hands.

"Lureen ain't home, if that's what you're worried 'bout," Jack said after a moment. He tacked it on like an afterthought, but Ennis could hear the weight behind it, could hear the subtle nudge to keep things moving forward.

Ennis nodded as the words registered. Jack was giving him the green light. Inviting him in. And somehow, that was even more staggering than the kiss.

Still, it took effort to let go.

Letting go of Jack, even just for a second, had always felt unnatural. Like pulling away from the one warm thing in the world. It always had. Even back on Brokeback, even in a dark motel room two towns from anywhere, it had always cost something to pull away. To stop touching. And now, after everything, after blood and pain and the long ache of almost losing him, it cost more than ever. His hands lingered a second longer than they should have, thumbs pressing tight into Jack's sides, before he finally stepped back.

Jack led him through the front door, and Ennis stepped into a place that didn't feel like it had ever been lived in. It looked like something out of one of those high-gloss catalogues Alma used to glance at in the checkout line, the kind she'd never buy but would thumb through with a faraway look, like maybe dreaming on it for a minute could make it hers. The entryway opened up into one a big, open-concept layout, the kind that made everything echo like a church. Pale walls stretched high, catching the glow of the light through the windows, and polished hardwood floors gleamed like they'd just been laid down yesterday.

The furniture, what little there was, was pristine, not a cushion out of place, not a single coffee ring or scuff. A couch in some shade of beige. A glass coffee table too clean to have ever known a beer bottle or a kicked-up heel. It was ten times fancier than anything Ennis had ever stayed in, maybe a hundred. But it was too clean, too polished. His eyes swept the room until they landed on a pile of boxes off to one side of the living room. They were the only thing out of place, the only thing that looked even remotely human. Some were taped up tight, others still open with crumpled paper spilling out. Ennis slowed as he approached them, frowning slightly. That little stack of cardboard told a truer story than the whole damn house did.

Jack caught the look on his face as he turned back, something between disbelief and unease flickering in Ennis's eyes. It wasn't judgment, Jack knew that look well enough to know it wasn't that. Just a man who'd never belonged in a place like this trying to figure out how he'd ended up standing in the middle of it. He huffed a small laugh through his nose and nodded toward the stack of boxes.

"Most of that is Lureen's." Jack said, matter-of-fact. "Been tryin' to figure what all I'm bringin' with me." He gave a lopsided grin then, stepping close enough to nudge Ennis with his elbow, "Figure I oughta go easy on you. You know, on account of your joints. Old cowboy like you probably ain't got too many lifts left in him."

Ennis didn't so much as blink at the jab. He just scoffed under his breath, rough with amusement, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward into something that wasn't quite a smile but came damn close, "Keep runnin' that mouth," he said, "And I'll leave your smart ass here with them boxes. See how far you get on that bum leg."

Jack gave him a look, eyebrows lifted, eyes glinting with mischief, that all but said you don't want this smoke. "You better watch it, cowboy," he shot back, tapping the polished handle of his cane against the hardwood with a sharp clack. "This ain't just for show, y'know."

"Oh yeah?" Ennis raised an eyebrow, shifting his weight lazily like he wasn't about to take the bait but maybe still wanted to see where it'd lead, "What're you gonna do with it, huh? Poke me to death?" God, it was strange, how easy this was. How natural it felt to fall right back into the rhythm they used to know. The teasing. The weightless push and pull of it. Like no time had passed. For a second, Ennis almost forgot the ache that'd been settled in his chest for a year solid.

Jack let out a bark of laughter, and it echoed around the high ceilings of that too-quiet house. "Hell, I'll knock you down a few pegs, cowboy," he fired back, grinning wide now, leaning a little more on the cane like he was ready to square off. "Won't seem so big and tall when I've got you laid out on your ass."

And just like that, the tension that had been riding high in Ennis's shoulders, the fear, the uncertainty, the what-ifs that had been trailing him like a shadow, all of it melted. Gone. Like snow under high sun. It was all there in Jack's smile, in the light that sparked behind his eyes. All of it said I'm still here. Said we're still us.

But then Jack's grin faltered, just for a moment, like a gust of wind through a flame. He shifted slightly, his fingers crooking inward in a familiar gesture, like he was calling a dog to heel, "C'mere Ennis."

And Ennis went. Eagerly, maybe too eagerly, but he didn't give a damn. There'd been too many nights spent chasing Jack's voice across the miles, too many mornings waking up cold with nothing but a pillow for company. So when Jack reached for him, Ennis went. Maybe every step he'd taken had been leading him back to this. Jack met him halfway, reaching up with a hand to the back of Ennis's neck. His fingers found the patch of short hair there, brushing gently, like he was trying to memorize the feel of it all over again. His thumb grazed down the ridge of Ennis's spine, barely a touch, but it sent heat lancing through him like wildfire. All the places that had gone cold without Jack seemed to spark back to life under that hand.

Then Jack tugged. It wasn't rough, but it left no room for second thoughts. And Ennis went with it, bending down into the pull, letting Jack draw him in like he always had. Their mouths met in a kiss that was nothing like the first time. No clumsy fumbling, no panic held just behind clenched teeth. A slow burn instead of a wildfire. Jack's lips were warm, and just a little chapped, but they opened beneath Ennis's with the ease of memory, like nothing had ever really changed. Like they were still those same boys in a canvas tent, trying not to name the thing that had already claimed them.

Ennis let it wash over him, let himself lean into the weight of it, the smell of Jack, the scrape of stubble along his cheek, the groan that vibrated in Jack's throat and spilled into his mouth. Every sense narrowed to that single point of contact, and he wanted to stay there. God, he wanted to drown in it. In Jack. In the second chance he still half-believed he didn't deserve. But then Jack was shifting, already pulling away, not entirely, but enough. Of course he was. Always thinking ahead. Always dragging them forward, even when Ennis wanted to freeze the world and live in one goddamn kiss.

Without breaking contact entirely, Jack's hand slid from the back of Ennis's neck, trailing down with slow purpose. It settled on the seat of his jeans, fingers spreading just enough to make Ennis grunt softly against his mouth. Then Jack gave a firm squeeze and drew back just enough to murmur, lips brushing his skin as he spoke.

“C’mon, cowboy,” he said, the trace of a smile in it. “We’ll have plenty’a time for that later. I’m ready to get the hell outta here.”

Ennis didn't move right away. He stayed close, their foreheads resting together, his eyes closed like he could stretch this moment out a little longer. His hand found the small of Jack's back and lingered there, thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of his shirt. He wasn't exactly chomping at the bit to get back on the road after fourteen hours behind the wheel, but this house wasn't home, not for Jack, and it sure as hell wasn't for him. Ennis understood. Jack had been ready to leave long before he ever stepped through that door.

"Yeah," Ennis muttered, giving Jack's back one last slow sweep of his hand before stepping away. "Let's go."

❖

Every mile past Childress felt slower than the last, the dark pressing in closer, headlights carving a  path through the empty plains. Ennis had been running on adrenaline and coffee since Texline, and with the way his back was stiffening up, he wasn't sure how much farther he could push it. So when Jack started shifting beside him, sighing through his nose and muttering under his breath about his leg, Ennis didn't need convincing. Jack tried to play it off at first, like he wasn't hurting, but Ennis knew better. Heard the way his voice tightened, the way his shoulders stiffened every time they hit a bump in the road. Knew that particular brand of stubborn, knew it like his own reflection.

By the time they rolled into Clayton, a small patch of lights against the wide dark, Jack let out a groan and rubbed at his thigh like it might chase the pain off.

"Son of a bitch, Ennis, this leg's got me feelin' like an old man," Jack muttered, half-laughing, half-wincing. "Ain't no shame in stoppin' a spell."

Ennis gave a tired huff, cutting a glance over at him that said you could've said something ten miles back, but didn't bother arguing. Truth was, he was just as ready to stop as Jack was. Maybe more.

"Alright," he muttered,  "We'll pull over. Find some place to hole up for the night."

He eased the truck off the highway, tires crunching over loose gravel as they rolled toward a worn-looking motel sign flickering against the night sky. It wasn't much, hell, probably the only place open at this hour, but it'd do. He cut the engine, the sudden quiet filling the cab like a heavy blanket, and for a moment they just sat there, both of them too damn tired to move.

"Come on, Twist," Ennis finally said, softer this time. "Let's get you off that leg."

And with that, he opened his door, boots hitting the pavement, the night air sharp against his face as he stretched the road-weariness from his shoulders. He rounded the front of the truck, reaching the passenger door and popping it open, watching with barely concealed worry as Jack rubbed at his leg. 

"You need a hand there?" Ennis asked, pitched low, meant for Jack's ears only. He kept it soft, gentle in the way only Jack ever got from him.

As expected, Jack shot him a look like he'd grown a second head. That familiar spark of defiance flared behind tired blue eyes, "Hell, Ennis," Jack huffed, breath catching just slightly on the words, "I ain't dead yet."

He gave his leg one last rub before gripping the cane and shifting himself sideways, slow and careful, like every movement had to be measured now. He planted the cane tip firm against the blacktop, testing it, and let out a quiet grunt as he pushed himself upright.

Ennis stepped back just enough to give him room, hands twitching useless at his sides, every instinct screaming to steady him. But Jack was proud to a fault, and Ennis knew better than to rob him of what little control he had left.

Still, watching Jack wince his way down from the truck cab, it pulled at something deep in Ennis, "You sure you don't want help?" he asked again, quieter this time,  like maybe saying it softer would make Jack listen. "Ain't no shame in it, Jack."

But Jack just gave him that crooked smile, tired but stubborn as hell, "Appreciate it, cowboy," he drawled, shifting his weight onto the cane, "But I reckon I gotta learn to do this part on my own."

Ennis didn't press it. Never had much luck winning a fight against Jack's pride anyhow. So he stayed where he was, close enough to catch him if his leg gave out, far enough to let him try it on his own. Jack didn't need coddling; he needed space. Needed someone who'd let him stumble and still be there when he did. They made their way across the lot, Jack's cane tapped steadily beside him, uneven against the shuffle of his boots. Ennis matched his pace without saying a word, holding the door open when they reached the lobby but letting Jack step through first.

When they stepped inside the lobby, Ennis hung back like he always did, letting Jack take the lead. Some things didn't need discussing, they'd fallen into this rhythm years ago. Jack was the one who could flash a smile and make strangers feel like old friends, who could smooth over rough edges with a wink and a story, even when his patience was wearing thin and his leg was screaming at him to sit the hell down.

Jack stepped up to the counter with that easy drawl, leaning on one elbow like his leg didn't ache and the drive hadn't worn him down. The clerk behind the desk looked like he'd been working too many shifts in a row, glassy-eyed, bored, half-listening, but Jack still gave him that soft grin, the one that smoothed over suspicion and drew folks in whether they wanted to be or not.

"Evenin'," Jack said, "Just need a room. Two queens'll do."

He said it casually, like they were just two cowboys passing through, no reason to look too close. He didn't glance at Ennis, didn't need to. They both knew only one of those beds was getting slept in. The second was a buffer, a silent boundary drawn for the sake of appearances, not just for the clerk behind the counter, but maybe for themselves, too.

Ennis watched it all quietly, the practiced way Jack handled it, like it wasn't a lie but a form of self-preservation. Jack pulled a few bills from his wallet, handed them over without a flicker of hesitation, and the clerk, too tired to care, too numb to ask, tore the receipt, slid the key across the counter, and turned back toward the flickering glow of the motel TV behind him.

And with that, they made their way down the hallway, Jack leading the way, his cane tapping against the worn carpet, Ennis trailing behind with the bags slung over his shoulder. He caught the stumble before Jack even fully faltered, the subtle hitch in his step, the way his shoulder tensed just so. He didn't reach for him, not yet, but his hand twitched at his side, aching to steady him. To do something. His instinct, always, was to catch Jack, to fix what hurt. But Jack corrected himself quickly, sharper than he used to be, like he'd trained his body to recover before anyone could see the slip. Only Ennis had seen it, and when Jack glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing with that familiar glint of pride and challenge, Ennis knew damn well they were both thinking the same thing.

Let me help you, Ennis wanted to say.

Don't you dare, Jack's look replied.

He let it go, swallowed the lump tightening in his throat, and followed Jack the rest of the way down the hallway. The buzzing overhead lights cast shadows on the peeling floral wallpaper, the kind of pattern that tried and failed to look cheerful. They'd stayed in more rooms like this than Ennis could count, back when they were younger, hungrier, trying to disappear into the cracks of places just like this. Places that didn't ask questions. That didn't care if two men checked in and only one bed got used.

It felt like the hallway stretched forever, like time was dragging around their boots as they reached the very last door at the end. Of course it'd be the last one. Tucked away, forgotten, far from the front desk and the curious glances that still made Ennis's shoulders stiffen.  No one to hear too much. No one to see. Felt like old times already. 

"They really wanted to make us work for it, huh?" Jack said, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin that knocked the breath out of Ennis more than he'd ever admit. Goddamn, he missed that grin. Missed the sound of Jack saying something dumb just to get a smile out of him. Missed him.

"Guess they figured we needed the walk," Ennis replied, the corner of his mouth tugging up with something that wasn't quite a smile but was close enough.

Jack gave a snort, something between amusement and mock frustration. "They figured the guy with a cane needed a goddamn hike?" he muttered, but the glint in his eye softened the words. That spark hadn't gone anywhere. And if he was leaning harder on his good leg, Ennis didn't mention it. Didn't need to. Jack was still moving forward, and he didn't seem to mind doing it with Ennis by his side.

Jack reached into his jeans, fingers slipping into the pocket with a practiced motion. The brass key came out with a soft jingle, and Ennis noticed the slight tremble in his hand. Not nerves. Just exhaustion. That long-ass drive had worn on both of them, but Jack, hell, Jack had less to give these days, and he'd given all of it just to get here. Even so, he got the key into the lock without fumbling, and when the tumblers gave way with a soft, quiet click, it almost sounded like a welcome. Like the room had been waiting on them all this time.

Jack exhaled hard, like he was letting go of more than just breath. Then he pushed the door open, and they stepped into a room that felt like a memory stitched together from a hundred others. Two queen beds sat opposite the window, covered in drab, scratchy-looking blankets that didn't quite match the carpet or the curtains, beige, brown, maybe green once, all dulled to the same tired shade of motel gray. A small dresser stood beneath a bolted-down television, the kind with rounded edges and a static hum that never quite left the screen. In the corner, a microwave with yellowing buttons perched on top of a humming mini-fridge, both appliances rattling softly like they were trying to keep up with time.

They'd stood in rooms just like this too many times to count, cheap, anonymous places that didn't ask questions, didn't care what two men did behind a locked door. This one was no different, and yet everything had changed. The silence between them wasn't edged with the ticking clock of goodbye anymore. No deadline hung over their heads. Just the soft click of the door swinging shut behind them, and the long stretch of night ahead.

Jack stepped inside first, limping just a bit more now that he didn't have to pretend he wasn't hurting. He made his way to the nearest bed and lowered himself onto the edge with a groan. His cane came off his wrist with a practiced flick, and he laid it within arm's reach beside him on the bedspread before leaning back on his hands and exhaling again, this time with something closer to relief.

Ennis stepped inside after Jack, shut the door behind them, and reached up to throw the deadbolt, listening to the solid click echo through the room like a punctuation mark. Then came the chain lock, slid into place with a soft rattle. There. Secure. Not that he expected anyone to come looking, but habits died hard, and Ennis Del Mar had always been a man who needed his exits guarded.

He bent to set their bags down on the floor at the foot of the unused bed, his back protesting the motion after the long drive. He crossed the room without thinking, boots scuffing the cheap carpet, and eased down on the edge of the bed Jack had already claimed. The mattress groaned beneath their combined weight, a familiar sound that seemed to echo in the silence. The AC unit rattled softly from the window, its hum the only thing breaking the quiet as it pushed lukewarm air into the room.

There were a million things Ennis wanted to say, words that had built up like pressure behind his ribs all those months apart. I missed you. I'm sorry it took so long. I love you. But they stuck hard in his throat, thick as cotton. They jammed up like they always did when it mattered most. Ennis Del Mar was not a man of words. He never had been. Could string together a fence line cleaner than he could a sentence. When it came to what he felt, what he needed, he'd always come up short.

But Jack had always known that. Had never needed a speech. He just needed Ennis. 

Instead, his hand came up slowly, gentle as the dusk light filtering through the thin curtains. His fingers traced the edge of Ennis's jaw, rough skin meeting stubble, before settling against his cheek. His thumb brushed along the curve of Ennis's cheekbone. Jack's touch rooted him, pulled him back into his body like a rope looped around his chest. Jack had always held him like that, like he was something precious, something that could break if he wasn't careful. It never made sense to Ennis.

Jack had been on the receiving end of his temper more than once, knew the  edge of Ennis's fear when it turned to anger. He'd taken the brunt of it in arguments, in silence, in fists that should have never been raised. That summer on Brokeback still burned behind Ennis's eyes sometimes, the memory of Jack laughing one second and on the ground the next, they'd been wrestling, just roughhousing like they always did, but Ennis had crossed a line, and they both knew it. It had never been about hurting Jack. It had been about not knowing what else to do with all that fear. The fear of losing him. Of needing him too much.

He'd shown Jack his worst more times than he cared to count, and still Jack had stayed.

Jack had always seen something in him he couldn't see for himself, maybe that same scared boy who'd lost everything too soon, the one who'd grown up without arms to run to, without a safe place to land. Maybe Jack knew that part of him better than anyone ever had.

"I missed you, cowboy," Jack said, and the words were worn but full of truth, like he'd been carrying them a long way just to hand them over now. And then, without waiting for a reply, without giving Ennis the chance to fumble through the mess in his chest, Jack leaned in.

He didn't rush it. He never did. One hand still resting against Ennis's face, thumb tracing over the ridge of his cheekbone like he was trying to relearn it by feel. The other hand braced behind him on the bed, steadying his tired frame as he pulled Ennis forward with nothing more than a look and the soft pressure of his touch.

Their foreheads touched first, breath mingling in the space between them, and then Jack tilted his head just so, guiding Ennis in closer until their lips were brushing, barely there, like a question. Like Jack was asking, Are we still doing this? Do I still have you?

And then, finally, he closed the gap.

God, Ennis thought, swallowing the tremble that worked its way through him, how the hell's it been two years?

Two years since the last time he'd tasted the salt of Jack's skin, since he'd felt that soft, familiar pressure of lips that always knew how to find his. A full year since he'd looked into those eyes, those wild, stubborn blue eyes, and seen himself reflected in them, not the man he showed the world, but the one Jack knew. The thought spurred him on, and without meaning to, Ennis pressed in harder, chasing the warmth of Jack's mouth, the sure feel of his hand still cupped to his cheek. His own hand came up, covering Jack's, pinning it there like he was afraid to lose the anchor. Afraid that if he let go, the whole thing might vanish like a dream at sunrise. 

He hadn't meant to get greedy. Hadn't planned on it turning hot so fast. But the fire had been burning  the second Jack touched him, banked but waiting. One look, one hand to his cheek, and it was like a match dropped into dry brush. Now it roared in his gut, burning through restraint like it was paper.

Jack's fingers worked between them, cautious, like he was still giving Ennis space to back out if he needed to. But there was no backing out now. Not when Ennis was already chasing every breath that passed between them, lips brushing against Jack's like they didn't want to part. The buttons on his flannel gave one by one beneath Jack's trembling hands. Jack couldn't get close fast enough. Need was guiding his hands more than thought. Knuckles dragged over Ennis's chest with each undone button, the scrape of skin on skin enough to make his breath catch in his throat. The pop of fabric echoed in the small motel room, each one louder than the last, until Ennis could feel the heat rising between them, pulsing in his blood, impossible to ignore.

Christ, Ennis thought, dazed, brain lagging behind his body as Jack spread the fabric of his shirt open, palms sliding up across his ribs, it's been two years since we fucked, too.

Two years. Two goddamn years since the last time he'd had Jack beneath him, gasping, legs locked around his waist, fingernails dragging down his back. Two years since Ennis had gotten to feel that tension in Jack's thighs right before he came undone. Since that feeling of losing himself completely in Jack. No wonder it felt like this now, like gravity was working against the space between them, like every cell in his body was pulling toward Jack with the weight of all that time. Like his hands had been empty for too damn long. Jack's hands were on him now, real, solid, familiar, spreading heat everywhere they touched. Palms rough from work, fingers sure in the way they mapped across his skin. It wasn't just desire pulling at Ennis now, it was need.

Ennis just needed, wanted, to feel Jack again. All of him.

It would've been too easy to fall back into old habits, to manhandle Jack onto his hands and knees like he used to, to grip his hips tight and fuck the breath out of him until neither of them could think straight. Jack had always looked like a goddamn vision that way, back arched, shoulders flexing, moaning into the sheets like he couldn't hold it in if he tried. Ennis could still picture it clear as day, the way Jack's back would curve, the way his body would meet every thrust like it was meant for it.

But now, that picture came laced with something else. That damn hospital room, quiet except for the machines keeping Jack going. The bruises. The bandages. The way his body had looked then, small, still, too still. And it stuck with Ennis like a barb under the skin, buried too deep to dig out. No matter how much Jack grinned, no matter how steady he seemed now, that voice in the back of Ennis's mind wouldn't shut up. Be careful. Don't push too hard. Don't fuck this up again. Don't hurt him.

He hadn't even touched Jack yet, not really. Just hovered. Hands tracing outlines in the air, his thigh, his side, the soft slope of his stomach, like he could memorize the map of him without making contact. He was scared. Plain and simple. Scared he might do something wrong. That even now, even with Jack pulling him in, he could still fuck it up.

Jack clearly wasn't having any of that shit.

From where he was half-reclined on the mattress, shirt rucked up around his ribs, Jack let out a sigh that was half a laugh and all frustration. "Jesus Christ, Ennis," he muttered, not unkind, just tired. Not of Ennis, of the distance. The leash Ennis kept on himself like if he pulled too hard, the whole thing would snap. "You gonna stand there lookin' like you're fixin' to read me my last rites, or you gonna fuckin' touch me?"

Ennis blinked, startled, and Jack pushed himself up on one elbow, eyes blazing, mouth curled into a smirk, "If you don't put your hands on me right now," he drawled, cane still resting against the mattress like a threat, "I swear to God, I'm gonna take that cane and beat the hesitation clean outta you."

That was Jack. Always had been. Always would be.

"Y'ain't made of glass," Ennis muttered, more to himself than to Jack. He needed to hear it out loud. Needed to believe it. And when he leaned down again, hand finally settling firm on Jack's hip, mouth tracing the line of his jaw, he started to believe it.

Jack's mouth found his again, more certain now. His tongue slid along Ennis's lower lip, coaxing a sound out of him that he didn't mean to make. A low noise from somewhere deep in his chest, like the ache in him had finally made it to the surface. He kissed back harder than he meant to, hand fisting in the fabric of Jack's shirt, tugging him closer until there wasn't an inch between them.

Clothes became obstacles, wrinkled, forgotten. Jack's shirt was pushed off his shoulders, flannel and cotton piling on the edge of the bed as Ennis worked to strip them both down without ever breaking contact. Jack winced when he moved too fast, his bad leg catching against the mattress, but Ennis was there in a second, steadying him, gentling his hands, eyes flicking over him like he could absorb the pain through sheer will. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Jack nodded, jaw set, letting Ennis move with him, around him, careful not to press where it hurt.

By the time they were skin to skin, Ennis couldn't tell where his body ended and Jack's began. The motel room around them blurred, the humming air unit, the muted traffic outside, the flicker of a TV behind the wall, it all faded to static. There was nothing but the heat of Jack's body, the weight of him warm and solid against Ennis's chest, the way their hips slotted together like they'd been made to.

"Been thinkin' about this," Jack breathed against his throat, "Every goddamn night."

Ennis couldn't speak. Could barely think. He just nodded, letting out a sound that was half a groan, half a yes. Because same. God, same.

He pressed Jack back against the pillows, bracing one hand beside his head, the other running down his side, mapping him out all over again. Jack's thighs parted for him without needing to be asked, his breath hitching when Ennis settled between them. Ennis bent to kiss him again, slow this time, like he was making up for every kiss he hadn't given, every night he'd rolled over in a cold bed and thought about this exact moment.

And when Jack arched under him, fingers digging into his hips, Ennis thought thank Christ. Thought I'm here. Thought don't let this be the last time.

Somewhere between the slow drag of kisses and the rustle of clothes hitting the floor, a bottle of lube ended up in Ennis's hand. He didn't even remember who grabbed it, might've been Jack, might've been him in a haze, but there it was, cool plastic against his palm, and he couldn't remember ever being so glad to see the damn thing

He popped the cap with a snap, the sound sharp in the quiet between them. A cool ribbon of gel spilled out across the pads of his fingers, and Ennis worked it carefully with his thumb, rubbing circles into his palm, letting it warm. The feel of it, the glide, the slight tackiness turning to smooth heat beneath his skin, it grounded him. Brought him back from the edge just enough to breathe again.

His eyes flicked up to Jack, who was watching him through heavy-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling in time with the thrum of anticipation between them. Ennis didn't say anything. Didn't need to. He just nodded once, barely more than a tilt of his chin, and let his hand drift lower. It hit Ennis in that moment how much had changed since that first night in the tent up on Brokeback. That canvas shelter hadn't been big enough for the both of them, hell, it hadn't even been meant for two, but somehow, they'd fit. Curled close like animals in the cold, breath mingling, hands unsure. That night had split his whole damn life clean in two, before Jack, and after.

He'd been scared out of his mind. Not just from the cold, but from the weight of what they were doing. Of what it meant. He hadn't had a name for it then, not love, not yet, but some part of him had known the second he rolled over and reached for Jack that nothing would ever be the same again. That whatever they had done, whatever they had become in that moment, it wasn't something he could walk away from untouched. That night had tilted his whole world off its axis and kept it spinning crooked ever since.

He could still hear that voice in his head: You let it happen. You wanted it.

He'd wanted Jack like he'd never wanted anything before or since. Wanted him in a way that couldn't be buried or drowned or prayed away. And no matter how long he tried to outrun it, to bury it under work or women or silence, that truth never let him go. And the truth, the hard truth he hadn't dared say out loud for years, was that Jack had been his first. Not just the first man. The first, period. He'd never touched Alma like that, hadn't even tried. Alma hadn't touched him like that. Never got that far. He'd spent so long imagining it, her hands, soft and nervous, trailing over him, her brown eyes wide, uncertain, but it had all been pretend. A story someone else had written for him, and he'd never even opened the damn book.

Jack had beat her to it. Jack had beat everyone to it. First kiss. First time. First person who ever made his heart hammer like it wanted to break loose from his ribs. And he'd been so fucking scared, knowing it wasn't a one-time thing. Knowing that whatever had sparked between them in that tent wasn't gonna burn out come morning.

If Ennis was grateful for anything that had shifted between them over the years, besides the fact that Jack was still here, still his, it was that Jack had introduced him to the small miracle that was lube. It wasn't something he'd known a damn thing about back in the early days, back when they were young and reckless and everything was fumbling in the dark. Back when it was all hunger and gut instinct, and they both paid for it in soreness come morning.

But now… now he could do this right. Take his time. Make it easier on Jack, gentler, even if that word didn't sit easy on his tongue. It sure as hell sat right in his hands. The tips of his fingers traced along the cleft of Jack's ass, feather-light at first, teasing without pushing. Just enough to feel the tremble that ran through Jack's frame. Just enough to make him shiver. Ennis's breath caught as he smeared a thin trail of lube down, circling Jack's rim with the barest pressure, watching how Jack's hips twitched at the contact. He could feel Jack trying to stay still, holding his breath, jaw tight.

He missed this. Missed the way Jack responded to him, every little movement, every twitch, every breath sucked in like he couldn't help it. Ennis watched his chest rise and fall, the shaky inhale, the flush climbing up his throat. That look, Jack laid open beneath him was enough to make his own knees damn near buckle. He wasn't rushing. Not after everything. Not after hospital beds and long nights apart and the cold memory of not knowing if he'd ever get this again. If he'd ever get Jack again.

The first finger slipped in easy, and Ennis's eyes never strayed from Jack's face. He saw the moment it landed, that first jolt of sensation. Jack's brow furrowed, his lips parted around a shaky inhale, and Ennis stilled, waiting, reading the small cues he'd come to know like his own reflection. But then Jack's hips shifted, chasing the touch, tilting forward in an instinctive roll that told Ennis everything he needed to hear without a single word spoken. It was permission, clear as day. Hell, it was more than permission, it was Jack saying, I need this. I need you.

So Ennis let the motion guide him, pressing deeper until he was in to the last knuckle, heat wrapped tight around him. Jack's body clenched, then loosened just as quick, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. He looked wrecked already, and they hadn't even gotten started.

"Jesus, Ennis…" Jack gasped, barely more than a whisper.

Ennis's throat worked as he swallowed, "Goddamn, you're tight," he muttered, eyes dropping to where his hand moved between Jack's thighs, watching the way Jack took him in, "You sure you want—?"

Jack didn't let him finish. "Don't start," he hissed, head tipping back to thud against the flat motel pillow. Sweat had already begun to bead along his hairline, shining in the dim light. "Don't start second-guessin' me now, Del Mar. I been waitin' two fuckin' years. You really think I'd let you this far if I didn't want it?"

Ennis paused, his hand stilling, thumb brushing lightly along the inside of Jack's thigh. "Ain't about that," he said quietly, and the softness of it surprised even him. It was the kind of gentleness he didn't usually let out into the open, but tonight it came easy, settled into his voice like it belonged there, "Just wanna make sure you're alright."

Jack tipped his head, eyes narrowing in disbelief. He stared at Ennis for a long beat, like he was trying to decide if he was being serious, then let out a incredulous snort. "Ennis," he said, gesturing vaguely at his sprawled frame, legs parted, "I got your finger in my ass and I ain't exactly tellin' you to stop. What d'you think?"

Ennis huffed out something that might've been a laugh, shoulders shaking faintly. God, that mouth. That stubborn, reckless, foul-mouthed smartass he'd never once been able to walk away from.

Jack didn't let up. "I'm fine. Better than fine." He shifted his hips, dragging a needy little sound out of his throat. "But I won't be worth a damn if you keep treatin' me like I'm made of glass. C'mon, cowboy. Quit stallin'. You know what I want."

Ennis huffed, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, tugged up into something that was almost a smile, "Pushy son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath, more fond than annoyed. The words came easy now, wrapped in the familiarity of years, of longing stretched thin and finally allowed to ease. "Always were."

And without a single warning, because hell, Jack didn't want one, Ennis eased a second finger in beside the first.

The reaction was instant. Jack's whole body jerked, a gasp punched out of him so sudden and loud it echoed off the walls. His back arched off the mattress, muscles straining, and his hand shot out to grab the motel sheet, twisting it into a fist like it might keep him tethered. The tremble in his thighs got worse, his breath breaking up into gasps, every one hitching high in his throat like he couldn't catch it fast enough.

Jack's head lolled to the side, damp hair sticking to his temples, lashes fluttering. His eyes were glazed over, half-lidded, pupils blown so wide the blue had nearly vanished. "F…Fuck," he stammered, voice catching hard in his throat, "Warn a guy, would ya?"

Ennis leaned in, one hand braced beside Jack's shoulder, the other still buried between his legs, and let his breath skim the flushed skin of Jack's cheek. "Thought you didn't want me babyin' you.",  he muttered,  nearly smug in that quiet, Ennis kind of way.

Jack let out a breathless huff of laughter, hips tilting up again, pushing himself down harder onto Ennis's fingers like he couldn't bear the space between them. "Yeah, well," he managed, panting through the words, "Maybe I didn't mean right that second, you bastard." His voice broke on a groan as he rolled his hips again. "Now shut up and keep goin'."

Ennis obliged, because hell, how could he not? Jack was laid out beneath him like a prayer finally answered, and there wasn't a force on earth strong enough to pull Ennis away from that.

He twisted his fingers just slightly, letting Jack adjust to the stretch, to the feeling of being touched like this again after so long. And Jack, God, Jack was already trembling under him, his hips rocked forward again, greedy for more, chasing the friction like he was starving for it.

"Easy," Ennis said, but the word came out ragged, not stern like he meant it to. His own blood was humming hot beneath his skin, Jack was gripping him without even trying, muscles fluttering around his fingers with every movement, every breath. Ennis could feel the tension building in him like a storm rolling up fast behind the mountains, could feel his own control start to fray at the edges.

Jack's thighs shifted, spreading wider, heels digging into the mattress for leverage. Ennis curled his fingers again, angling them in a way he remembered Jack liked best, and Jack damn near sobbed. "Jesus, Ennis," he gasped, head thrown back, throat bared and working around the shape of the next word. "That's it… right there, fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop."

Ennis slipped in another finger, and Jack's whole body jerked like he'd been shocked. The stretch hit hard, deeper than before, and it knocked the breath clean out of him. His mouth fell open, but no sound came for a second, just a shuddering inhale, like he was trying to hold it together and couldn't. The burn twisted through him, then sinked into that sweet ache he hadn't felt in too long. It hurt in all the right ways, the kind of hurt he craved. The kind that made his thighs shake and his hands claw at the sheets just to keep from coming apart.

It had been too long. Too long since he'd been touched like this, fucked open patiently. Too long since anyone had worked him over with hands that knew what they were doing. And Ennis, God, Ennis knew. He knew every angle, every twitch, every spot that made Jack lose his grip. Jack could feel it in the way those fingers moved, curling deep, spreading him wider with each press. It burned. It filled. And it still wasn't enough.

"Ennis," Jack gasped, voice hoarse like he'd been shouting for hours. He fumbled for leverage, tried to push himself up on one elbow, but the motion knocked the air from his lungs. His muscles gave out, dropping him back to the mattress with a breathless curse. Waves of pleasure crashed through him, making it damn near impossible to think, let alone talk, but he forced the words out anyway. "I'm.. I'm gonna shoot if you keep on like that."

His hips rolled helplessly, chasing every curl and press of Ennis's fingers like he couldn't help it. His cock was flushed and leaking against his stomach, twitching with every pass of Ennis's hand, and Jack could feel it building, no room for subtlety. He was spiraling hard, so fucking close it hurt, and every little twist of Ennis's wrist pushed him further toward the edge.

"Fuck," Jack hissed, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut against the pull of it. "Fuck, Ennis, you gotta stop, just for a second."

Ennis pulled his fingers free slow, and Jack felt the absence of them instantly. His body clenched down, aching around the loss, and he couldn't stop the way his hips lifted again, chasing contact, desperate to be filled again.  Jack's eyes cracked open, barely focused, as he blinked up at the ceiling, dazed. His hand flailed out, found Ennis's forearm and gripped hard, grounding himself.

"Please," he said again, "Just, now. Need you."

Ennis's voice came quiet, "Yeah, darlin'. I know."

Ennis lined himself up, one hand tight on the base of his cock, the other pressed into Jack's thigh to hold him steady. His knuckles were white with tension, arm trembling, sweat running down his side. He wasn't talking. Just breathing hard through his nose, jaw clenched like he was barely holding it together.

Jack felt the thick head of Ennis’ cock press right up against his hole. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. "Go," he rasped. "Just... do it."

Ennis pushed in slowly, but the size of it still knocked the wind out of Jack's lungs. Jack's spine arched off the bed, fingers curling tight in the blankets as he sucked air through clenched teeth. The burn lit him up from the inside, the kind of pain that blurred fast into pleasure so intense it was hard to tell the difference. His legs kicked uselessly at the sheets, heels digging for leverage, thighs trembling under Ennis's grip.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Jack choked out, the words almost slurred. His nails raked down Ennis's bicep before locking in, desperate. "F…Fuck, Ennis, that's it, shit, keep goin'."

Ennis didn't bottom out all at once, but he didn't drag it out either. He kept pressing in deeper until his hips were flush against Jack's ass. Buried to the base. Jack's whole body shook under him, every muscle strained, sweat running down his temples into his hair. His thighs were trembling. His hole clenching and giving in at the same time, dragging Ennis deeper by instinct even as his brain tried to catch up.

Jack was already wrecked. He was panting, arms flung above his head, fingers curled into fists. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. His body was pulsing around the stretch, trying to adjust. He could feel the twitch of Ennis's cock inside him, feel it everywhere. Ennis held still once he was fully seated, muscles drawn tight, breath ragged in Jack's ear. Jack could hear it, feel it in the way Ennis trembled over him, trying like hell not to lose it before it even started.

He reached up and grabbed Ennis by the jaw, fingers rough with urgency. Forced him to look. "You okay?" 

Ennis gave a small nod, barely managing to speak. "Tryin' not to blow my goddamn load," he muttered, like his teeth were clenched just to keep it in.

Jack groaned low, hips jerking up just a little against him. "You're not the only one," he said, breath hitching. "Feels like you're splittin' me in fuckin' half."

Ennis shifted just slightly, pulled back a couple inches, testing. Jack's body seized again, clamped tight like it was trying to drag him back in. The stretch burned, but it was a good burn, the kind that made his toes curl and his stomach clench up hard. He gasped out loud, one hand flying up to grab Ennis's shoulder.

He froze again. "Should I stop?"

Jack's answer came fast, hard, no room for second-guessing. "No. Don't even fuckin' think about it." He dug his heels into the backs of Ennis's thighs, dragging him in deeper, hips tilted up in invitation. "Move. Fuck me, Ennis. Don't make me beg."

Ennis let out a broken grunt and slid one hand under Jack's thigh, gripping tight for leverage. The other hand braced against the mattress. He pulled out slow, dragging the head of his cock almost to the edge, then slammed back in hard enough to shake the bedframe.

Jack gasped, body jolting, hands flying up to grab Ennis's back. "Fuck!" he cried out, voice breaking.

Ennis pulled out again, faster this time, and thrust back in, rougher. No rhythm yet, just raw need, two years of nothing burning out in seconds. The sound of it was slick, skin on skin, low grunts from Ennis, punched-out gasps from Jack with every thrust that drove the air out of his lungs.

"Harder," Jack rasped, fingernails digging into Ennis's back. "Come on, cowboy. You know how I want it."

Ennis found a rhythm, deep, hard thrusts that made the bedframe creak with every slam of his hips. He wasn't gentle, wasn't trying to be. There wasn't any room left for it. Two years of want had stripped them both down to nothing but need. Sweat dripped from his brow, landing on Jack's chest, and he gritted his teeth like the effort of holding back was killing him.

The pace picked up fast. Ennis was driving into him like he couldn't stop, couldn't slow down if he tried. Every thrust was deep, hitting the same spot over and over until Jack couldn't catch a breath. Every thrust landed dead-on, hitting that same spot until he was seeing flashes behind his eyes, his mouth open but nothing coming out. His cock was trapped between them, flushed dark, leaking against his own stomach in sticky streaks. Pre-cum smeared across his skin, catching in the sweat that rolled down his chest. Every drag of Ennis inside him set off another pulse, tightening the knot low in his belly until it was damn near unbearable.

He tried to hold on, fists in the sheets, then clawing at Ennis's back, nails dragging without aim or rhythm. Nothing helped. His whole body was screaming for release, strung tight and pulled thinner by the second.

Ennis shifted just slightly, pulling Jack tighter by the thigh and angling his hips. The next thrust landed dead-on, right against that spot that made Jack see stars. His body seized, everything clamping down around Ennis so hard it pulled a strangled sound straight from both of them.

"Fuck! Fuck, Ennis, right there, don't stop—"

Ennis didn't. He grunted, jaw tight, thrusts turning faster. Jack's cock was trapped between them, leaking and flushed red, untouched but twitching with every movement. He was so close it hurt, whole body pulsing around Ennis, the stretch was perfect now, edged with the kind of pressure that pushed him over.

"Shit, m'gonna come, don't stop, don't fuckin' stop—" He begged, not even sure the words made sense. He was right at the edge, teetering, and then Ennis slammed into him again, hard and deep, and that was it.

Jack came hard, groaning through clenched teeth, cock twitching between them, spurting across his stomach and Ennis's chest. Every muscle in him locked up, then gave way all at once. His thighs trembled, jaw slack, body trembling under the weight of it. Hot pulses kept ripping through him, too intense to process, too much after so long.

The second Jack started to come, Ennis gave in too.

"Fuck—Jack—" Ennis choked out, hips stuttering.

Jack barely heard him. He was still riding the tail end of it, thighs shaking, muscles locking up with the aftershocks. But then Ennis buried himself one last time, deep as he could go,  hips pressed flush, grinding in hard. Jack could feel him pulse inside, feel every twitch and spasm as Ennis came with a harsh groan, breath punched out of him in one long exhale. He collapsed over Jack, arms shaking, body slick with sweat, burying his face against Jack's throat like he couldn't hold himself up anymore.

Jack let the mattress catch him, the last of his strength bleeding out into the sheets. His chest rose in uneven pulls, lungs dragging at the air like they were still catching up. Sweat clung to every inch of him, slicking his skin where it stuck to the blanket beneath, and the motel's weak air unit did little more than push lukewarm air across his overheated body. Every muscle in him twitched like it hadn't quite gotten the message that they were finished. His thighs still trembled, his heart still hammered. He stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, the edges of the room blurred and spinning just a little.

"Goddamn, Ennis," It was half a laugh, half a groan. Disbelief clinging to the end of it. Like he still couldn't quite believe he got to feel this way again.

His body was still humming, the orgasm rippling through him in slow waves that made his toes curl and his fingertips twitch against the sheets. It wasn't just the release, it was the relief. Not gritting his teeth through another bad night. Not pretending the pain wasn't eating him alive. This was different. This was good. Warmth instead of fire. A thrum instead of a stab. And fuck, it felt like a goddamn miracle to just lie there and breathe without wanting to crawl out of his skin.

The mattress shifted beside him. Springs creaked softly as Ennis pulled out, and then he was settling close with a breath that sounded like he'd been holding it in the whole time. He slung an arm over his face like the light from the bare overhead bulb was too much, or maybe just like he needed a second to come back into himself.  Jack didn't wait. He rolled onto his side and pressed in close, let his cheek rest against Ennis's shoulder. The sweat between them was cooling, tacky on his skin, but he didn't care. He could feel Ennis's heart still racing under his skin, a steady beat in his chest that matched the thrum still echoing in Jack's own. Jack could feel it in his jaw, his chest, all the way down to where their legs brushed under the sheet.

Ennis lifted his arm, let it fall across Jack's back, not saying much at first. Then, after a moment, "You alright? Weren't too much, was it?"

Jack let out a breath, the edge of a laugh caught in it. "Too much?" he echoed, dragging the words out slow like he was tasting them. . He gave a small shake of his head, just enough to nudge against Ennis's collarbone. "No, cowboy. That was—"

He didn't finish. Couldn't. The words dried up in his mouth, too many feelings jammed in the way. So he let it go, didn't force it. Instead, he shifted in closer, pressing his face into the curve of Ennis's neck, his lips brushing over the warm skin there. Not quite a kiss. Not quite not. A quiet kind of gratitude he didn't have the energy or language for,  "I'm good," he murmured. "Better than good. And if I had anything left in me, I'd be askin' you to roll me back over."

Ennis let out a low laugh, the kind that rumbled in his chest. "Slow your roll, rodeo," he said, dragging a hand down Jack's spine. "We still got eight hours of drivin' tomorrow. And I ain't in the mood to listen to you whine about your legs crampin' up halfway to Colorado."

Jack smiled against his skin, didn't bother lifting his head. "Who said anythin' 'bout now?"  He muttered, "Just bend me over the hood of the truck tomorrow. Rest stop's fine."

Ennis huffed, a noise that landed somewhere between exasperation and resignation. "Jesus Christ."

"You love it."

"Mmh," Ennis rumbled. His hand shifted, started tracing slow circles across Jack's shoulder, broad thumb moving in no real pattern. "I love the part where you shut your damn mouth and sleep."

Jack snorted softly, lids growing heavier with every pass of Ennis's hand. "That right?"

"That's right."

Jack shifted again, just barely, tucking himself in a little tighter. His breath slowed further, eyelids too heavy to fight anymore, "Alright," he whispered, words slurred by sleep. "But just so you know… I ain't done with you yet."

Ennis didn't say anything at first. Just shifted, pulled the blanket higher over both of them, and let his hand settle at the nape of Jack's neck, fingers sliding into the damp hair there.

"Good," he said, so soft it barely broke the silence. "'Cause I ain't done with you either."

Chapter Text

Any last flickers of hesitation Ennis might’ve had about leaving Wyoming, about packing up his whole damn life and driving it west across state lines, didn’t hold up long against what he found waiting for him in Colorado. The beauty of the place hit him hardest in the early mornings, lavender bleeding into peach across the sky like some old watercolor left out in the rain.  Mist would hang low over the fields, clinging to the tops of the grass and swirling in soft ribbons around the fence posts. Just beyond the pastures, the mountains loomed high and blue with snow dusting their peaks. Pines stretched toward the sky in dark green, and every sunrise poured gold across the ridgelines until the whole world seemed lit from within.

Sometimes he’d stand out on the porch with a cup of coffee warming his hands, watching the fog burn off the pastures, and feel like he’d stepped into a picture postcard, one of those glossy things folks stuck on fridge doors and never thought twice about. Except this one was real. This one was his. He’d never seen anything like it. Not on the cold hills of Sage, not in the wind-burned stretches of Signal, not even up on Brokeback where the world had once cracked open wide enough to let Jack in.  This place didn’t just look different, it felt different. Like it had been waiting for him, somehow. Waiting for both of them.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t the mountains or the trees that made Colorado feel like another world entirely. Maybe it was Jack. Maybe it was the weight of him in their bed every morning, mouth slack with sleep and hair sticking up in all directions. Maybe it was the way Jack would grunt and murmur something half-formed against his shoulder, too drowsy to make sense, and then hook an arm around Ennis’s middle. Sometimes Ennis would lie there with his eyes closed a little longer, just to feel that weight, Jack breathing steady against his back, and wonder how the hell they got so lucky. After everything. After all that time.

That was the thing. Colorado was damn beautiful. But it wasn’t the trees or the mountains or the wide-open sky that made it feel like another world. It was being here and not having to lie about who he was. It was the sound of Jack’s laughter echoing through the house. The way his hand would find Ennis’s without a second thought. It was living with Jack, not just meeting him on borrowed weekends and pretending it was enough.

That was the difference. This wasn’t stolen time anymore.

The ranch turned out to be more than Ennis had expected, more than he’d let himself believe in, even after Jack had spent months talking it up with that persistent kind of hope he carried around like a flame cupped in his hands. Ennis had figured Jack was sweet-talking it the way he sometimes did, letting his dreams outrun the truth. But no, Jack hadn’t been spinning a fantasy. If anything, he’d undersold it. Because for once in his life, Jack goddamn Twist had come out ahead. It was a proper cow-calf operation, just like Jack had talked about way back in '67 when he first started dreaming out loud about building a life together. Ennis remembered that conversation like it was etched in his bones, Jack, all lit up with the thought of it, painting pictures of a place where they could live and work side by side. Back then, it had felt like a fairytale, something said in the dark when the world was far away and it was easy to pretend.

But this place was real. The land rolled wide and open under a sky that seemed too big to belong to any one man. There were fences that needed mending, a barn with a roof that sagged a little too low on one side, and a house with crooked porch steps and flaking paint. But the land was healthy. The cattle were sturdy. It was a fixer-upper, sure, but it had history, and more importantly, it had potential.

And they weren’t starting from scratch either. Jack had jumped on the opportunity fast. The place had been in one family’s hands for generations, run by an older man whose kids had all moved off to the city, chasing desk jobs and clean shoes. None of them wanted to come back. The old man, well into retirement age and nursing a busted hip, had finally decided to let it go. He hadn’t wanted to sell it to just anybody. Didn’t want some developer cutting it into parcels or some city slicker turning it into a novelty bed-and-breakfast with horses for decoration. He wanted it to go to someone who understood the work. Someone who’d keep the herd going, keep the land tended and the soil respected. The old man sold it to Jack for less than market value, on the condition that Jack keep the land working and didn’t let it rot.

“Hell of a place,” Jack said that first morning as they stood by the fence line, the sun just starting to rise over the ridge. “She’s a little rough, but hell, Ennis, it’s a start.”

Some things came easier than either of them expected. Within a few weeks, they’d settled into a rhythm, who made the coffee, who handled the morning feed, who patched fences and who kept the books. They figured out who’d take what side of the bed without saying a word, Ennis gravitated toward the side closest to the door, same as always, and Jack didn’t argue.  The cabinets in the kitchen went from chipped white to deep forest green after a single Saturday spent half-covered in paint and laughing over Ennis’s grumbling. There were disagreements, sure, Jack liked to push for bolder choices, while Ennis leaned toward whatever was practical, but they always found the middle ground. It surprised them both how natural it felt. 

But the one thing they couldn’t seem to nail down, the one that tripped them up more than the roof repairs or the fencing budget or learning the rhythms of a new piece of land, was the damn name. What in the hell were they going to call the ranch?

It shouldn’t have been that hard. Jack said so at least a dozen times, usually while waving a fork around over dinner. “It’s just a name,” he’d mutter, like that was supposed to make it easier. “Twist-Del Mar Ranch” was the obvious one, sitting there plain as day, but it felt too formal, like something that belonged on a courthouse deed, not carved into a wooden sign swinging above the gate. They toyed with “Brokeback Ranch” for a bit, mostly as a joke, though both of them went quiet for a while afterward. Ennis didn’t like the way it tugged at the past. Jack floated names like “Painted Ridge” and “Lightning Ranch,” stuff that sounded good coming out of his mouth but faded the second they said them twice. Nothing stuck.

Jack, naturally, treated the whole thing like a creative exercise. Every dinner turned into a brainstorming session, half in jest and half sincere. He’d blurt out something ridiculous with his mouth half full, “What about Buttermilk Ridge?” or “Double J-E, like our initials, huh?” Ennis would grunt and shake his head, pretending not to find it funny when Jack snorted at his own bad ideas and grinned across the table like a fool.

Still, nothing stuck. And it drove them both half crazy, because out of everything they’d built, every post hole they’d dug, every feed run and repair job, every long evening spent side by side on the porch, this seemed like it should have been the easiest part. Just a name. Two words, maybe three. Something to etch into the gate, to print on the invoices and tack up on a wooden sign at the edge of the property. But somehow it kept slipping through their fingers.

It came to Ennis in the stillest part of the night, the kind of moment no one would remember but him. Just past midnight, cold enough to bite through denim and denim again, and he was standing on the porch with a cigarette burning between his fingers, the ember flaring against the dark. His breath curled in the air like smoke from a dying fire, and the boards beneath his boots creaked when he shifted his weight. The air was sharp, cuting straight through the haze of tiredness fogging his head, but he didn’t go back inside. Not yet.

He was worn out to the bone, but his mind wouldn’t quiet. There was something about the sky tonight, how goddamn clear it was, how the stars looked close enough to touch, that made it feel wrong to waste it. So he stood there, shoulders hunched, collar turned up against the wind, staring up at the heavens like they might offer him something. A thought. A memory. A sign.

Jack was inside, bundled up with a heating pad strapped around his lower back, grumbling earlier about the nerve pain that had flared up again and made it near impossible to sit still. Ennis had offered to stay in with him, maybe put on a movie or rub the pain away with those calloused hands Jack pretended not to like so much. But Jack waved him off, told him to go get some air, “Quit hoverin’ like an old hen.” So Ennis took his cigarette and stepped outside, figuring maybe a minute or two in the cold would settle the restlessness scratching at his ribs.

He wished, not for the first time, that it wasn’t so damn cold, that Jack could be out here too. But Jack had taken to staying in more often these days, rough days piling up behind him like the pain in his back that never really went away, no matter how good the weather was or how strong he tried to act. Ennis took another drag and narrowed his eyes at the night sky, scanning it absently, not expecting anything, just... passing time. And then he saw it. That one star, steady and bright, sitting quiet over the northern ridge like it had been waiting for him to notice. 

The North Star.

He hadn’t thought about it in a long while, not directly. But it’d always been there, tucked somewhere behind his ribs, just like the memory that came crashing back with it.  He could still see Jack lying beside him, arm lifted, pointing skyward. Could still hear his voice, soft in the hush of the wilderness, full of something that had sounded like wonder.

“Y’see that?” he’d said, voice low, like he was letting Ennis in on something secret. “That’s the North Star. Polaris, some folks call it. Sailors used it to guide ’em. Didn’t matter how far they drifted, as long as they could find that star, they’d always know which way was home.”

It sounded simple, the way Jack said it. A fact. A bit of knowledge passed between them like so many other quiet things. But it stuck. It stuck in Ennis the way few things ever did. Not because of the star, not really, but because of the way Jack had looked at it. Because of the way Jack had looked at him after. And now here it was again, years and years later, and that same star still hung above him, unchanging. Constant.

Just like Jack.

Jack Twist, loud and reckless and full of too much goddamn heart, had become that star for him. His Polaris. His constant. Through all the silence, the distance, the fuck-ups and near-misses, Jack had stayed fixed in his sky. The one thing Ennis could count on, even when everything else was shifting under his feet. Jack, who never stopped dreaming. Jack, who never stopped reaching. Jack, who pulled him toward this life, this land, this love, with his teeth clenched and fists raised, dragging Ennis toward the kind of future he’d never dared to imagine.

When Ennis finally slipped back inside, the warmth of the house wrapped around him like a blanket.   The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp Jack had forgotten to turn off. Ennis moved quietly, boots left by the door, flannel shrugged from his shoulders. The floor was cool under his feet, but the bed was warm, and Jack was already curled up on his side, half-buried in the blankets.

His face was pressed into the pillow, hair tousled and falling across his brow, one arm stretched out across the mattress like he’d reached for Ennis in his sleep and hadn’t found him there. The sight of it tugged at something in Ennis’s chest. He eased under the covers without a sound, careful not to jostle Jack too much. As he settled in, his hand drifted up, fingers moving through Jack’s hair with slow care, brushing a stray strand off his forehead. Jack stirred at the touch, a soft, half-conscious sound slipping from his throat.

“Think I figured it out,” Ennis murmured, spoken more to the dark than to the man beside him.

Jack shifted, blinking groggily, just one eye open, heavy-lidded with sleep. “Figured what out?”

Ennis watched him, taking in the familiar slope of his nose, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes even now, half-lost in shadow. “What we oughta call the place.”

Jack blinked again, brow twitching like he was trying to wake up enough to follow. “Yeah?”

Ennis nodded, just once. “North Star Ranch.”

Jack was quiet a second longer, then the corners of his mouth tugged into a small, tired smile. He scooted closer, his forehead nudging against Ennis’s chest, voice barely a whisper when he said, “Sounds right.”

Ennis let his hand settle against the back of Jack’s neck, thumb stroking slowly. And it did, it sounded right. Felt right, like it had always been there, waiting for them to find it.

The rest of it fell into place after that, like the name had been the missing piece, the final nail that made the whole damn thing feel real. North Star Ranch. Once they’d said it out loud, everything else seemed to line up behind it. Bit by bit, the pieces of their life started fitting together, not perfect, not seamless, but steady. And after all the years of scraping by, of silence and distance and aching half-tries, Ennis was quietly, deeply grateful for it.

He didn’t say much about it, not out loud, but there was a stillness settling into him now that hadn’t been there before. Something solid. A routine that stuck. He woke early, fed the cattle, checked the fences, took his coffee out on the porch before the sun cleared the ridge. Jack handled the books when his back wasn’t acting up, kept track of the hay orders, spent more time than he liked to admit picking out paint samples for the barn siding. It wasn’t always easy, nothing with them ever had been, but it wasn’t hard in the way it used to be. They weren’t looking over their shoulders anymore. That alone made it easier to breathe. 

They got their first livestock guardian dog not long after the sign went up, North Star Ranch, hand-painted and bolted to a post just past the gate, the letters dark against fresh-cut cedar. Ennis didn’t say much when he hammered it into place, just stepped back with his arms crossed, hat pulled low over his brow, and stared at it like he was trying to believe it was real. The dog had been his next priority, Ennis had done the research, more than Jack thought was strictly necessary, filling a whole notepad with scribbled facts and underlined sentences. He’d gone through breeds like he was studying for an exam, weighing temperament against size, endurance against independence. In the end, he landed on the Anatolian Shepherd, big, quiet, watchful, and stubborn as a damn mule.

“Sounds familiar,” Jack had muttered when Ennis first brought it up, already half-smirking behind his coffee mug. Ennis didn’t rise to it. He knew what he was, quiet, hard-headed, slow to warm. Just like the dog he picked.

The pup came from a breeder a county over. Five months old, and already broad across the chest and long-legged, heavy-footed like he hadn’t quite grown into his frame yet. He had a thick, tawny coat with darker markings around his face, and deep-set eyes that didn’t miss much, not the low chirp of birds in the fence posts, not the shifting of the wind, not the way Ennis moved. He was watchful but calm, quiet in that way Ennis liked best in animals, and in people, too, if he was being honest. The drive back to the ranch had been uneventful. The pup didn’t whine, didn’t squirm. Just lay stretched out in the truck cab, head resting on his paws, watching the road roll out behind them. When they pulled up to the gate, Ennis opened the door and gave a low whistle, and the dog jumped down with an easy grace, landing heavy in the dirt. He didn’t bark. Didn’t bolt. Just fell in step beside Ennis like it had been decided long before they’d met.

Jack was waiting by the porch, arms crossed, leaning with his full weight on one hip. He straightened up when he saw them coming down the drive, his brows rising in silent judgment as the pup padded up beside Ennis, tail low and posture relaxed.

“That him?” he asked, eyes narrowing as the pup padded through the gate like he owned the place.

Ennis nodded, running a hand behind the pup’s ear. The dog leaned into it slightly, eyes still scanning the yard. “Yep. Name’s Buddy.”

Jack let out a snort and crouched to get a better look. The dog stared right back at him, still and unbothered, like he’d seen plenty of loud men before and wasn’t impressed, “Buddy? Real original, cowboy,” Jack drawled, scratching at the dog’s neck. “What, ‘Dog’ was taken?”

Ennis shrugged. “Ain’t a show pony. He’s here to work.”

Jack shook his head, still crouched, still grinning. He looked at the dog, who hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound, just sat there like a statue, taking everything in. Then he looked back up at Ennis, eyes bright with mischief, “Well,” he said, rising to his feet with a wince as he straightened out his back, “He suits you. Both got that same squinty, judgmental stare.”

Ennis rolled his eyes and exhaled a soft snort through his nose, but he didn’t argue. Truth was, the dog did feel familiar in ways he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit out loud. Quiet. Loyal. Knows when to stay out of the way and when to stand his ground.

The animals multiplied fast. By the time the first hard frosts set in, it was already clear they were headed into calving season with more mouths than hands to manage them. February loomed close, and Ennis knew the herd wasn’t going to wait for them to be ready. They were going to need extra help, on two legs, sure, but four wouldn’t hurt either. He’d been reading up on herding breeds in the quiet hours of the morning, circling things in pencil, making mental notes he didn’t bother to say aloud. Jack had rolled his eyes when he caught him at it one morning, but he hadn’t argued.

Still, neither of them were expecting the new dog to come from a feed store run. Jack had been feeling decent that day, good enough to get out of the house, stretch his legs, and grumble about prices like he always did. Ennis hadn’t planned to bring him along, but Jack had insisted, claiming he’d go stir-crazy if he had to sit through another afternoon of watching paint dry.

The heeler was waiting for them in a cardboard box near the register, the last of the litter, the feed store clerk said, half-off if someone took him today. Jack leaned over to get a look, and the pup bounded straight into his lap, tail going like a whip, tongue all over Jack’s face before he could protest. Ennis figured that was that. By the time they got back to the truck, the pup had wedged himself under Jack’s coat like he belonged there, yipping excitedly every time they hit a bump in the road. “Well, hell,” Jack muttered, scratching behind his ears. “Guess we’ve been adopted.”

They named him Smokey, for the soot-colored patches that ran across his back and the blue tint to his coat that caught the light just right. He was small then, but already full of piss and vinegar, sharp-eyed, quick-footed, and bossy as hell. He took to the ranch like it was his birthright, darting between the cattle like a shot and trying to herd anything that moved, whether it needed herding or not.

More than once, Jack caught him nipping at his heels while he hobbled across the yard with his cane, barking like he had somewhere urgent to go. “Goddammit, Smokey!” Jack barked, waving the cane in the dog’s direction. “You wanna herd something, go chase the damn cows!” Smokey just wagged his stubby tail and gave a half-circle around him, ears perked like he was daring Jack to try and outmaneuver him.

But Ennis had to admit, Smokey earned his keep. He was fast, sharp, and never needed telling twice. He could read a cow better than most men, and even when he was being a pain in the ass, there was a kind of spark in him Ennis couldn’t help but like. Maybe it was the confidence. Maybe it was the way he seemed to take his job seriously, even if his mouth never quite stopped running.

The last addition to round out that first year on the ranch came in the form of a Great Pyrenees named June. She was a towering, snow-colored bundle of patience and soft-footed presence meant mostly to keep watch over the chickens, though she ended up guarding just about everything in her way. They hadn’t planned on bringing in another dog so soon after Smokey, but Jack had heard through the grapevine, more accurately, from a chatty cashier in town, that the folks who lived three ridgelines over had a fresh litter of Pyrenees pups. “Neighbors,” Jack called them, though Ennis figured if you had to drive twenty minutes just to borrow a cup of sugar, you might as well be living in separate counties.

Jack had been the one to bring it up, casual as anything over dinner one night, pushing green beans around his plate. “You hear about them pups the McMurray place got?” he asked, not quite looking up. “Pyrs. Big ol’ things. Good with birds. Real gentle, real loyal.”

Ennis raised a brow but didn’t say much. He’d been raised to believe one good dog was plenty, and they already had Buddy and Smokey running the place like they owned it. Still, he didn’t shut Jack down either, which was as good as a yes in their world.

She and Buddy had an unspoken truce, each seemed to understand the other’s role without fuss. Smokey, on the other hand, tested her patience daily, darting around her like a pest, nipping at her heels and daring her to play. She rarely indulged him, but every now and then she’d swat him with a heavy paw, just enough to remind him she outweighed him twice over.

And to top off the end of their first year on North Star Ranch, in the chill of December 1984, Junior and Kurt came to visit. Ennis hadn’t known what to expect, exactly. He hadn’t seen them much since the wedding that summer, just a few phone calls and a pair of postcards tucked in the mail with return addresses scrawled in neat handwriting. He had been out back splitting wood when he heard the rumble of tires on the gravel drive, the dogs barking from the front porch before calming just as quick. He wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped around the side of the barn just in time to see Junior step out of the car, her coat cinched tight at the waist, scarf trailing in the wind. Kurt rounded the front of the car to open the trunk, ever the gentleman.

Ennis liked him. Had since the first handshake. The boy was steady, quiet, but not timid. Respectful. Kept a level tone in conversation and held doors without making a show of it. Ennis hadn’t been sure what to expect from the boy, man, really, though Ennis still caught himself calling most folks under thirty “kid” without thinking. When Ennis saw him sitting in the front pew of the Riverton Methodist Church, his boots were polished, posture straight, but it was the look in his eyes that struck Ennis hardest. That soft kind of gaze, devoted, sure, like there was no place else in the world he’d rather be than right there with Junior, saying those vows.

Ennis had seen that look before. He’d seen it reflected in Jack’s eyes a hundred times over the years, when he thought no one was watching, or maybe when he hoped Ennis finally was. It had floored him, then, and it floored him again now.

In that church pew, Ennis had realized something he hadn’t expected, that maybe, somehow, his daughter had found her North Star too. Her and Kurt fit. They belonged to each other. And as strange as it was, as startling as it felt to say it out loud in his own mind, Ennis was happy for her.

It was strange, though, how much could change in six months. Hell, how much could change in a year. Back in the spring of ‘83, Ennis had still been keeping his life in a tight fist, holding fast to routine like it was all he had. Waking before dawn, working until the day blurred at the edges, eating alone, sleeping alone, not daring to ask for anything more than the bare minimum it took to keep moving forward. Change had always felt like a threat. Like something that would take more than it gave.

But the past year had taught him different.

This ranch, this land, this life, it hadn’t been part of the plan. Jack wasn’t supposed to still be here, wasn’t supposed to be walking. Ennis sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be living in Colorado, surrounded by dogs and chickens and paint samples. But somehow, he was. Somehow, they’d built something together. And he was learning, that sometimes it was all right to stop resisting. That change didn’t always mean loss. That sometimes, when you let the wind take you, it leads you exactly where you need to be.

The wind carried him west instead of back. And this time, instead of fighting it, Ennis had let it carry him to Jack. Now, here he was, his boots planted on the front drive of a ranch that bore a name they’d chosen together, watching his daughter step out of a car with her husband at her side, eyes bright with curiosity and breath fogging in the cold. 

Kurt grabbed their bags from the trunk, tossing Junior a quick smile as she stepped away from the car, coat already buttoned tight against the cold. Before Ennis could even shift his weight, she was at his side, arms around him, pulling him into a hug that felt like it could thaw every frostbitten corner of the morning. Ennis wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, holding on just a second longer than he meant to.

Junior pulled back with a smile, eyes scanning the yard, the dogs, the wide porch, the stretch of the land behind him. “It’s real pretty out here,” she said softly, almost like it surprised her.

Ennis nodded once, brushing a hand along her shoulder before tucking his fingers into his coat pocket. “Gets cold quick once the sun drops.”

As they pulled apart, Ennis found himself wondering, not for the first time, if Jenny would ever do the same. If she’d ever look past the quiet resentment Alma had left in her, the one that painted him in a shade of absence no matter how hard he tried. Their last conversation lingered in his gut like a bruise, the memory sharper than the wind now sneaking down his collar. The cold bit deep, settling between his shoulder blades. He rubbed his hands together, clearing his throat as he tilted his head toward the house.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he said finally, voice gentler than usual. “Let’s get inside. Jack’s in there doin’ god knows what. Probably rearranging the furniture again or tryin’ to cook somethin’ he shouldn’t.”

Junior let out a soft laugh, brushing a bit of wind-blown hair out of her face, and nodded. 

“Alright,” she said, nudging him gently with her shoulder. “Lead the way.”

Behind them, Kurt gave a quick wave from the back of the truck, one hand gripping the handle of their largest duffel, the other steadying a smaller bag slung over his shoulder. He adjusted his footing on the frozen gravel, boots crunching with each step, and followed after them without complaint, his frame hunched slightly against the cold.

They made their way up the front steps, the boards were sturdier than they’d been in the summer, even under the weight of three people and a bouncing dog trying to sniff everyone’s boots. Jack had insisted they replace them before winter set in. No more groaning underfoot, no more worrying about someone twisting an ankle. Jack had overseen the whole thing, even if he couldn’t do the lifting himself, directing Ennis from the porch with a mug of coffee in one hand and a dozen unsolicited opinions in the other. 

Ennis reached for the front door, fingers stiff from the cold, and turned the knob. The moment the door cracked open, a rush of warm air spilled out, carrying with it the scent of coffee and something vaguely sweet, cinnamon, maybe. Jack’s doing, no doubt, though how successful that baking attempt was would remain to be seen.

He stepped back, hand still on the doorframe, and held it open wide, “Go on in,” he murmured,  “Get warm.”

Junior gave his arm a gentle squeeze before slipping inside, boots clicking against the hardwood. Kurt followed close behind, ducking slightly under the doorframe, the bags shifting on his shoulder as he stepped into the heat.

The wood in the entryway had been one of the first things they tore out, splintered, warped, and slick as hell when the weather turned. Ennis remembered working through the heat that August, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt as he pried up each board one by one. Jack had tried to help, stubborn as ever, but his balance wasn’t what it used to be, and after the second near fall, Ennis had made him sit his ass down on the porch and stay there. Jack had grumbled about it the whole damn time, but Ennis hadn’t budged.

To the right of the entryway was the living room, warm and softly lit, the carpet still fresh and plush underfoot, a soft gray Jack had picked out after far too many evenings flipping through samples like they were choosing wallpaper for a palace. Ennis hadn’t cared about the color, but he’d agreed without a fight, because it cushioned the falls. To the left, the kitchen opened wide, and beneath, a stretch of new hardwood that Ennis had laid himself. The old floor had been a patchwork of scratches and dips, a minefield for anyone with a bad hip and unsteady footing. Jack had tripped more times than Ennis could count, trying to cook, trying to make coffee, just moving through the space like he used to. Each time, Ennis had helped him up, tried to swallow the quiet panic that gripped him when he saw the bruises blooming across Jack’s arms and ribs.

Eventually, he couldn’t stomach it anymore.

So the kitchen floor went next. Ennis installed wide, sanded boards with a matte finish, soft underfoot, grippy even in wet socks, with no seams or lips to catch a cane or a bad footfall. Jack had fought him on it at first, said he didn’t want the place changing just to accommodate him, like it was some kind of defeat. Ennis hadn’t said much. Just kept hammering nails and muttering about how the place needed fixing anyway.

The stairway that led to the second floor was tucked neatly against the outer kitchen wall, its frame old but solid, the banister smooth from years of hands sliding up and down. Ennis had gone up a few times, not often, but enough to know the layout. Two small bedrooms up there, likely meant for kids once, maybe visiting family, and a bathroom tucked between them. The ceilings sloped under the roofline, and the windows looked east, catching the first light of morning when the mountains were still wrapped in mist.  But most days, Ennis stayed downstairs. Past the kitchen, through a short hallway lined with hooks for coats and shelves stacked with tools and battered cowboy hats, was the door to the master bedroom, their bedroom. It had an attached bathroom, one they’d had widened slightly, with a walk-in shower Jack could manage on bad days. It was small, but it worked. Everything they needed, nothing they didn’t.

Their bedroom.

The phrase rolled awkward on his tongue, still strange after all this time, like a borrowed coat that hadn’t quite broken in yet. Not because it wasn’t true, hell, it was truer than anything else in his life, but because it had taken them both so damn long to get here. For years, they’d lived in fragments, in weekends, in trucks and motels and silent understandings. The idea of permanence had always felt like a trick of the light, something that vanished when you reached for it.

And now it was just… there. A room with two pillows instead of one. A dresser with Jack’s socks all mixed up with his. A dent in the mattress from the way Jack slept curled toward the center of the bed. Their boots side by side at the foot of it all.

“Just set the bags in the livin’ room,” Ennis said, stepping aside and nodding toward the couch that sat snug against the far wall. The faded plaid upholstery had held up better than expected, considering it had been hauled in the back of a truck six months ago and had seen its fair share of dog hair, mud, and Jack's habitual lounging. Above it, the wide front window let in the pale winter light, the glass just slightly fogged around the edges from the contrast of cold outside and warmth within. Kurt gave a nod and moved toward the couch, adjusting his grip on the luggage as he set both bags down with a soft thump against the carpet. Junior followed behind him, eyes roaming the room like she was soaking in every detail, every change since the last time she’d seen her father’s life up close.

“I’ll take y’all upstairs in a minute,” Ennis said, nodding toward the staircase, though his eyes were already pulling down the hall like his thoughts had gone ahead of him. “Need to find where Jack ran off to.”

He said it like it was nothing, but the truth was, Ennis didn’t much like not knowing where Jack was, not these days. That flicker of worry always lit up in Ennis’s gut whenever Jack slipped from view too long. It was ridiculous, he knew. Jack wasn’t made of glass. Hell, the man was stubborn as they came, maybe too proud for his own good. Still, knowing it and feeling it weren’t the same thing.

Funny how things had changed. There was a time Ennis would go months without laying eyes on Jack, months of silence, of wondering, of counting the days until that next damn postcard. Back then, he’d taught himself to live on scraps. To make do with whatever time Jack could give him. And now? Now, if Jack was out of sight for half an hour, Ennis found himself wandering the halls, chest gone tight with that old ache that hadn’t quite learned how to settle.

So off he went, boots soft against the floorboards as he moved down the hall that ran the length of the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the muffled voices of Junior and Kurt behind him and the soft creak of wood settling in the cold. And then, just as Ennis rounded the corner toward their bedroom, there Jack was, coming out of the doorway, cane held steady in his right hand. His posture was cautious, like he was still figuring out if the floor would play nice with him today, and his brows furrowed faintly in concentration as he tested his balance.

He looked up when he saw Ennis, face lighting up just a bit, one of those small smiles that still knocked the wind out of Ennis when he wasn’t braced for it. Jack didn’t smile like that for many people anymore. Ennis counted it as one of the quiet mercies of his life that he still got to see it.

“There you are,” Ennis murmured, trying to keep it light, but the relief in his voice slipped through anyway. “Thought maybe you vanished on me.”

Jack gave a wry little huff, raising an eyebrow as he straightened up. “Ain’t runnin’ nowhere,” he said dryly. “Just makin’ sure I don’t bust my ass in front of your girl.”

Ennis let out a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh, the knot in his chest easing just a little. He stepped in close enough to feel the warmth coming off Jack’s skin, close enough to catch the faintest twitch of discomfort in the corners of his eyes that he knew Jack didn’t want him to see, “Wouldn’t be the worst introduction,”  He said, softer now, “They’re waitin’.”

Jack gave a small nod and adjusted his grip, and they moved down the hallway together, shoulder to shoulder, steps matched like they always had been, even back when the ground was less steady and the path a hell of a lot less clear. But even as they moved,  Ennis could feel the nerves stirring under his skin. Junior had met Jack once before, sure, but that had been years ago, just a brief, passing thing when Ennis had been too wrapped up in his own shame to do anything but shove Jack into the shadows. He hadn’t exactly made introductions back then. Hell, he’d barely even looked his daughter in the eye.

Now, things were different. Or at least, they were supposed to be. Junior was older, married, building a life of her own. Ennis had changed, too, or he was trying, anyway. But he didn’t know what she’d see when she looked at Jack now. If she’d see the man who’d helped tear her family apart… or the one who’d quietly put Ennis back together. He didn’t say any of that out loud. Just walked a little closer, close enough that their arms brushed as they reached the mouth of the hallway, and let himself hope for the best.

Junior and Kurt both fell silent the moment they heard the rhythmic thump of Jack’s cane and the heavier tread of Ennis’s boots echoing down the hall. Whatever conversation they'd been having fizzled out quick, like steam into the air. By the time Ennis and Jack stepped into view, they were standing in the middle of the living room with that stiff-backed kind of posture that made it obvious they didn’t know what to do with themselves. Junior had her arms loosely crossed, like maybe she wasn’t sure if this was supposed to feel casual or not. Kurt, for his part, looked like he couldn’t decide whether to sit down or take off his coat or just bolt for the truck. He rocked slightly on his heels, glancing toward Ennis and then back at Junior, like waiting for a cue that never came.

They looked like two kids caught sneaking pie before supper, guilty without knowing why. Hell, Ennis knew the feeling. He’d walked through most of his damn life like that, like he was in trouble for something he hadn’t done but couldn’t prove he hadn’t. Always second-guessing where his hands should go, what he ought to say, if anything at all. He was half a second from clearing his throat and stumbling through some awkward welcome when Jack beat him to it.

“Well, hell!” he whooped, his grin wide enough to light the whole damn room. “There she is! Ennis wouldn’t shut up ‘bout how excited he was to see you, kept goin’ on and on like a dog waitin’ at the window.” He said it like they’d known each other for years, like Junior was an old friend dropping by after too long away. That was Jack for you, made everyone feel like they belonged the second they stepped into the same room as him. Ennis shot him a side glance, somewhere between exasperation and affection.

But if Junior was thrown off, she didn’t show it. Her face lit up with something close to amusement as she stepped forward, hand outstretched, “Good to see you again, Jack,” she said, “You’re louder than I remember.”

Jack barked out a laugh and took her hand, giving it a firm shake before pulling her in for a brief but genuine hug, “Well, I try not to make a scene,” Jack said, clearly lying through his teeth. “But you’re a Del Mar, and that makes you family ‘round here.”

Jack’s gaze drifted toward the young man standing just behind Junior, and for a moment, he gave him that familiar once-over, quick, practiced, not judgmental, just curious. It was the kind of look Jack had perfected over the years, a way of sizing someone up without making it feel like a challenge. Kurt stepped forward at just the right moment, hand already extended, the picture of polite confidence. He moved like someone used to carrying weight, both literal and otherwise, with an ease that came from long days spent working and not much time wasted on talk.

He was about eye-level with Ennis, maybe half an inch taller, built sturdy through the shoulders and arms. That hat, plain beige, worn soft around the brim, sat square on his dark hair, and as he stepped under the light from the kitchen, Jack could see the faint crow’s feet etched around his eyes. Not from age, but from squinting into the sun too many hours to count,

“Name’s Kurt Miller, sir,” he said, offering his hand. “Real nice to meet you.”

Jack took his hand without hesitation, giving it a firm shake as he looked him over with a sharp but not unfriendly eye. Kurt’s hands were the real tell. Calloused, cracked at the knuckles, oil and dirt worked into the lines. Jack had seen hands like that plenty of times, on welders, rig workers, cowboys who didn’t get much time to rest. The kind of hands that reminded him of Ennis.

“Jack Twist,” he said, returning the grip with one of his own. “And don’t go callin’ me ‘sir,’ makes me feel like I oughta be rockin’ on a porch yellin’ at kids to get off my lawn.”

That earned a quick grin out of Kurt, who ducked his head in apology, though the humor lingered in his eyes. “Force of habit,” he said. “Won’t happen again.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, a faint grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You better,” he said, still holding the man’s gaze for a beat longer. “You say it again and I’ll sic the heeler on you. Little bastard’s been waitin’ on a new target.”

Kurt cracked a wider grin then, easing further into the rhythm of the room. “Appreciate the warning.”

Junior gave Kurt a pointed look, nudging him lightly in the ribs with her elbow, the motion subtle but familiar, like it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to coax him into something. She raised her brows meaningfully, a silent go on, and Kurt just shot her a look back. 

Ennis caught the whole exchange and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing over at Jack. Their eyes met in that way they did sometimes now, with no need for words. Just one of those shared looks that carried whole conversations in a single glance. Jack’s brow twitched up slightly, like he was already bracing for whatever curveball was coming. Ennis, for his part, had that long-suffering look he wore whenever life was about to hand him something he couldn’t read the label on.

“Daddy,” Junior began, her voice careful, not quite nervous but clearly treading into uncertain territory. She nudged Kurt again, a little more insistently this time, and he huffed through his nose like a man resigned to his fate. Rolling his eyes in that playful, long-suffering way, he crouched next to the bag and started digging.

“Jesus,” Jack muttered with a smirk, just loud enough for Ennis to hear. “Ain’t even been here ten minutes and we’re already doin’ the scavenger hunt portion of the visit.”

Kurt pulled something out after a moment, solid and roundish by the look of it, but wrapped tight in thick kraft paper, the kind used for parcels or butcher wrapping. He passed it to Junior, who cradled it with both hands and turned toward her father.

“This’s for you,” she said simply, eyes bright with something deeper than amusement now. She held it out, and Ennis instinctively took a step back like the damn thing might bite him.

“What is it?” he asked warily, taking it with the same caution he might use to handle a live rattlesnake.

“You’ll see,” Junior said, smiling now, just a little smug. “Just open it.”

Jack leaned closer, his curiosity unmistakable. “Well, go on then, cowboy. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

Ennis took the wrapped bundle in both hands, the heavy kraft paper crinkling softly under his fingers as he turned it over once, then again, like maybe there was still time to guess what was inside without opening it. He shot a quick glance at Junior, who was practically vibrating with anticipation, then at Jack, who looked just as curious but more amused than anything else. There was no getting out of it now.

With a short breath through his nose, Ennis started peeling the tape back, careful not to tear the paper more than he had to. He’d always opened gifts like they might be reused, neat folds, slow hands, like it was about the process more than the prize. The paper fell away bit by bit until the shape became unmistakable. A mug. White ceramic with an orange wraparound print and an old-fashioned blue ship stamped on one side, its sails full and sweeping. The lettering caught his eye next.

Best GRANDPA in the whole wide world.

Ennis didn’t say anything right away. He just kept looking at the mug like it might vanish if he blinked. Then he looked up, at Junior, her eyes shining, and then at Kurt, who was suddenly looking real interested in his boots again. 

“You tellin’ me…” Ennis began, slow, careful, like he didn’t want to get ahead of himself, “…you’re havin’ a baby?”

Junior beamed. “Yeah, Daddy. We are.”

Kurt slipped an arm around her shoulders, nodding once. His eyes were warm now, proud, and Ennis could see the truth of it in the way he held her close.

Ennis blinked once, then again, like he still wasn’t quite sure what world he was standing in. The mug sat heavy in his hands now, not because of the weight, but because of everything it meant. He swallowed hard, something catching in his throat. For a second, he thought about Alma. About the years he’d missed. About Jenny, About the cold stretches of silence he’d learned to live with. And then, there was this.

“Well,” he muttered after a long pause, “hell.” He cleared his throat, then again, louder this time, “Well, goddamn.”

Junior glanced toward Jack then, and the shift in her demeanor was small but telling. The playful sparkle she’d had when handing the mug to Ennis dimmed into something more cautious, nervous, even. Her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her sleeve, and her voice, when it came, was softer, more tentative.

“Jack…” she started, and the pause between his name and the rest was thick enough to catch on. “We got you one too. A mug, I mean. I just… I wasn’t real sure how you’d feel about it. Seein’ as me and Kurt haven’t really met you proper till today.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor for a beat before flicking back up, searching Jack’s face for any hint of reaction, discomfort, surprise, maybe even rejection. There was a weight to what she said, more than the words alone. An admission, maybe, of time lost or lines not yet drawn clear. Of knowing full well she’d grown up hearing Jack Twist’s name in ways that weren’t always kind, or even spoken aloud.

She tried to smile, but it came out lopsided. “Didn’t want to overstep is all.”

Jack was momentarily stunned at that. For a long time, back when Bobby was small and still crawling up into his lap with sticky fingers and big questions, Jack had held onto that quiet, stubborn hope that someday he might be a grandpa. He used to picture it in flashes, chubby hands tugging at his jeans, a cluttered kitchen full of laughter, tiny cowboy boots by the door, sticky kisses on the cheek.

 But those were dreams he’d long since let go of. When Bobby came out, Jack never stopped loving him for a second, but he understood what that meant. Understood that the life he'd once imagined was shifting shape. And he was fine with that. Jack had traded those old dreams for better ones: for honesty, for peace, for Ennis. Still, he’d accepted that “Grandpa Jack” wasn’t a title he’d ever earn.

So when Junior, Ennis’s daughter, offered him this, this piece of something he thought he’d never get to hold, it damn near undid him. Not out of sadness, but gratitude. She didn’t have to include him. Hell, she barely knew him. But she did anyway. And that was a different kind of grace than he’d ever known. Jack blinked once, then again, trying to will away the sudden sting behind his eyes.

He cleared his throat once, trying to get his voice steady before it cracked. Then he looked up, eyes shining just a bit more than he wanted to admit, and gave her a nod. “Well,” he said, “I reckon I’d be honored.”

That feeling, of awe, of being seen, of being honored, never really faded for Jack. Not when the days turned into weeks, or the seasons shifted around them. It stayed with him like the scent of pine on the wind at North Star Ranch, something quiet but constant. And it was there again, just as fierce and full, when they made the trip up to Casper in September of ’85, the air crisp with the first signs of fall.

Ennis had been stiff on the ride up, tense in that way he got when he didn’t know what was waiting for him at the end of a drive. Jack didn’t crowd him about it. He just laid a hand on Ennis’s knee now and then, grounding him with small gestures instead of words. He didn’t need to say much anymore. They’d gotten good at reading each other in glances and touch, in what went unsaid between breaths. They pulled into Junior and Kurt’s driveway just after noon. The house was modest, a single-story place with a porch swing and the beginnings of a garden out front, still clinging to summer’s last breath. Jack hung back as Ennis climbed the steps, not out of nervousness but respect, this was Ennis’s moment, and Jack knew it.

When Junior stepped out from the small nursery with a newborn bundled in a soft blue blanket, his tiny face scrunched and pink, fists twitching beneath the folds. Junior didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and looked straight at her father, “Daddy,” she said softly, voice as steady as her hands, “this is Justin. Would you like to hold him?”

Ennis didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the little boy cradled in his daughter’s arms like he couldn’t quite believe he was real. And then, with careful hands that had mended fences and broken horses and stitched up too many wounds to count, he took the baby into his arms. Jack watched his shoulders tighten, then soften, watched the whole damn man seem to fold in on himself with the weight of it, of all the years he thought he’d missed, of all the chances he thought had slipped through his fingers.

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

That made three times now Jack had seen Ennis cry. The first on a mountain in '83, the second in a hospital room in Childress, and now this, here, in a quiet living room in Casper, with a baby in his arms and the whole world rewritten in an instant.

Jack stepped in close behind him, his hand finding the middle of Ennis’s back, just resting there. Not pushing, not asking. Just present.

"Looks good on you, cowboy," Jack murmured, so low only Ennis could hear.

Ennis didn’t speak, just nodded once. Still holding on. Still learning that sometimes, the future came back around with a gift in its hands.

In December of ’85, it was Bobby’s turn to visit, and Jack was humming with a nervous energy that he couldn’t quite seem to shake. It settled under his skin, the same way it had for Ennis the year before when Junior made her first trip out to the ranch. Back then, Jack had watched Ennis quietly stew in it, shoulders tight, eyes flicking toward the window every five minutes, pretending not to care even while he practically vibrated with it. Now it was Jack’s turn, and Ennis watched him pace the kitchen like a caged animal, fingers twitching every time the phone rang or the clock ticked past another hour.

It wasn’t like Jack and Bobby hadn’t stayed in touch. If anything, they talked more now than they ever had when Bobby was younger. Their phone calls had become something of a ritual. Mostly at night, when the house had settled and Jack was tucked away in the little office off the kitchen, going over feed invoices and vet bills and trying to make the numbers line up. That part of the ranch had quietly become his domain. Ennis didn’t have much patience for paperwork, what with his near-sighted squint and general disdain for pens. And Jack, sidelined from most of the physical work after his injury, found strange comfort in the ledgers and lists. Balancing numbers made him feel useful, like he was still pulling his weight around the ranch even if his body didn’t always cooperate anymore.

The calls were always Bobby’s idea. Jack would barely have time to shut the office door before the phone rang, his son’s voice barreling through the receiver like a gust of warm air. Bobby talked about everything: classes he was taking at Texas A&M, his frat brothers and their drunken chaos, the latest buckle he’d won at some regional rodeo. He had that Twist gift for storytelling, always a little over-the-top, a little too fast, but Jack hung on every word. 

Lately, though, most of their conversations had circled back to one thing, or rather, one person. Vincent.

A political science major from Austin with good hair and a real pretty smile, if Bobby’s gushing was anything to go by. Jack had listened, gently but cautiously. He was happy Bobby was out there, living the life Jack never got to. But still, he worried. Not because Bobby was gay, or because he had a boyfriend. That ship had long since sailed. It was because Jack had seen the way Cody broke him. So when Vincent’s name started coming up more and more, Jack gently cautioned him to take things slow. “Ain’t sayin’ he’s a bad one,” Jack had told him one night, the phone cord coiled tight around his hand, “Just don’t let the pain from the last one make you reach too fast for somethin’ new. You hear me, Bobby?” Bobby brushed him off, of course, the way all boys his age did. But Jack had still said it. Still tried.

The only thing that gnawed at Jack more than the ticking clock was the question he couldn’t get out of his head, how in the hell was Bobby gonna react to meeting Ennis?

It wasn’t like Jack hadn’t mentioned him. He’d talked about Ennis more in the past six months than he had in the twenty years prior, weaving him into stories about the ranch, dropping little pieces of their life together into conversations with Bobby like breadcrumbs. But saying a man’s name over the phone and standing across from him in real life were two different animals altogether.

But there was no dressing it up now. Bobby was about to see Ennis in the flesh, and Jack had no earthly clue how that was going to go. Ennis, for his part, was trying, he really was, but he didn’t do small talk, didn’t ask questions unless he really wanted the answer, and sure as hell didn’t go around trying to charm people. Jack figured Bobby could handle that, maybe even appreciate it, but still, he worried. Bobby could be a lot, especially when he was nervous. Talked fast, filled every silence with chatter like it was a hole he might fall through otherwise. And Ennis… Ennis didn’t do well with noise he couldn’t outrun. Jack didn’t know how those two temperaments were gonna mix, and the uncertainty twisted in his gut as he stood out on the porch, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, watching the long stretch of gravel that curved down to the main road.

Ennis stood beside him, arms crossed, boots planted firm like he was trying to ground himself before the storm. He didn’t say a word, just stared out at the tree line with that familiar furrow in his brow, the one that meant his mind was working harder than his mouth. Jack caught himself shifting from foot to foot, trying not to fidget, but damn if his heart didn’t kick up the moment he saw the truck.

It crested the hill in a shimmer of sunlight, blue and white with chrome that still gleamed under the weak winter light. Brand-new Chevy K10 Silverado. Jack let out a low whistle through his teeth, half impressed, half annoyed at how much it looked like something L.D. would've driven back in the day. The inheritance money had clearly gone to good use.

“Hell,” Jack muttered, elbowing Ennis lightly. “Kid’s got more style than I ever did.”

The truck slowed as it reached the house, tires crunching over the frozen gravel. Jack stepped forward, heart hammering in his chest for reasons he couldn’t quite name. Pride, maybe. Nerves. Hope, too, curled somewhere under all that noise. Because in just a few seconds, his son was gonna step out of that truck. And standing right next to him was the man Jack had spent his whole damn life waiting to stand still with.

He just prayed to God they’d get along. Or at the very least, not kill each other.

The driver’s side door creaked open, and out stepped Bobby in full rodeo regalia like he’d just strolled off the arena floor instead of driving eight hours up into the Rockies. He was dressed to the nines, as usual, one of those embroidered western shirts he favored, the kind with pearl snaps and intricate floral stitching across the chest. It was tucked clean into a pair of dark-wash Wrangler cowboy cuts jeans, snug through the thighs and tapering just right into a pair of worn Tony Lamas. His belt buckle was massive, the kind only a bull rider would wear without a lick of shame, polished gold inlay with a bronc frozen mid-kick, the words State Finals Champion stamped bold across the top. The damn thing probably weighed as much as a dinner plate. A crisp black Stetson sat low over his forehead, tilted just enough to shadow those unmistakable eyes, blue as a cloudless Texas sky, and every bit as wide when they landed on Jack.

“Dad!” Bobby called, voice carrying across the open yard like it was still summertime and he was just a kid hollering down from a tree.

Jack couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face if he tried. His heart felt like it might beat straight out of his chest. He stepped off the porch before he even realized it, moving down the steps just as Bobby reached him, and wrapped his arms around his son like he meant to hold on for dear life.

“Hey, bud,” Jack murmured, voice catching just a bit. He pulled back, not all the way, just enough to look him over with the eyes of a father who never quite stopped worrying. “Drive treat you alright? No trouble on the roads?”

“Oh yeah,” Bobby grinned, rocking a little on his heels like he’d been waiting for someone to ask, ”Had eight hours of Chris LeDoux serenading me the whole damn way.” 

Jack let out a groan, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Lord help me, you’re still listenin’ to that rodeo yodelin’ fool?”

Bobby chuckled and shoved his hands in his front pockets, the toe of his boot kicking gently at the gravel like he was steadying himself. His gaze slid toward the porch then, to the tall, quiet figure standing in the shadows just under the eaves. Ennis hadn’t moved much, hands buried in his coat, posture stiff like he was still working up the nerve to come down.

“That him?” Bobby asked, “Is that Ennis?” 

Jack turned, his own gaze falling on Ennis like it always did, unconsciously, instinctively. “Yeah,” he said, voice softening. “That’s him.”

Their first meeting went about as awkwardly as Jack had feared, maybe even a little worse. Bobby, true to form, came in warm and easy, the way he always did, offering a handshake with one hand and half a hug with the other, like he wasn’t sure which one Ennis would tolerate more. Ennis, meanwhile, stood there looking like someone had just handed him a live grenade. His hands hovered uncertainly before he finally gave Bobby’s arm the briefest pat, then backed off like he’d used up his monthly quota of physical contact in three seconds flat.

It wasn’t unfriendly, just... stiff. Bobby was all open smiles and fast-talking charm, the kind of person who filled every room he walked into without meaning to. Ennis, on the other hand, operated like he was trying not to take up too much space in the world, like he’d learned a long time ago to move quiet and not draw too much attention. Jack knew it would take time, but watching them in that moment, one a blaze of color and chatter, the other all quiet shadows and squinting glances, he couldn’t help but think they were speaking two entirely different languages.

And if that hadn’t already made it clear, the barn cat incident sure as hell did.

Jack had been showing Bobby around, pointing out the feed room and the tack wall, letting him meet Smokey and June, when the tabby cat who liked to linger by the hay bales came slinking out from behind the bales. A fat, lazy thing with torn ears and a limp from some long-forgotten fight, and mean enough that most hands didn’t try to touch him. Ennis had always just called him “Cat,” as in “That damn cat’s in the feed bin again,” or “Don’t let the cat in the house.”

Bobby crouched low, stuck out two fingers, and said, “Well, hey there, Spaghetti.”

Jack blinked. “Spaghetti?”

Bobby shrugged, scratching the cat under the chin as if it hadn’t just hissed at him a second ago. “Yeah. He looks like a Spaghetti.”

Jack had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Ennis, standing nearby with a shovel in hand, stared at Bobby like he’d just grown a second head.

“Spaghetti?” Ennis repeated flatly.

“Yup,” Bobby said, utterly unfazed. “Spaghetti. Fits him.”

Ennis looked to Jack like he might start praying for patience, and Jack only shrugged, trying not to grin. That was just the way of it. Bobby and Ennis were cut from different cloth, one loud, one quiet; one reckless with his heart, the other too careful by half. But Jack had a feeling they’d figure each other out in time.

Even if the damn cat was stuck with that ridiculous name forever.

The cat wasn’t the only one saddled with a ridiculous name. Truth be told, it was becoming something of a trend, one Ennis pretended to grumble about but never did much to stop. They’d been needing to add to the herd of dogs for a while with the herd growing. So when Jack and Ennis rolled back up to the ranch one  afternoon with two red heeler pups bouncing around in the truck cab, it was clear right off the bat that life was about to get louder. Jack had already taken to calling the sturdier of the two Hamburger Helper before they even pulled out of the parking lot at the feed store. “’Cause he helps with the hamburger,” Jack said with that shit-eating grin of his, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Ennis didn’t bother arguing, he knew by now when Jack had made up his mind about something.

But the second pup hadn’t been named yet. Smaller, a little scruffier, with a dark freckled face and a habit of tumbling over his own paws. That one didn’t have a name, at least not until Bobby stepped out onto the porch, caught sight of the chaos in the truck bed, and lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You didn’t tell me y’all were bringin’ home puppies!” Bobby shouted, boots crunching over gravel as he ran down the porch steps. He crouched low, hands out like a kid ready to catch fireflies, and both heelers scrambled toward him with the kind of blind, joyous enthusiasm only dogs and Bobby seemed capable of. Bobby let out a delighted laugh as they swarmed him, one licking at his chin while the other tried to crawl into his lap.

Ennis was still unloading bags of feed, but Jack stayed back, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching the scene unfold with the faintest ghost of a smile on his face.

Bobby scooped up the unnamed pup and cradled him against his chest, rubbing his floppy ears. “This one’s Meatball,” he declared, as if the choice had already been made weeks ago. “Goes with Spaghetti, obviously.”

Ennis blinked. “Goes with who?”

“The barn cat,” Bobby said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Spaghetti and Meatball. They’re a matched set.”

Jack damn near doubled over with laughter, wheezing as he wiped at his eyes. “You ain’t right,” he said through gasps. “You really ain’t.”

Ennis didn’t say much. He just stared at Bobby, then at the two dogs, then up at the sky like he was pleading with some higher power for patience. But he didn’t argue. Not really. He just exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Fine. But I ain’t shoutin’ ‘Meatball’ across the whole damn pasture when he goes tearin’ off.”

Of course, two days later, that was exactly what he was doing, standing in the middle of a frostbitten field, hands on his hips, hollering, "Meatball! Git back here, y’goddamn fool mutt!” while Bobby cackled from the fenceline and Spaghetti watched from the barn loft like she was royalty.

As the new year cracked open with the pale chill of early January, Bobby packed up the last of his things, wrestled his duffel into the cab, and revved that shiny new Silverado to life. The polished chrome glinted against the flat winter light, far too glossy for the dirt and gravel of North Star’s winding drive. Jack stood beside it a little too long, hands on his hips, offering final reminders Bobby already knew, repeating bits of advice he’d been saying for years, as if holding onto the moment might slow it down.

Eventually, Bobby just leaned out the window with a grin, gave one last wave, and then he was gone, tires crunching over the frozen ground, the truck shrinking into the haze of morning mist curling at the edge of the pasture.

Jack lingered, even after the sound of the engine faded. He tilted slightly, letting his shoulder rest up against Ennis’s chest, and after a beat, let his head drop to Ennis’s shoulder with a contented sigh. That quiet kind of smile tugged at his mouth, one that didn’t need to be seen, only felt. There was a peace in him now that he hadn’t dared hope for, not back in Texas, not all those years ago on Brokeback. This life, this moment, it was his. Ennis was his. No lies, no hiding.

Ennis didn’t say anything. He just let one big hand settle warm and steady at the small of Jack’s back, fingertips slipping under the hem of Jack’s jacket like he needed the reassurance of touch. And maybe he did. Hell, maybe he always had. He looked out over the land, the bare trees edging the hills, the snow-patched fields, the barn half-lit by the early sun, and marveled, not for the first time, at the life they’d built. This place was his. Theirs. A ranch where he didn’t answer to anyone else. A life where he didn’t have to check his hands before reaching for Jack, or bite back his words before they turned tender. He dipped his head, pressing a kiss into the soft, wind-ruffled curls at the crown of Jack’s head.

Jack smiled into the contact, leaning into it like he’d been waiting for it all morning. The cold didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. That was the thing these days, Ennis didn’t flinch from closeness like he used to. Didn’t always need permission to show what was on his heart. Jack had noticed, and never took it for granted.

 “I love you, cowboy.” he said softly, no fanfare needed. Just truth.

And Ennis, who for so long had swallowed those words down like they might choke him, didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too, darlin’.”

It came quiet, but sure. It didn’t stumble. It didn’t sting.

He’d never been good at saying it. Words always felt too clumsy in his mouth, like they didn’t fit right. It had always been easier to show Jack how he felt, in the way he fixed up the house, the way he knew how Jack took his coffee, the way he came to bed early when Jack couldn’t sleep. But damn near losing him had changed everything. Ennis knew better now. Every day he got to stand beside Jack, every damn day he got to wake up to this life, was one more reason not to hold back. He’d been given a second chance. He wasn’t ever gonna waste it again.

Chapter Text

Tyler hadn’t caught a single wink of sleep all night. He’d been trapped in a restless cycle of tossing and turning since the moment he and his father had rolled into the driveway from the station. The darkness outside his window seemed endless, thick as tar, and he’d lost track of time the second he stepped out of his father’s cruiser. The only fact that stuck in his mind was that he’d crossed a line from which there was no coming back. It was like staring at the scattered fragments of his life, shattered around him, with no way to piece them back together. Every time he squeezed his eyes shut, he could still feel Wade Montgomery’s hand clutching the back of his collar, leading him inside as if he were a convicted felon marched to his final judgement.

He couldn’t forget the way his father looked at him, like Tyler was something diseased, something Wade wasn’t sure he wanted in his home anymore. Tyler had always known there was a limit to Wade’s patience, a threshold past which “tough love” turned into rejection. But he’d never believed he’d actually reach that point. Now he could practically feel the last thread of his father’s forgiveness snapping. One misstep too many, and the meager supply of mercy Wade doled out so sparingly had run dry.

Staring at his bedroom ceiling, Tyler imagined what would’ve happened if he’d been caught with a girl instead of a boy. A slap on the wrist, probably. Maybe even a grudging nod of approval, boys will be boys, once they were safely out of uniform and away from the station’s fluorescent glare. But Tyler had never been that fortunate. No matter how long Tyler lay here, listening for his father’s footsteps in the hallway, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a dead man walking. He’d have traded it all for the electric chair if it meant not having to stew in anticipation, waiting for the moment Wade dragged him out of bed for good.

Everything in the house seemed unnaturally quiet. The only sound was Tyler’s own frantic heartbeat echoing in his ears. Shadows loomed across his bed, and in them he saw every regret, every choice that might have kept him from winding up here. Tyler’s mind kept circling back to the same conclusion: there was no undoing any of it. There was no taking back who he was and what he’d done.

At some point, the light of dawn would seep through the windows, and Tyler half-expected his father to burst in the second it did, fling his closet open and start shoving clothes into whatever bag he found, ordering him out of the house, maybe out of Texas altogether. Fear and a strange kind of relief warred in Tyler’s chest. Maybe leaving would feel better than staying where he wasn’t wanted. Maybe the name Montgomery would weigh less on him once he was gone.

He finally gave up on the idea of sleep, letting his eyes droop closed for the smallest moment just to escape, to pretend he was somewhere else. But the illusion didn’t last. Nothing had ever been given to him easy, certainly not Wade’s affection, which Tyler had spent his life chasing like a stray dog chasing cars. He wondered, in a distant, foggy way, whether his father loved him at all. If he did, the love he got from Wade had come with strings thick as rope. Expectations. Ultimatums. Be the son I wanted, or don’t be my son at all.

And Tyler didn’t know if he’d ever really been that son.

The answer came in the form of his bedroom door slamming open with a force that rattled the hinges. The sound cracked through the stillness like a gunshot. Tyler flinched instinctively, his entire body snapping upright like a soldier under fire.

“On your feet,” Wade snapped, lacking even the pretense of fatherly concern. It sounded more like an order to a criminal than a summons for his own blood, “Now.”

Tyler froze, heart in his throat, then scrambled to push aside the blankets. His limbs felt sluggish, half-dead from a night of tossing and turning. He could barely get upright before Wade was already on him. In two strides, the man’s rough hands locked around Tyler’s forearms, jerking him to his feet with a force that sent the mattress squeaking in protest. Tyler gasped, feeling the pain shoot through muscle and bone. Those fingers would leave bruises for sure, angry prints that matched the blossoming mark on his cheek.

“You deaf now too?” Wade hissed, yanking him to his feet like he weighed nothing. “I said get up, not fumble around like some damn girl.”

“I was—I was tryin’—” Tyler stammered, voice cracking as he fought to stay upright. His legs weren’t steady. His thoughts weren’t either. “Please, I was bein’ good—”

The words made his stomach churn even as they left his mouth. I was bein’ good. God, how pathetic. How small. He hated the way he said it, hated how his voice trembled, how he blinked too fast to keep the tears from building behind his eyes. But it was instinct now. Survival. Submission masquerading as obedience.

“Bullshit,” Wade growled, cutting him off. He shoved Tyler backward with a force that sent Tyler stumbling into the nightstand. The impact sent a lamp clattering to the floor, and Tyler barely stopped himself from tumbling right after it. “This is all you’ve ever done. Disappoint me, drag my name through the dirt. And now the whole damn town’s gonna know I raised a goddamn pansy.”

Tyler drew a shaky breath, forcing himself upright again. His arms ached where Wade had gripped him, the promise of fresh bruises throbbing beneath the skin. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” he whispered, hating the tremor in his own voice. “I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt nobody. I swear to God—”

“Shut your mouth,” Wade snarled, advancing. The words cut through Tyler’s attempt at explanation like a lash. “You’re done talkin’. Far as I’m concerned, you’re done in this house, too.” He snorted bitterly, gaze raking over Tyler from head to toe with disgust. “I should call the mayor. The paper. Hell, maybe I should call the Reverend and tell him what a fine job I’ve done raisin’ a faggot.”

Something inside Tyler twisted painfully. He swallowed around the tightness in his throat, feeling like a child about to be scolded in front of the entire school. Shame and fear tangled in his chest so tightly it was hard to breathe. “Dad—please—” he tried, and the word Dad burned on his tongue even as he said it.

“You lost the right to call me that the second you decided you’d rather crawl around with some boy in the dark than be a man worth my name.” Wade spat the words like poison, as if the very sound of them stained his mouth. “You want a father? Shoulda thought of that before you chose to be a goddamn disgrace.”

Tyler’s stomach twisted painfully. How had it come to this? Just yesterday, he’d still clung to a shred of hope that Wade’s anger might be softened by love. Now, that hope lay shredded on the floor. “I—I—” he tried again, uselessly. Every syllable died in his throat.

Wade snorted, disgust etched into every line of his face. “Pack your things,” he bit out. “I don’t want you sulkin’ around this house. You can go be a goddamn faggot anywhere else.”

Tyler’s knees wobbled, his body threatening to fold in on itself. Hearing that final condemnation, spelled out so callously, left him feeling like a child who’d lost his way in a storm. “Can’t we—just talk—” he began, knowing even as he said it that it was pointless. Wade hated him. Maybe he always had.

That was the moment Wade lunged forward again, his fist twisting in the front of Tyler’s T-shirt. Tyler rose onto his toes, the neckline biting into the back of his neck. Wade’s face was close enough for Tyler to see each bead of sweat on his brow, each red vein around his eye. 

“Talk?” Wade spat, “You want talk? Here’s talk: get your shit, walk out that door, and don’t you so much as look at me again.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Actually, no. I got a better idea.” He shoved Tyler away, gesturing around the bedroom with a sweeping arm as though everything Tyler owned disgusted him by association. “I can’t trust you not to sneak around or pull some stunt. So here’s what you’re gonna do, put your damn boots on, march yourself to that porch, and you wait there ’til I’m done decidin’ what’s next.”

Tyler staggered, nearly colliding with the nightstand a second time as he tried to catch his balance. His legs felt like dead weight, threatening to fold beneath him. When he glanced up, he saw the pure, seething disgust etched into every crease on Wade’s face, disgust that made it clear there would be no reprieve. No last-minute softening of the man’s heart. He hates me, Tyler thought, a cold dread settling in his gut, God, he really does.

Wade jerked his chin at the boots lying on the floor, a silent command to hurry. Tyler scrambled to obey, fearful that any hesitation would trigger another outburst. He wrenched the boots on with shaking fingers, wincing as his heels slipped into the stiff leather. Each motion felt clumsy, like he was trapped in a nightmare, heart jackhammering in time with each ragged breath. His father said nothing more, just stood there with a glare that made Tyler’s skin crawl.

When Tyler finally got his boots on and managed to stand, Wade gave a sharp nod toward the open doorway like he was sick of the sight of him, “Go,” he snapped, “And if I hear one more word outta you—” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence, just shook his head like Tyler wasn’t worth the effort it’d take to spell it out.

He didn’t have to say it. Tyler already knew what came next. He’d learned early on that Wade didn’t need much of a reason to swing. Moving too slow was enough. Talking back, even when it wasn’t really talking back, just asking a question, could earn him a busted lip. Hell, sometimes it was just the way his face looked. Too blank, too soft, too much like he was thinking something Wade didn’t like. Wade used to say it was to toughen him up, that a real man didn’t flinch or cry or act like some weak little thing. So he’d hit him, open-handed or closed-fist, didn’t matter, just so long as Tyler learned not to make the same mistake again. Tyler had learned, alright. Learned how to move quietly, how to keep his head down, how to walk on eggshells without making a sound. Learned that staying silent was the safest thing a boy like him could do.

He moved down the stairs slowly, fingers brushing the wall for balance, and counted each step under his breath like he always did. Fifteen. There were always fifteen. He’d known that since he was a kid, knew exactly how the eighth one creaked and how the twelfth dipped just slightly in the middle. He wasn’t sure why it mattered, only that it did. The numbers gave his feet rhythm, gave his mind something to hold onto when everything else felt slippery. Even after Wade had caught him doing it once, heard him whispering the count as he went, and snapped, “Quit actin’ like a freak,” Tyler hadn’t stopped. He just got quieter about it. Bit the numbers down to nothing and mouthed them instead.

His grandfather used to call it one of his “little things.” Said it gently, with a shrug, like it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. “Just Tyler bein’ Tyler,” he’d say, ruffling his hair. Something in his wiring that made him a little different, like needing things quiet during dinner or lining up his silverware before he could eat. Folks around town didn’t see it that way. Teachers used to glance at him like they weren’t sure what to do with him. The ladies at church would offer tight smiles and call him “sweet,” or “shy,” but it was always there in their eyes, that strained patience, that veiled discomfort. Like they were doing him a kindness just by tolerating whatever it was they couldn’t name. Tyler had learned early how to keep those parts of himself tucked out of sight. The counting helped. It was something he could control. Something that stayed the same, even when everything else shifted under his feet.

He moved through the house with practiced care, his steps quiet, He knew every floorboard that groaned, every loose nail that might give him away. Even now, long after it mattered, his body remembered how to move silent, like prey skirting the edge of a trap. He crossed the hallway like a shadow, only stopping when he reached the edge of the kitchen. Tyler stood at the threshold, eyes locked on the old dining table, the one with the carved legs and the gouges in the surface where Wade had once slammed a hammer down mid-rant. His breath caught, and before he could stop it, his mind pulled him backward, dropping him into a memory like a pit opening beneath his feet.

He was fourteen again. Elijah had been dead a year, maybe less, and the grief in the house had turned sour. Wade had already been drinking that day, bottle half-empty and jaw clenched tight with whatever rage he hadn’t burned off yet. Tyler remembered standing in that same kitchen, hands still dirty from the barn, chest heaving from running late.

“You think Elijah’d be late for chores?” Wade had asked, like he wasn’t asking a question so much as laying a trap. “Think Elijah would’ve come struttin’ in here with that limp-wristed walk and those puppy dog eyes, makin’ me look like a goddamn joke in front of the whole county?”

Tyler’s jaw locked. He didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. He’d learned by then not to show anything. No flinching. No trembling. Wade took those things as permission.

Wade took a slow step back, eyes scanning him like he was something under a microscope. His mouth twisted like he’d tasted something sour. “You think Elijah would’ve ended up like you?” he asked, voice gone cold. “Jesus Christ.”

He turned away then, just far enough to reach for the half-empty bottle on the counter. For a second, it looked like he might drink it. Instead, he hurled it hard at the fridge. It shattered on the wall, whiskey and glass spraying across the linoleum. The sound cracked through the room like a rifle shot. Tyler blinked but stayed rooted, heart pounding, hands clenched at his sides.

Then Wade said it.

“I swear to God,” Wade shook his head, voice low, almost wondering,  “Shoulda been you in that fuckin’ truck.”

Everything dropped out of Tyler’s chest. His stomach turned over so fast he had to swallow back bile. The kitchen spun. The words were still echoing in the air like they were trying to find someplace to land. Wade didn’t look at him like a father looking at a son. He looked at him like a burden. Like a problem he hadn’t figured out how to solve.

“That tree shoulda taken you,” Wade muttered. “Elijah had grit. He had the name. He had somethin’ in him. You?” He shook his head with a small, bitter laugh. “You’re what’s left. You’re what I got stuck with.”

The words didn’t just echo, they nested. They curled up in the back of his skull like splinters he could never dig out. Shoulda been you. Tyler had heard a lot of cruel things in his life, but that one clung to him, wormed its way into every quiet moment when his guard dropped. It came back when he was alone, when the house creaked at night, when he failed, when he made a mistake, when someone looked at him too long or not at all.

Sometimes he heard it in Wade’s voice. Other times it was his own.

Shoulda been you.

The thought struck him at random, always too fast to stop. When he saw roadkill. When he passed a wreck on the highway. When he caught his reflection in a window and hated what stared back. He’d think, He’s right. Not because he believed he deserved to die, not all the time, but because deep down, he couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve changed if it had been him in that truck instead. Maybe Wade would’ve grieved properly. Maybe the old man wouldn’t have turned so mean. Maybe the world would’ve made a little more sense.

Sometimes he’d catch himself thinking it without realizing. I shouldn’t be here. I was never meant to be here. And the guilt would burn hot under his ribs, like maybe the world had been trying to correct itself ever since, and he’d just been too stubborn to lie down and let it.

He almost slipped under again. The thoughts were right there, circling like buzzards, ready to pick him clean if he let them. He could feel the old pull starting, the way it always did when the weight in his chest got too big to carry. Would’ve been easy to just stand there and disappear into it. But then came the sharp groan of the floorboards overhead, that familiar stretch of wood that always gave away when someone crossed the upstairs landing. He stiffened, every nerve snapping to attention. Wade was still up there. Still expecting him to be out of the house.

He didn’t think. Didn’t pause. Just moved, shoved off the wall like it’d burned him and bolted for the front door. The porch screen door squealed behind him, then slammed shut with a sharp crack that made him jump. Tyler tried to steady his breathing, tried to pretend his nerves weren’t dancing beneath his skin. There was nowhere to hide. The old boards creaked beneath his shifting feet. Beyond the porch, the yard stretched out in a gray haze, the distant fields half-obscured by early light. If he ran, he’d only be delaying the inevitable.

So, Tyler stood rooted to the porch, watching as his father tore in and out of the house like a man possessed. Each time Wade barreled through that old screen door, it slapped shut with a thunderous bang, rattling the frame and seeming to echo clear across the yard. The impact made Tyler flinch every single time, though he tried to hide it. Any sign of weakness, even a split-second twitch, could set his father off again, and Tyler had learned over the years that showing fear in front of Wade was like pouring gasoline on a brushfire.

With every bundle of clothing hurled onto the dirt lawn, Tyler’s breath grew shallower, a knot of tension coiling in his chest. He swallowed hard against the burning behind his eyes, forcing back the tears. Crying in front of Wade had never once earned him comfort or understanding. He remembered being seven years old, skinning his knee on the gravel driveway while trying to keep up with his older brother, Elijah. He’d sobbed from the pain, but Wade had only cast him a glance of irritated disgust and told him to “man up.” From that day on, Tyler understood that pain, physical or otherwise, was something he had to endure in silence.

Wade stomped past him once more, boots pounding on the porch, the old boards creaking in protest. Tyler shifted, hands at his sides, nails pressing crescents into his palms as he tried to hold still. He wished he could simply turn away and leave, but that felt like surrender. And as much as he feared his father’s rage, some stubborn spark deep inside refused to run. Maybe he hoped for one flicker of compassion. Maybe he just wanted to see how far Wade would take this, how thoroughly he would erase Tyler from his life.

A broken-off piece of memory drifted through Tyler’s mind, the time he got in a fistfight with Elijah when he was twelve. He’d come out of it with a black eye and a throbbing shoulder. Wade had barely glanced at him, only demanding to know if Tyler had won or lost. Coddling was for sissies, he’d said, and Tyler had learned to lock his hurt away where no one could see it. Pansy son. That was Wade’s favorite phrase, spiked with disgust. Over the years, Tyler had heard it so often it was practically another name.

It was almost ironic, in the saddest possible way, that the hands meant to cradle him had brought nothing but damage instead. Tyler used to stare at his father’s palms and try to recall a time they’d brought him comfort. But all he could remember was their weight across his cheek, how the back of a callused hand left his lip split open, how knuckles bruised his arms. It was as though Wade Montgomery’s hands had been built for delivering blows rather than ever learning to cradle anything so breakable as a son. The hands that were supposed to cradle him had torn him apart instead, and Tyler doubted they’d ever do anything else.

The man behind that badge had always treated Tyler as a nuisance at best, but last night, caught with another boy, made him a disgrace. Something diseased. Something to be cleansed or cast out. He wanted to fight back against that hateful voice in his head, the one whispering maybe he’s right. But he was so damn tired of living under that constant weight of shame that he couldn’t summon the will to argue with himself anymore. If his own father thought he was a lost cause, who was he to say any different?

His thoughts drifted to Elijah, everyone’s golden boy. His older brother had been brilliant in ways Tyler never was, funny in ways Tyler couldn’t hope to be. Most importantly, Elijah had been lovable from head to toe, the kind of son who could make even Wade Montgomery smile. That was the path meant to continue the family name, the son who would’ve taken over the ranch or followed in their father’s footsteps. The child their father could brag about to the neighbors and the church ladies: Elijah’s gonna make something of himself. Elijah’s the next sheriff, or the next rancher, or the next golden success story. Tyler, though? Tyler had fallen short at every turn. Not bright enough, not brave enough, not straight enough.

His mind wandered back to being a kid, to the men who were supposed to protect him but only caused harm, rough hands and harsh words that shaped him into someone he couldn’t bear to look at in the mirror. Tyler had never stood a chance on the path Wade had tried to shove him down. Every time he tried to be normal, whatever that even was, something else got torn away from him. Piece by piece, he’d watched himself fall apart, crushed beneath the weight of expectations he was never going to meet.

It was all his fault, wasn’t it? That was the thought that kept looping through Tyler’s mind, refusing to let him breathe. His father had always hammered it into him, he was too soft, all round edges and no bite, a doe-eyed thing that startled at the first sign of danger. From the time Tyler was small, learning to hold a rifle in shaky hands, Wade would bark at him for wincing at the recoil. When Tyler hesitated to spur a horse faster, Wade sneered at his caution. You can’t let ‘em see you’re weak, boy, he’d say. Ain’t a single creature on this earth respects a man who won’t show his teeth.

Eventually, Tyler started to believe it. Maybe if he’d been tougher, if he’d had that snap of aggression Wade wanted, he wouldn’t be in this mess. He wouldn’t have drawn the wrong kind of attention. Maybe he wouldn’t have grown up skittish and wary, always one eye on the door, heart pounding at the scrape of boots on the porch or the click of a belt buckle. Somewhere along the line, he’d come to see himself as easy prey, a creature that practically invited wolves to devour it. If he hadn’t been so docile, so desperate for a kind word or a gentle hand, he might have avoided all of it. The abuse, the shame, the endless guilt that gnawed at him every night. 

If he just hadn’t leaned into that pat on the shoulder, if he hadn’t lingered too long smiling at another boy, if he’d found a way to be the kind of son Wade could respect instead of the one he called soft. Tyler’s stomach twisted at the memory of every time he’d stood there like a deer caught in headlights, unsure whether to run or stay still, and getting hurt either way. He told himself that maybe, if he’d shown some kind of fight, some teeth, or barked back with his own brand of anger, he might have been normal. He might’ve been safe.

Sometimes Tyler wondered if things would've turned out different. If Clay Harrison never came around. If someone, anyone, had listened when a scared little boy said a grown man was slipping into his room after dark. He used to think the truth mattered. Thought if he spoke it loud enough, shook hard enough, someone would have to believe him. But instead, they called him a liar. A five-year-old liar, spinning tales for attention.

What kind of five-year-old makes that up? What kind of child could string together a story so sick and ugly unless it was the truth? They said he’d been dreaming, or worse, making it up to ruin a good man’s name. Because Clay Harrison was a deputy. A churchgoer. A family man. And Tyler was... what? A little boy with wide, scared eyes and a habit of flinching too hard when someone raised their voice? Wade had been the loudest of them all, standing tall in his sheriff’s uniform, jaw tight with irritation, telling him to stop spreading filth.

“Don’t you dare lie about a man like that, boy,” Wade had snapped more than once, “You tryin’ to destroy a good man’s life? Clay’s like family. You oughta be ashamed.”

Ashamed. Like it hadn’t already been eating him alive.

What reason would he have had to lie? He never lied. Not even when it would’ve been easier, not even when a small fib might’ve spared him a beating or won him a scrap of praise. Why would this be the lie? Why would he drag that weight behind him, year after year, still choking on it when his voice cracked, still trying to make them see?  He’d brought it up again when he was seven. Then eight. Then ten, And still, no one listened. As the years crawled by, his voice got quieter, less certain, until even he wondered if it was real, if maybe he really had imagined the bruises that bloomed overnight, the ghostly prints he felt burning on his skin long after the man left.

Why hadn’t anyone seen it? Why hadn’t they wondered why a little boy took such long showers, scrubbing his skin raw until it was pink and stinging? Why didn’t anyone notice the way puberty took its time with him, his body dragging behind like it was afraid to grow? Why didn’t anyone wonder why his voice got small around deputies in uniform? Why hadn’t the bedwetting raised alarm? Why hadn’t his silences, his sudden terror at the sight of flashing patrol lights, made anyone stop and wonder what was wrong with Wade Montgomery’s boy?

Why hadn’t they cared? Why hadn’t he cared?

Wade could’ve stopped it. He could’ve stood between his son and the monsters wearing his badge. But he didn’t. Wade let it happen. Maybe he knew. Maybe he’d always known. And maybe it was easier to believe his boy was a liar than to face the rot in his own department. Maybe it was easier to pretend there was no damage because then he wouldn’t have to admit he’d failed to protect his own son.

Tyler felt the handprints still. God, he felt them. Like bruises beneath his skin that never faded, reminders stamped into every part of him. And no matter how far he ran, they came with him.

But there had been no fire in him, not then and maybe not now. So he stayed convinced it was his fault, sure that he’d invited what happened simply by not being enough of a man. Every bruise he’d earned, every hateful word flung at him, felt like the inevitable consequence of being a boy who never learned to bare his teeth. And he couldn’t help but wonder, as he stared numbly at the frayed edge of his sleeve, if he’d ever be able to believe otherwise.

Tyler caught sight of his father barreling out onto the porch like an enraged bull let loose from a chute, a fresh armful of Tyler’s clothes clutched in one fist. Wade’s heavy boots pounded against the planks as he hurled the bundle into the dirt. Tyler’s stomach twisted at the sight of his belongings scattering across the lawn. Crumpled shirts, frayed jeans, little pieces of a life already in ruins. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Wade Montgomery had never treated him gently; why would his possessions be any different?

For a moment, Wade didn’t see him, and Tyler dared to hope he could slip away unscathed. But then his father’s gaze locked onto him, and Tyler felt his heart lurch as if the floor had opened beneath his feet. Every instinct told him to run, to hide, to do something other than stand there like a wounded deer in a rifle sight. Yet, his legs refused to move; that old prey-animal freeze sank its teeth in, and he found himself rooted to the porch, shrinking in on himself in a pathetic attempt to be smaller, less noticeable.

"You listen here, boy," Wade snarled, flinging a shirt so it landed at Tyler’s boots, "Take your shit and get the hell out of my line of sight before I do somethin' we'll both regret."

The words were a punch to the gut. Tyler clenched his jaw, forcing his expression into something resembling composure, though his hands trembled at his sides. He’d heard worse, he’d survived worse, but that didn’t make the humiliation any easier to swallow. Wade took a step closer, and the porch boards groaned under his weight. Then his finger stabbed into Tyler’s chest, hammering against his sternum like it might crack bone.

"You," Wade spat the word with disgust, “are nothin’ but a lyin’, filthy little queer. Thought you could sneak around, makin’ a goddamn fool outta me? Well, it ain’t gonna happen. I’m not about to let you drag my name through the mud.” His mouth twisted in disgust as he bit out the last words. “Do you hear me, Tyler Ray Montgomery?”

Tyler opened his mouth, but only a hoarse croak came out at first. Finally, he managed, “Yes, sir,” though his voice wavered dangerously. His father’s contempt pinned him in place, and he hated the wet sheen in his eyes that threatened to give him away. “I understand, sir.”

For a split second, Tyler thought maybe, just maybe, his father would stop there, that he’d turn and walk away. But Wade’s eyes narrowed in cold satisfaction, like watching Tyler beg was the first good thing that had happened to him all day.

“Good,” Wade said, ’Cause you ain’t my son no more. You get that through that thick damn skull o’ yours. Far as I’m concerned, you’re nothin’ but a mistake. Somethin’ God shoulda fixed before you were ever born. You best disappear, boy, if there’s half a brain left in that soft little head.”

The porch fell silent except for the distant hum of cicadas and the rustle of dry grass in the wind. Tyler wanted to speak, to defend himself, or to at least ask why, why he couldn’t just be who he was, why he had to keep fighting for scraps of affection he’d never truly earn. But all he could manage was a stiff nod, the hot sting of tears threatening to spill over at any moment.

“I mean it, Tyler Ray.” Wade threatened again. As if Tyler hadn’t already been planning to leave and never come back. As if he needed the warning. But Wade needed to say it anyway, needed the final word like a boot on a man’s throat. “You set foot back on my property,” Wade went on, slower now, each syllable bitten off and spat into the air between them, “and you won’t be steppin’ back off it. You hear me?”

And then Wade pulled back the edge of his jacket, just enough. Enough for Tyler to see the glint of metal riding his father’s hip. The old service pistol. Familiar as the battered belt that held it, familiar as the scar on Wade’s chin and the calloused hands that had done as much harm as they had good. The porch light caught on the polished grip, flashing against the darkness, like a wolf showing its teeth. And in that instant, Tyler wasn’t seventeen, wasn’t grown, wasn’t anything but a trembling child caught in the open. He felt it coil through his chest, fear, cold as winter creek water. Rabbit in a clearing. No shelter, no place to run. Just wide open land and the hunter standing ten paces away, smiling like he already had the kill.

Tyler’s breath caught halfway up his throat and froze there, like his body had decided breathing was a risk he couldn’t take right now. His back went stiff, shoulders locking up so tight it hurt, and for a second it felt like his stomach dropped straight through the porch floor, leaving him hollow. And before he could stop it, before his mind could shout don’t, he flinched, body moving on instinct, because some part of him still remembered what danger looked like before he ever had to think it through. Wade had never aimed that gun at him, never had to. But someone else had. Clay Harrison.

The thought didn’t come in soft. It hit him fast and hard, with no warning. One second he was standing there on the porch, and the next he was thirteen again, flat on his back in that dark room, Clay’s weight holding him down, the stink of sweat and whiskey so thick he could taste it. He remembered the drag of breath against his cheek, the sound of the buckle coming undone, the rough press of hands that didn’t stop no matter how still he went. And then the gun. Pressed against the side of his head, the weight of it heavier than anything else in the room. Cold against his skin. Clay’s voice so close it sounded like it came from inside his own skull. Don’t cry. Don’t make a sound. You make one goddamn noise and I’ll put you down like a dog, you understand?

The words never left. They stayed buried in the back of his mind, waiting for moments like this to crawl back up, tangled in fear and shame, wrapping around his ribs until he couldn’t breathe right. He remembered the gun, the weight of it, but worse than the steel was the silence that followed, because no one had come. No door had opened, no footsteps down the hall, no voice shouting from the porch or the kitchen or the next room, no father crashing through the dark to tear Clay away from him, no one at all. Just him and the dark and the stench of sweat and the quiet.

So now, here on this porch, that gun wasn’t just Wade’s. It was Clay’s. It was every goddamn night Tyler had spent waiting to be saved and learning no one was coming. Seeing it again brought it all back. Dug up the rot by the roots. He didn’t meet his father’s gaze. His eyes dropped to the warped floorboards beneath his boots, studying every crack, every splinter, like salvation might be hiding there. He tried to breathe around the tightness in his throat. His face stayed blank. He knew how. He’d learned the mask young. If you don’t show fear, they might let you be. If you don’t cry, they might stop. Keep your eyes low. Keep your voice quiet. Don’t let them know they’ve hurt you. Don’t let them see what they’ve done. Don’t let them see what you let happen.

“You look pathetic, standin’ there like that,” he said, spitting the words like they tasted foul in his mouth. “You think you’re the only boy who ever fucked up? Hell, Tyler, I coulda forgiven a lotta things. Drinkin’. Stealin’. Hell, if you’d knocked some girl up, we’d a figured it out. But this? This right here?” Wade scoffed, shaking his head like he was done wasting his breath. “This ain’t no mistake. This is what you are. Weak. Wrong. A goddamn waste of my time.”

Then Wade tipped his chin toward the stretch of yard behind him, like that was all the direction Tyler needed, “Get gone,” he said, “Ain’t no place for you here.”

When Wade finally turned and walked away, boots pounding across the yard, Tyler didn’t move. He stared numbly at the shirt lying crumpled in the dirt, trying to swallow the lump of shame lodged in his throat. The guilt and anger twisted inside him. But beneath the guilt, beneath the anger that had no place to go, there was something worse. That hollow ache that had lived in him for years, tucked under every word he hadn’t said, curled up in the empty space where love was supposed to be. Even after everything, after all the warnings, after all the bruises, after all the nights he’d spent wishing for a different life, some part of him had still hoped. Still believed, in that small, stupid way kids do, that his father might come around. That there might be a moment where love won out over disgust. That there could be a version of this story where Tyler was still somebody’s son. But there wasn’t. Not anymore.

❖

Tyler drifted from town to town like a tumbleweed blown by the West Texas wind, never settling in one place for long. Or maybe he was more like one of those stray cats he'd seen lurking behind gas stations and roadside diners, scrappy, wary-eyed, desperate for shelter but too wary to trust the hand that might strike again. At first, he'd thought about heading toward Abilene, big enough to disappear, but still familiar, close enough to home that something about it felt safe. But soon he realized it wasn't far enough. Abilene was barely a stone’s throw from Anson, where his father’s cold eyes watched, and where whispers about the Montgomery boy trailed him like shadows. Too close to everything he was trying to escape.

Instead, he found himself further north, up in the panhandle where the land flattened out beneath a wide, empty sky. He ended up just outside Amarillo, picking up temporary work at a ranch run by an older man named Everett Carson who asked no questions except whether Tyler could handle long days and heavy lifting. Tyler assured him he could, and he backed up that claim quickly enough, working himself raw every day, mending fences, breaking stubborn horses, hauling feed bags heavier than his own weight until his muscles screamed in protest.

In some ways, Amarillo was relief, like a cold glass of water poured down his throat after a blistering day in the sun. Nobody here knew or cared about the Montgomery legacy or about Wade's reputation as sheriff, or that Tyler had once been measured against a brother whose memory shone brighter than Tyler ever could. Here, he wasn’t the failed son or the dirty secret whispered around town. He was just another ranch hand, nameless and faceless, judged solely by the strength of his back and his willingness to keep quiet and work hard.

Tyler liked it better that way. He kept his head down, eyes lowered, his voice rarely more than a murmur when he spoke at all. Attention was dangerous. Attention was what had gotten him hurt, had made men look at him too long, too closely. Tyler could still hear his father’s voice echoing in his mind: "It's your own goddamn fault, you bring it on yourself. You make decent men into sinners. You're a temptation."

Part of him knew those words were poison, but they’d already seeped deep into his bloodstream, convincing him that maybe his father was right. Tyler had come to believe it, he must’ve invited the bruises, the humiliation, the nights he spent silently weeping into his pillow, wondering why God had made him wrong. So he stayed silent now, buried himself in work until every muscle burned, hoping exhaustion might drown out those whispers.

When the workday ended and the other ranch hands drifted toward the bunkhouse, laughing and cursing and joking, Tyler stayed behind. He slept alone in his old pickup truck, curled stiffly across the torn bench seat, legs cramped and sore, body shivering when winter wind howled through the cracked windows, skin sticky with sweat during Texas summer nights. But he didn't complain, didn't dare even consider the bunkhouse. The idea of sleeping surrounded by other men, close enough that he could hear their breathing, feel their presence, made his stomach twist violently with panic.

Because Tyler remembered too vividly how he'd woken up as a child more times than he could count: pants tangled around his ankles, heart hammering wildly in his chest, his whole body shaking in disgust and confusion, skin crawling where rough hands had touched him in the dark. He still felt it sometimes, a phantom pressure, hot and unwanted against his skin, and the shame that had followed. Shame he’d directed at himself rather than at the one who’d hurt him.

The thought alone was enough to keep Tyler outside, night after night, no matter how bitter the wind or how freezing the rain. Alone in his truck, at least he felt safe, like a stray that had found a shadowed spot to lick its wounds in private, out of reach of any hands that might bruise him again.

Working on the ranch was good at first, better than good, it felt almost peaceful, like a kind of freedom he’d never truly tasted before. For the first time since leaving home, Tyler allowed himself cautious optimism. He savored the calmness of men who didn’t know his name or his history, men who offered quiet nods of respect when they noticed how hard he worked, and who expected nothing more than a job well done. 

But then it happened, like it always seemed to happen. It started small, just another ranch hand, an older man named Bill Jenkins. Jenkins was friendly enough at first, always laughing at Tyler’s jokes, offering to share his cigarettes after dinner around the fire pit. At first, Tyler thought nothing of it. A little friendship was fine, maybe even welcome. But soon enough, those casual conversations turned into something different, something Tyler recognized immediately, deep in the pit of his gut, even though he tried to deny it.

It began as quick, casual touches, a strong hand clapping his shoulder after a hard day’s work, or a lingering squeeze on his upper arm as they stood leaning against the corral fence, watching the cattle drift lazily in the afternoon heat. Then Jenkins started lingering too close, his gaze heavy and watchful. Tyler felt like a rabbit caught in a snare every time the older man stepped closer, eyes roaming lazily over Tyler’s frame. Tyler felt his skin prickle, body rigid beneath the older man’s attention, but he forced himself to stay still. He wanted to believe it was harmless, wanted to believe he could handle it, that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen again.

But the truth was, some part of him craved the contact. After so many years spent starving for gentleness, it was easy to slip, to let his defenses down just for the comfort of not feeling invisible. Sometimes, when Bill’s hand pressed at the base of his neck, Tyler felt his stomach twist in shame, anger and longing braided so tightly he couldn’t tell one from the other. He hated the part of himself that melted into those touches, desperate for softness even when it came at a price.

He tried, half-heartedly, to pull away, to duck his head and brush off the attention, but every time he did, Bill would just laugh, eyes glinting with something that made Tyler feel like a child, guilty, caught, uncertain which way to run. It was all a game, one Tyler didn’t know the rules to, only that losing meant more than just hurt feelings.

The real mistake came one night when exhaustion got the better of him. He’d been mending fences alone after dark, fingers raw, every muscle aching. When he stumbled back to the bunkhouse, the other hands already asleep, he told himself he’d just rest a minute on the cot, just long enough to catch his breath, then he’d drag himself back out to the truck, back to safety. 

But five minutes was all it took. His body gave out the second he hit the cot. The springs creaked under his weight as he lay back, boots still on, too tired to even pull them off. The room spun. His eyes shut without permission. The darkness took him.

Then the bed creaked.

At first, he thought it might’ve been the wind, or the weight of his own shifting. But then there was the heat of another body against his side, the reek of sour whiskey curling around his face, and the mattress groaned again under someone else’s weight. Tyler surfaced slowly, sluggish and disoriented, heart kicking against his ribs like a cornered animal. In the low light filtering through the bunkhouse window, he saw the outline of Bill Jenkins, moving with a steadiness that belied the liquor on his breath.

“Shh, c’mon now, kid,” Jenkins muttered, hand already creeping down Tyler’s chest with a kind of lazy confidence that turned Tyler’s stomach. Two thick fingers pressed against his lips, too hard, smothering the start of a protest. “Ain’t no need to start kickin’ up trouble. You’ll wake the whole fuckin’ place. Just be still for me. Just… lemme have this. Won’t take long.”

But Tyler had heard those words before.

Jenkins’s other hand was at his belt, fumbling at the buckle with clumsy, impatient movements. Metal scraped leather. Tyler jerked, tried to twist away, but his body seized up, locked by a familiar paralysis, muscles refusing to obey, heart thundering in his throat so loudly he was sure the whole bunkhouse could hear. He felt pinned, nailed to the mattress by the weight of Jenkins’s body and the heavier press of dread.

“Don’t act scared,” Jenkins muttered, almost like it annoyed him. “You like this kinda attention, don’t you? I seen the way you look at me. Always hangin’ back, waitin’ on somethin’. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ a little company.”

Tyler couldn’t find his voice. His throat had sealed up around the scream he couldn’t get out. His breath stuck just beneath the surface, too shallow, too quick, like he’d forgotten how to breathe right. A cold sweat soaked his back, beads forming under his arms, sliding down his temples. The world was narrowing, and the weight of Jenkins’s hand on him felt like it was pushing him straight through the mattress. He tried to shake his head, tried to say no, to say please, but the only sound that came out was a wet, broken whimper, half-formed, smothered fast by Jenkins’s palm.

He’d told himself he’d fight next time. Swore it. Made promises in the dark, vowing that if anyone ever laid hands on him again, he’d scream, he’d bite, he’d make them bleed. But when it came down to it, the instinct that had kept him alive as a kid came back just as strong. The freeze. The stillness. The way his mind left his body behind, floating just out of reach while the worst passed through it. He clung to that blankness now like it might save him. Like it might make him disappear.

Jenkins shifted again, muttering something Tyler couldn’t even register anymore, and still, all he could do was lay there, heart racing, mind spinning, stuck in a body that refused to help him. Every part of him screamed to move, to run, to get out, but none of it reached the surface. And underneath all that panic, buried somewhere deep, was the part of him that hated this even more, the part that still ached for any kind of touch that didn’t hurt, that still wanted someone to want him, even if it came like this. He hated that part. He hated it more than anything.

Because no matter how many miles he put between himself and the past, no matter how quiet he stayed or how hard he worked, it always found him again.

So one cool early morning before dawn, Tyler quietly packed up his belongings. His chest tightened as he folded his clothes into his old duffel, swallowing down the bitter lump of regret and self-loathing that lodged in his throat. When he told the foreman that he needed to move on, Everett had frowned, scratching thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin.

"Hell, Tyler," Everett had said, shaking his head slowly in disappointment, "Ain’t gonna lie to you, I hate to lose you, son. You're damn good at this, best hand I’ve had in years. Sure you won’t reconsider?"

Tyler had wanted to explain, wanted to find the words to make Everett understand that he wasn’t leaving because he wanted to, but because he had to. But how could he say it? How could he admit that his very presence was poison, that he couldn’t trust himself or anyone around him to stay good and decent, not with him there?

Instead, Tyler had just ducked his head, avoiding the older man’s eyes as he shook his head softly. "Can’t," he mumbled, already feeling ashamed of himself, "It’s better I move along."

And so Tyler left, even though it felt like abandoning something he’d just begun to love. He climbed back into his truck, that familiar ache settling deep in his chest as he drove away, watching in the rear-view mirror as the ranch faded into the early morning sky. He knew it wouldn’t be the last time. He’d leave again and again, every time the risk became too great, every time someone showed him kindness or affection, every time his own traitorous heart whispered things he couldn’t afford to hear.

That was how Tyler ended up holed up in a cramped little off-the-wall diner on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado. The neon sign out front buzzed loudly, flickering "OPEN" in reds and blues that cast strange colors across his dash when he'd parked his truck. Inside, a faint Huey Lewis & The News song trickled out of a jukebox with worn speakers, barely audible above the murmur of a few scattered customers. Tyler hadn't really planned on stopping here; he was supposed to be headed straight through to Cheyenne, Wyoming, but his truck had other plans. The engine had developed a persistent knock sometime just north of Pueblo, and no matter how loudly he played his worn-out Judas Priest cassette, the metallic clatter still wormed its way through, gnawing at the edges of his already frayed nerves.

So he’d pulled off the highway, hoping some greasy diner food and hot coffee might clear his head enough to figure out what to do next. Tyler had chosen a booth at the back corner, instinctively placing himself in a position where he could see everyone coming and going without having to worry about anyone sneaking up behind him. Beneath him, the booth's red vinyl seat had seen better days; scarred from decades of use, the cheap upholstery ripped and split open like old wounds, stuffing spilling out from the gaps. Cigarette burns pockmarked the tabletop, blackened craters amid sticky coffee-ring stains and scratched initials, evidence left behind by bored teenagers and restless travelers passing through.

His waitress introduced herself as Darlene, breezing up to his table with a broad, cherry-red smile that seemed practiced but genuine. She was bubbly, the kind of girl who probably got good tips from truckers and locals alike, laughing and smiling like she was having the best shift of her life. Her teased blonde hair was piled high on her head, held stiff with hairspray, bouncing slightly whenever she spoke or moved. She was probably around his age, maybe a year or two younger. Her dark brown eyes sparkled beneath thick lashes, dusted with a heavy layer of bright blue eyeshadow and sharp winged eyeliner, like something out of one of those magazines his mother had read when Tyler was little, all glossy and flawless and painfully feminine.

Darlene was pretty in the kind of way Tyler’s father would have approved of, the type of girl Wade would’ve elbowed him sharply about at church and whispered, Go talk to her, boy. And Tyler knew he should feel something: attraction, warmth, even just a vague sort of curiosity. But when he looked up at Darlene’s cheerful face, watched the way her perfectly painted lips curved into a smile as she set his cup of bitter diner coffee down in front of him, he felt nothing at all.

Tyler noticed Darlene adjusting her top again as she walked across the worn linoleum floor, coffee pot in hand, clearly angling for his attention. He pretended not to see her fussing with the collar of her uniform, tugging it down just enough to hint at cleavage, because her motives seemed obvious, and it made him uneasy. Guilt prickled at the back of his neck, because he knew she was trying, and he also knew he had nothing to give in return. He might've appreciated the sight if he were like the other ranch hands he’d drifted among over the years, but he wasn’t. The same part of him that wanted to be polite also wanted to squirm under that too-eager gaze.

He felt guilty, knowing he wasn't going to give her the reaction she clearly wanted. Girls like Darlene approached him expecting easy flirtation, some small-town-boy charm he'd never quite figured out. They didn't know approaching Tyler Montgomery looking for romance was about as promising as wandering into the desert expecting to find water. He just didn’t have it in him, never had and probably never would.

She paused at his side, fiddling with the collar of her brightly colored uniform shirt one more time, just for good measure. Tyler fought the urge to grimace, God, please stop. That little voice of protest hissed in his mind as he tried to fix his gaze on anything else: the chipped plastic straw dispensers, the smudged window near the door, the flickering fluorescent sign outside that was missing half its letters.

Her coffee pot sloshed as she leaned down, practically pressing against the edge of his table in an attempt to get closer. “Need a little top off, Mr. Montgomery?” she asked, flashing him a too-bright smile.

Double ew, he thought with a spike of internal dread. Tyler might have found her antics flattering if he was wired differently. But in that moment, he felt equal parts embarrassment and irritation. He certainly wasn’t old enough to be anyone’s Mister, and hearing that honorific slid around his name made his skin crawl. It reminded him too much of the way church ladies would flutter around his father, calling him Sheriff Montgomery in that syrupy tone that set Tyler’s teeth on edge. 

He pictured them swarming around Wade like bees, fawning over him while Tyler stood to the side with his head down, wishing he could be invisible. Tyler could picture it clearly, his father's proud smirk, the possessive grip he'd keep on Tyler’s shoulder as he shook hands with strangers, introducing him as "my youngest son," his voice always tinged with some subtle, bitter disappointment Tyler never quite understood as a boy.

“No ma’am,” he said quietly, squaring his shoulders and shaking his head. “I think I’m good on coffee.” 

His polite refusal didn’t seem to faze her, she was determined, persistent as a tick burrowing into a hound’s ear, and just as hard to shake. Darlene set the glass pot right down on the table’s edge with a careless clunk, not seeming to mind the new dark coffee ring that seeped into the scratched formica. Then, in one movement, she slid into the booth seat across from him, elbows coming up to rest on the tabletop, chin balanced on her palms. Her bright eyes were locked on him in a way that made his stomach twist. He shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering from her cheerful expression down to the tabletop, praying that if he avoided direct eye contact she might lose interest.

No such luck.

She tilted her head slightly, batting long, mascara-heavy lashes at him. Her voice dripped honey, sweet enough to rot a tooth. “So,” she began, dragging out the vowel until it grated on his nerves, “What brings you all the way out to Denver, Mr. Montgomery?”

Hearing his last name spoken like that, drawn out, teasing, almost mocking, sent a spike of annoyance through Tyler. He fought back the urge to flinch. Why do I always draw this kind of attention? It didn’t matter where he went, someone always wanted to dig into him like they were owed an explanation, especially when they found out his name. Wade Montgomery’s boy. The son of the sheriff. The golden name that turned to rust the second it was tied to him.

“It’s just Tyler,” he said, carefully keeping his tone even, like he was balancing a plate of glass. The words scraped against his tongue. Politeness had been drilled into him young, yes, sir, no, ma’am, say thank you and never talk back, but he was tired of wearing the mask, tired of pretending. Still, he didn’t dare let it slip just yet.

Darlene only smiled wider, bobbing her head in an exaggerated nod, sending her teased blonde curls bouncing. “Well, Just Tyler”, she drawled the words as if she found them endlessly amusing, “You wanna tell me what brought you to Denver?”

“Uhm…” Tyler’s voice cracked embarrassingly on the first syllable, and heat rushed up the back of his neck, staining his ears red with shame. He felt twelve years old again, small, stuttering, wanting to vanish into his grandpa’s shadow every time someone looked at him too long. He didn’t know how to talk to girls like this, not in the way he was expected to. Not the way other boys did. He never had.

“I, uh…” He cleared his throat and tried again, pushing the words out like they hurt. “I was headin’ up to Cheyenne. Lookin’ for work. Ranch stuff, mostly. Just stopped in to get somethin’ to eat before hittin’ the road again.” He kept his tone flat, factual. Like reading off a weather report. Maybe if he didn’t give her anything to latch onto, she’d lose interest.

But Darlene only seemed to lean in closer, her smile tilting just enough to look less like friendliness and more like pursuit. She reached for the coffee pot again, tracing lazy circles around the base with one finger, like she had all the time in the world. Her voice dropped just slightly, dipping into something more suggestive. “Cheyenne, hmm?” she echoed, watching him over the rim of her lashes. “So you’re just passing through? You don’t plan on staying around these parts?”

There it was, that gentle nudge. The open-ended offer. She wanted him to take the bait. To flirt back. To lean into the moment and pretend he was some boy out for a good time, looking to make connections with girls like her.

And yet, all it did was make Tyler’s stomach twist in on itself.

He knew what was expected of him. He should’ve been flattered. Should’ve cracked a joke, offered a shy smile, asked if she got off her shift soon. That’s what other boys his age would’ve done. Back in Anson, a girl like Darlene showing interest would’ve earned him a round of back slaps and hollered good lucks from the other hands. Hell, his father probably would’ve called it “character building.”

But Tyler felt none of that. No flicker of excitement. No hunger. Just dread curling low in his gut. A sick, hollow space where desire should’ve been. Because the truth was, Tyler never felt that stir of want when he looked at girls. Not even pretty ones like Darlene, not even when they leaned in close and made it easy. 

That flicker of interest, the kind he buried deep down where no one could reach it, only ever came when he caught a glimpse of a college boy in a denim jacket, or the way a ranch hand’s shirt clung to his shoulders in the summer heat. It was Kirk Hammett’s fingers gliding over guitar strings with more care than anyone had ever touched him with, or Rob Halford on stage in leather and chains, eyes smoldering beneath mirrored shades. It was sharp jaws and tired eyes, the smell of aftershave and sweat, not perfume and lipstick. 

Still, Tyler Montgomery knew how to play his role. He knew how to hide, to retreat into politeness and carefully scripted neutrality. So he forced a weak smile onto his lips, trying to soften his rejection as best he could. “No, ma’am,” he murmured apologetically, ducking his head slightly to lessen the blow. “I’m mighty sorry, but I gotta be gettin’ on. So, uh, could I get the check, please?” He peered up at her through lowered lashes, wearing the same submissive expression he’d perfected to appease Wade’s anger. It was a look meant to deflect, to pacify, to let him shrink into the background and avoid drawing any further attention or trouble.

Darlene's eyes narrowed briefly, disappointment flickering across her face as clearly as if he'd slapped her outright. She stood back up, straightening her apron with a swift tug, and gave him a small nod, the kind that meant she understood perfectly even if she didn’t particularly like the answer. She didn’t say anything more, only took the coffee pot from the table, the glass clinking  against her bracelets, and turned away toward the counter. Tyler felt the relief flood through him like cool water, even as guilt prickled uncomfortably beneath his skin.

When Darlene brought the check to his booth, her phone number was scrawled across the back in a fluorescent pink ink that shimmered under the overhead lights. It was a color that screamed for attention, girlish, loud, warm in a way that Tyler had never known how to hold. Just the sight of it made his stomach knot. That kind of softness, that bright kind of wanting, it didn’t belong to him. It never had. He stared at the numbers for a beat too long, feeling the heat crawl up the back of his neck, before he crumpled the receipt into a tight fist. The paper crackled sharply in his grip, like brittle leaves under a boot heel, and he dropped it in the well of the passenger floorboard without a second thought. It joined a sea of other discarded things. He ought to clean it out, yeah, but what was the point? The engine was already wheezing with each mile. As far as Tyler was concerned, this truck wouldn’t make it to the next city, let alone the nearest gas station or trash can.

Settling into the cracked leather bench seat, Tyler leaned back, his shoulders sinking into the stiffness of the upholstery. He exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in the air, then dug a hand into the pocket of his jean jacket, fingers fumbling until they wrapped around the keyring. He pulled the keys free and let them dangle for a moment, listening to the soft jingle, a sound that had always brought him comfort. The truck had belonged to his grandfather, and somehow it still felt like it did, like Raymond Montgomery had only stepped away for a minute and would be back soon to take the wheel again.

His grandfather lingered in every detail, and somehow that brought him more comfort than anything his father had ever given him. It was better to be made from pieces of Raymond than shaped by Wade’s anger.The old Resistol hat perched atop his head had once shaded Raymond’s eyes beneath the Texas sun. The belt he wore, the scuffed buckle, even the knife sheath strapped to his hip, all of it carried the weight of Raymond’s legacy. They were pieces of a man Tyler had adored, someone who saw him, really saw him, not as a replacement for Elijah or a son falling short of his father’s image, but as his own person. Raymond had never tried to carve him into someone else. 

Raymond had been everything Wade wasn’t. Gentle where Wade was harsh, patient where Wade was intolerant. His grandfather had soft eyes, crinkled at the edges from laughter and quiet smiles, and big, rough hands that somehow always managed to feel gentle, especially when placed reassuringly on Tyler’s shoulder. Raymond had loved Tyler openly, without hesitation, the way a father was supposed to love his son. He had treated Tyler like his own person, teaching him everything worth knowing, how to mend fences and herd cattle, how to play guitar, how to carry kindness even when the world tried to tear it from his hands. Raymond had loved Tyler for simply being alive; Wade loved only the mold he kept trying to force Tyler into, and resented every crack that wouldn’t fill.

The day Raymond Montgomery died, Tyler’s world had cracked. He remembered standing at his graveside, the Texas sun blazing overhead, watching the polished oak coffin descend into the earth. He remembered how empty he’d felt, as if something had been hollowed out of him, leaving behind only a husk. But he hadn’t cried. Not then, not even as his grandfather’s grave was covered in dirt, sealing away the best part of Tyler’s childhood beneath layers of cold earth. He hadn’t cried when his grandmother had died just a few months prior. And even the night his father finally kicked him out, shoving him away from the only home he’d ever known, he still hadn’t cried. Grief had always been a mute animal pacing his rib cage, never a flood pouring out.

He tried the key, more out of desperation than hope. A dry click from the truck answered, and Tyler slumped forward, forehead resting against the cold steering wheel. His shoulders shook with a breath he couldn’t hold in. The tears burned behind his eyes, unwelcome, but there all the same. He felt like roadkill waiting for the world to pass by, a half-dead thing with no dignity left, sprawled where it fell. He pictured himself as a deer at the end of its run, limping through the dusk with headlights bearing down, every instinct screaming that the gunshot was coming, but still craving it for the mercy it would bring. Some swift, final relief. Something to cut through the cold and the shame and the loneliness.

But mercy wasn’t meant for boys like Tyler Montgomery. It never had been. He’d spent his whole damn life chasing it with scraped knees and bloodied palms, reaching for something soft in a world full of fists. And every single time, it slipped through his fingers like dust on the wind. There hadn’t been mercy the morning Wade threw him out, slamming the screen door behind him like a judge striking the gavel. No kindness in the way his father dragged him across the porch by the collar of his jacket and hurled him out into the morning like a stray dog someone got tired of feeding. Seventeen years old, and already deemed worthless. A tool too busted to bother fixing.

And now? Now it was creeping toward his nineteenth birthday. Another year gone, and what did he have to show for it but scars and empty miles? No family, no home, no one waiting for him anywhere. Just this, hunched behind the wheel of a dying truck, parked in some half-dead part of Denver where no one knew his name and no one cared to ask. Alone in a city that didn’t even bother to chew him up before spitting him out.

It hit him then that this was exactly how he’d spent the last one too. His eighteenth birthday. Curled in the same seat, knees drawn up, breath fogging the glass, skin prickling with cold and shame. He hadn’t had a plan then either. Just pride, and shame that burned hotter than any heater ever could. Too proud to beg. Too ashamed to admit he had nowhere to go. He’d spent that night wondering if the cold would finally finish the job his father couldn’t be bothered to. Wondering if maybe he’d just slip under and not wake up. Wondering if maybe that’d be easier than dragging himself through another year of being no one.

He let out a breath that fogged the windshield, eyes tracing the icy patterns spiderwebbing across the glass. Alone. Cold. Waiting for something better that he wasn’t sure would ever come. Wondering if he’d ever feel warm again, or if maybe he didn’t deserve to.

Chapter Text

Tyler was still hunched over the steering wheel, shoulders shaking and eyes stinging with tears he was desperately trying to blink away, when the crunch of gravel announced footsteps approaching. Instantly, that prey-animal instinct rose up inside of him, setting every nerve in his body alight, like a startled deer ready to bolt into the brush. He jerked upright in his seat, quickly scrubbing his sleeve over his face to erase any evidence of the tears he couldn't seem to control. He turned quickly toward the sound, heart hammering against his ribcage like a trapped bird.

Standing just beyond the hood of his truck were two men, silhouettes made sharper in the fading daylight. The first, leaning heavily on a cane clutched firmly in his right hand, wore a dark cowboy hat. His eyes were shockingly blue, deep and clear like the sky reflected in still waters, eyes that seemed to carry their own quiet stories. He wore his easy going demeanor naturally, an almost gentle curiosity etched in the lines around his eyes. Beside him stood another man, taller and broader, stiff as a fence post, with a lighter-colored hat pulled low, casting his face partly into shadow. His posture was tense, wary even, and his gaze was dark, guarded, and suspiciously watchful. He reminded Tyler immediately and unpleasantly of his father.

“Well, hell,” the man with the cane said, his Texas drawl rolling soft and familiar over Tyler’s frayed nerves. “That don’t sound too good, does it?”

Tyler blinked, still fighting back the tears that clung to his lashes. He hastily swiped the back of his hand across his face, wiping away both salt and the remnants of snot. A spike of embarrassment colored his cheeks. He felt like a child caught bawling in a grocery store aisle, but there was no denying the sense of security that unexpectedly settled in at the sound of a voice that spoke like home.

He swung open the driver’s door and slipped out of the cab. His boots hit the tarmac with a dull thud, the impact grounding him momentarily. As he rounded the front of Black Betty, he caught a glimpse of the angry curl of smoke still billowing from beneath the hood, drifting upward into the crisp Colorado air where it disappeared into a sky on the edge of twilight. The temperature was dropping fast, and it stung against the wet tracks on his face, but Tyler barely noticed. He focused instead on keeping his voice from trembling as he answered.

“No, sir,” Tyler managed, he couldn’t quite look either man fully in the eye yet. “I, uh… I think she might be givin’ up on me.” His hand drifted over the old truck’s front fender almost affectionately. God, I hope that’s not true, he thought. “Engine’s been knockin’ somethin’ awful, and I reckon she’s about had it.”

The man with the cane nodded, swapping a look with the man at his side. “Y’hear that, Ennis?” he asked, his accent curling around the other man’s name with easy familiarity. “Engine trouble. Might need a hand.” There was a note of fondness in his tone, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d volunteered the taller man for mechanical duty, “Think you can get a look at her, cowboy?"

Ennis gave Jack a flat look, exhaling slowly through his nose as if he were reluctantly accepting a familiar chore. "Ain't a mechanic, Jack," he groused, though there was little genuine heat behind it. "But I'll see what I can do.” He jerked his chin toward the truck, “Pop the hood.”

Relief washed over Tyler, nearly buckling his knees. He gave a quick nod. “Yes, sir,” he said automatically, the habit so deeply ingrained from a lifetime of placating stern men that he couldn’t shake it. He pressed his lips together as he darted to the driver’s side and yanked the release lever. The hood emitted a loud groan, protesting the abuse it had endured over the years.
 
Ennis leaned into the engine bay, expression growing increasingly grim as he examined the tangled, oily mess inside. His fingers moved quickly, touching parts Tyler couldn't name, checking connections and examining worn wires and leaking hoses. Tyler hovered anxiously, arms wrapped tightly around himself as if that could keep him steady. Beside him, Jack watched silently.

After a moment, Ennis straightened back up, wiping his stained hands on a rag he'd pulled from his back pocket. He gave a slight shake of his head, jaw set. "Ain't good news," he admitted finally, looking Tyler straight in the eye. "She's blown somethin' bad. Reckon you'll need more'n just a quick fix here."

Tyler felt something inside his chest drop like a stone thrown down a well, plummeting through empty space. He nodded numbly, swallowing hard to dislodge the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. "Figured as much," he murmured, feeling the tenuous control he'd managed to regain slipping dangerously once again. "Guess that's just my luck."

Jack must have sensed the tremor in Tyler's voice, "Well now," he said softly, leaning carefully on his cane, "Ain't no need to get yourself too worked up just yet. Hell, everybody runs into trouble sometimes. Question is, what you plannin' on doin' now?"

Tyler hesitated. He didn't want to admit that he had no plan beyond this moment, no backup, nowhere else to turn. But something in the quiet sincerity of Jack's voice loosened the knot in his chest just enough for honesty to slip through. "I ain't real sure," he confessed quietly, shifting from foot to foot like a kid caught somewhere he shouldn't be. "Was headed up towards Cheyenne, hopin' to find some work. But…" he trailed off, eyes dropping to the oil-slicked asphalt at his feet. "Guess I ain't gettin' too far now."

Jack exchanged a long look with Ennis, something silent, wordless passing between them, a conversation Tyler wasn't privy to. Ennis scuffed the toe of his boot against the asphalt, mouth tightening slightly, and finally gave a single, reluctant nod.

Jack's face eased into a warmer smile, his eyes softening as he turned back to Tyler. "Well, if work's what you're lookin' for, might be we could help with that. We got ourselves a ranch up near Evergreen, about half an hour out from here. Always need another set of good hands, especially this time of year. Helpin’ with the stock, some upkeep on the place. That sort of thing.” Jack inclined his head gently towards Ennis. "Ain't that right, Ennis?"

Ennis nodded slowly, still cautious but clearly having made some kind of decision within himself. “Reckon we can find you somethin’ to keep busy with.” He glanced over at Tyler’s truck, the smoke now nothing more than a faint wisp escaping from under the hood. “Don’t push her too hard, and you oughta make it back to the ranch in one piece.”

A rush of gratitude surged through Tyler, so intense it nearly brought him to tears again. He drew in a shaky breath, fighting off the familiar dread of empty promises. Memories pricked at him, old betrayals and the twisted lessons they’d taught him about trusting anyone. But the hope of steady work was a powerful remedy, enough to nudge those dark thoughts back into the depths of his mind.

“I… I don’t know how to thank you,” he managed, voice rough with emotion. “I sure appreciate it, mister…?” He trailed off, realizing he didn’t even have their names yet.

At that, Jack shifted his cane from one hand to the other, favoring his left leg. The movement elicited a grimace, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Ennis’ dark eyes flicked over, concern flickering there, and for a heartbeat, Tyler could have sworn Ennis made a small move like he meant to reach out and steady Jack but changed his mind at the last second. It was such a small gesture, but it carried an intimacy that left Tyler with the sense that there was more to these two than meets the eye.

“Jack Twist,” the man with the cane said at last, extending his free hand. Tyler grasped it eagerly, relieved to be able to offer a proper handshake, something normal and solid in the midst of so much uncertainty. Jack’s grip was firm, and the look in his eyes hinted at genuine kindness.

Jack looked pointedly at Ennis, prompting him with a silent but obvious you-gonna-introduce-yourself-or-what glance. Ennis exhaled a short sigh, just enough for Tyler to notice, before he offered his own hand. It felt rougher than Jack’s, more like Tyler’s own, worn down by years of ranch work and hard labor.

“Ennis Del Mar,” he said, his tone sounding stiff, almost rehearsed, like he’d practiced every syllable more times than he’d care to admit. The flicker in his dark eyes told Tyler that while Ennis might allow him in, he wouldn’t do it lightly.

Tyler allowed an awkward smile to cross his face as he released Ennis' hand. “Tyler Montgomery,” he said, wincing slightly at the weight of his own last name. It always had a way of dragging memories behind it like a noisy chain. “I, uh, really appreciate this,” he murmured, voice catching just a touch on the final words. “It means a lot.”

“Don’t go thankin’ us yet,” Jack teased, shifting his cane from one hand to the other with a faint wince of discomfort. “You ain’t done an ounce of work around the place, and believe me, there’s plenty to be done. Now, c’mon, get back in that truck of yours.  S’gonna get mighty cold soon and my hip’s fixin’ to raise hell if I stay out in this air much longer.”

The warning in Jack’s tone seemed only half-serious, but Tyler wasted no time. He scampered around the hood, eager to climb back into Black Betty before the engine could cool any further and decide not to start again. He was still ducking into the cab when Ennis reached up to release the hood prop, lowering the metal down with a dull thump that echoed across the parking lot. Ennis gave Tyler a short nod through the windshield before turning on his heel to join Jack at their own truck.

Ennis made his way around the front of the truck, the last of the evening light casting shadows across the cracked asphalt. Jack was leaning heavily against the passenger side, breath fogging in the cool air. His cane rested on the panel of the truck beside him, momentarily abandoned for the stability of the truck’s metal frame. Ennis’ eyes flicked over Jack’s posture, shoulders tense, one leg trembling with the effort of bearing his weight, and concern etched itself into the lines of Ennis’ face. They’d been at this dance for three years now: Jack’s slow recovery, the hidden aches he kept trying to ignore, and the silent routine they’d built to keep him steady whenever his injuries decided to act up.

Though he tried to hide it, a sliver of worry snuck into Ennis' voice as he came up beside Jack. He lifted a hand to the passenger door handle, pulling it open with a gentle creak of hinges. Jack seemed to be slowing more with every breath, the struggle radiating off him like heat, and it tugged at something deep inside Ennis. He thought back to the early days, when Jack would put on a brave face and insist he was fine, stomping around the ranch until he nearly collapsed, and Ennis would quietly tend to him, no matter the grumbling and cursing.

“You alright there, darlin’?” Ennis asked, pitched low enough that only Jack could hear. One big hand came up to rest lightly against the small of Jack’s back, giving just enough support for him to hoist himself upright without losing balance.

“Just fuckin’ peachy, cowboy,” Jack muttered through clenched teeth. The comment would have sounded snappish to anyone else, but Ennis knew that tone, a mixture of frustration and the barest thread of humor Jack always managed to muster, even when he was hurt. Jack gripped the truck’s door frame, muscles tense, and pulled himself up onto the seat with a grunt of pain that twisted Ennis’ heart in an all-too-familiar way.

For a moment, Ennis let his hand linger on Jack’s back, steadying him as the man situated himself in the passenger seat. Every time he had to watch Jack fight his own body, it sent a mixture of anger and helplessness coursing through him. He could practically feel Jack’s pain like a physical weight pressing down on them both.

Nevertheless, Jack settled in, breathing shallowly, eyes half-lidded against the sharp ache. He shot Ennis a tired, crooked smile as he dragged his legs into the cab. “You gonna stand there starin’ all night, or you gettin’ behind the wheel?”

Ennis offered a faint smile in return, nothing more than a quirk at the corner of his mouth, and gently patted Jack’s knee. “Hold your horses, I’m comin’.” Then he backed off, stepping aside to let Jack maneuver himself carefully into the passenger seat. He reached out to grab the cane that was leaning against the door, angling it toward Jack, who promptly took it and propped it between his legs. A simple nod from Jack signaled he was as comfortable as he could be, and Ennis responded by letting the door swing shut.

Ennis crossed in front of the truck with a purposeful stride, his boots thudding against the tarmac. He cast a quick glance back at Jack, who was propped up in the passenger seat, trying his level best to hide whatever pain his leg was giving him. The dull light of the overhead lamps skimmed the gleaming paint of their 1987 Chevy Silverado, blue and black, with spotless chrome that flashed whenever they hit a bump of sunlight. It was the best truck Ennis had ever owned, and though he felt a certain pride in it, the sight of Jack in that seat mattered a whole lot more to him than new paint or a sturdy engine.

He swung open the driver’s side door and slid onto the bench seat, letting the door fall shut with a heavy clunk. A hush filled the cab, broken only by Jack’s breathing. Ennis dug into the pocket of his jacket, fingers closing around the familiar rattle of keys. He pulled them free, slid the right one into the ignition, and turned. The Silverado roared to life, the engine’s low rumble thrumming beneath them. For an instant, Ennis felt a wash of relief, gratitude that he wasn’t in Tyler’s shoes, stranded at a dead-end with a busted truck, not sure which way was up. Hell, he remembered what that felt like all too well.. 

Goddamn kid looked like a kicked dog, Ennis thought. Still. That didn’t mean they had to take the boy in.

He shifted the truck into gear, the movement smooth under his practiced hand. “So,” Ennis began, shooting Jack a sidelong glance, “You wanna tell me what the hell that was all about?”

Jack turned his head slowly, face angled toward Ennis, one brow lifted as a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “What in the hell are you talkin’ about?” he asked, playing dumb in a way that made Ennis want to reach over and swat that smug look clean off his face. “You’ll have to be a little more specific, cowboy.”

Ennis gave a sharp huff, somewhere between disbelief and amusement, and shook his head as he eased the truck out of park. “Don’t start,” he said, exasperation creeping into his voice,  “You know damn well what I mean. That kid back there. You take one look at his big sad eyes and busted-up truck, and now we’re bringin’ him home with us like some stray dog. Offerin’ him work. A roof. Christ, Jack.”

Jack shifted slightly, adjusting the angle of his cane between his legs so it wouldn’t jab his thigh. “Kid looked down on his luck, En. The hell were we s’posed to do, leave him out there cryin’ all by himself?” He paused, tone softening just a bit, memories flickering behind his eyes. He and Ennis both had been in Tyler’s shoes before, hungry for a break, more than a bit lost. And if that had been his Bobby stranded out there, well, Jack prayed someone would’ve lent a hand. “’Sides,” he muttered quietly, “if it was one of your girls stuck on the side of the road, you’d want somebody to help her get back on her feet.”

Ennis’ jaw flexed, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, letting out a small snort. “Well, that’s mighty kind a’you, darlin’,” he said, albeit laced with sarcasm, “but he’s a stranger. And you and me both know trust don’t come easy… not with what we are.” Ennis slanted Jack a significant look. “What if he hurts you, Jack?”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted in faint surprise, but then the worry in Ennis’ voice sank in. He remembered all the times Ennis had held him at arm’s length, convinced it was the only way to keep them both safe, times when Jack’s pain had been brushed aside or dismissed because of fear. Times that had hurt them both more than it had helped. 

Jack curled his fingers gently around the head of his cane, rubbing at the smooth wood. “Ennis,” he said, “Did you see that boy? He looked like he was about to start bawlin’ if you so much as looked at him the wrong way.”

Ennis let out a noncommittal grunt, eyes still on the darkening road. “Could be an act,” he said warily, though it was clear even to him that he didn’t fully believe that.

Jack just shook his head. “Hell, he’s so skittish I half-expect he’d run from his own shadow. Ain’t no tough-guy con, trust me.” A flicker of old memory crossed Jack’s features, echoes of a childhood with a father who didn’t know how to be gentle, “‘Sides, I’m pretty sure he’s queer anyway,” Jack added, almost as a casual afterthought.

Ennis’ foot twitched on the brake, causing the truck to lurch ever so slightly. “Where in the hell’d you get that idea?” he demanded, brow knitting tight. It wasn’t anger so much as bafflement, as if he couldn’t wrap his head around how Jack had come to that conclusion. 

Jack threw up his hands, not so much in annoyance as amazement that Ennis had missed what seemed obvious to him. “You didn’t watch him at that diner? He looked like a cornered rabbit when that waitress started flirtin’ with him. Kid was practically crawlin’ out of his own skin. Felt downright sorry for him.”

“Jesus, Jack,” Ennis grumbled, pressing a little harder on the gas as the road opened up. “I don’t make it my business to eavesdrop on every conversation that’s got nothin’ to do with me.”

Jack let out a short huff, turning his head to gaze out the passenger window. Dim silhouettes of pines and jagged rock zipped by on either side of the highway, the shapes bending under the truck’s beam before disappearing into the night. “Weren’t no eavesdroppin’,” he countered, voice sliding into a softer pitch. “I just… I saw a lot of myself in that kid. An’ maybe a bit of you too, if you want me to be honest.”

Ennis felt the protest burning on his tongue, ready to insist he was nothing like that scrawny, teary-eyed boy. But the words stuck in his throat when he recalled a different time, a different place, a young ranch hand, head down, living life with the same caution that Tyler wore so openly now. In the flicker of memory, he saw himself climbing the slopes of Brokeback Mountain, exchanging short, halting words with a wiry cowboy who laughed loud and easy. He was reminded how he’d seen something in Jack Twist that called to a place in him he didn’t think existed. He’d tried to deny it for so many years, but even then, he’d known that his life wouldn’t have been the same without Jack. 

He eased up on the gas ever so slightly, letting the thought settle, and forced himself to meet Jack’s eyes, if only for a moment. The silent tension between them broke, replaced by an understanding that had followed them around for decades now, as sure as the rings cut into a tree’s trunk.

He exhaled, long and slow. Then relented.

“Fine. He can come back to the ranch. But if he so much as looks at you sideways, Jack…” Ennis glanced over, “I’m throwin’ him out on his ass, y’hear me?”

❖

The drive back to the ranch took about thirty minutes, just like Jack had said. Tyler followed the Silverado through the winding mountain roads, Black Betty groaning with each mile. The cassette deck chewed through his worn copy of Turbo By Judas Priest, and he’d cranked the volume up to near max, letting Turbo Lover blast through the crackling speakers. The heavy guitars and synth vibrated through the cab, doing a half-decent job of drowning out the knock that had been rattling beneath the hood since Pueblo. But no matter how loud the music got, Tyler could still feel it.

Up ahead, the Silverado crested a small hill, and as Tyler followed, the view opened up before him. A long wooden sign came into view, lit by a pair of old floodlamps. Painted in bold lettering was NORTH STAR RANCH. The words stood proud against the darkening sky, and for a moment, Tyler felt like he’d crossed into a different world entirely, somewhere far from Amarillo, from gas station parking lots and long stretches of empty highway. Somewhere that looked almost like it might mean safety.

As they rolled further down the gravel lane, Tyler’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. This place was massive, much larger than the dusty ranch in Amarillo he’d known briefly. Even in the dark, he could make out rolling pastures enclosed by sturdy fences, shadowy figures of cattle clustered near troughs. A tall, red barn stood off to one side, while directly ahead loomed the main house, a sprawling two-story structure with a wrap-around porch that seemed lifted straight from some postcard. Soft porch lights glowed warmly, casting pools of amber onto the steps, and Tyler felt a strange tugging sensation in his chest. 

The Silverado ahead of him slowed and turned onto a neatly gravelled driveway, red taillights flaring before flickering out completely as Ennis shifted the truck into park. Tyler followed their lead, easing Betty forward, praying silently under his breath. Just as he began to relax, a  snap echoed through the cab. The dash lights dimmed sharply, sputtered once, then died completely, plunging the interior into a sudden darkness. The engine coughed once, as if in apology, before falling entirely silent.

Tyler’s throat tightened, frustration and embarrassment boiling beneath his skin. He had the sudden urge to slam his forehead against the steering wheel, but pride and sheer stubbornness kept him still. He sat there for a moment, both hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel, staring at the lifeless dash like he was hoping for some last-minute reprieve. But there was no miracle this time. The truck was dead, a faint wisp of smoke curled up from under the hood as if marking the end of something. Maybe he ought to feel angry, or devastated, but all Tyler could muster was a hollow gratitude, Betty had carried him just far enough. Maybe that was all he had any right to ask for.

He drew a slow breath, swallowing down the spike of panic that wanted to catch in his throat. With hands that trembled just a little, he turned the key back, slid it from the ignition, and tucked it deep in his pocket like it might burn him if he let go too soon. The motion was mechanical, practiced, just one more ritual in a string of endings. He forced himself to push the door open, bracing against the cold that rushed in to meet him. When he was out, Tyler shut the door with care, unwilling to add any sharp noises to the silence. For a second he just stood there, wind biting through his jacket, letting the truth of his situation settle in. Then, squaring his shoulders, he moved around the front of the battered truck, his footsteps crunching over the uneven stones. He kept his head down as he dug in the bed for his duffel, using the task as a shield against the embarrassment gnawing at his pride.

A few yards away, Ennis was already out of the Silverado, moving with the steady pace of a man who’d done this a thousand times. He rounded the front end, boots crunching in the gravel, and stopped at the passenger door, already open where Jack waited. Without a word, Ennis braced his arm against the frame and leaned in close, eyes flicking over Jack’s face, taking in the tension at the corners of his mouth, the stiffness in his bad leg. It was a familiar routine, one Ennis could probably perform blind after all these years.

“Take it easy, darlin’,” Ennis said quietly, a private softness in it meant only for Jack. He hovered close, hand poised just behind Jack’s back, close enough to catch him if his leg gave out but careful not to crowd him, giving Jack that bit of space he always insisted on, even when he was hurting.

Jack’s response was a muffled grunt, more from discomfort than anger, he swung his legs out of the cab, using the doorframe for leverage. “I am takin’ it easy,” Jack groused, although the complaint lacked any real bite. “Don’t fuss over me like I’m some damn invalid, Ennis. I can manage, you know.”

Ennis responded with a faint, almost unnoticeable snort that might’ve been amused or exasperated. “Hush up,” he said, slipping an arm under Jack’s elbow just to steady him. “Ain’t tryin’ to coddle you. Just don’t want you bustin’ your ass on the gravel out here.”

Ennis caught the sound of gravel scuffing beneath Jack’s cane. There was always that slight tremor in Jack’s legs after a long drive, that shake that crept in as he pulled himself upright. Ennis knew the routine, he’d learned it by heart these past few years, and his body moved almost on instinct, half-leaning toward Jack in case he needed an arm or a steady shoulder.

He tried to hide the worry that coiled deep in his gut as Jack braced himself, cane digging into the loose stones. Jack never liked anyone fussing over him, so Ennis had gotten good at being near enough to catch him but not so close as to make him feel like a helpless invalid. They’d found that balance through trial and error, mostly error. Too many times, Jack had stumbled, one knee buckling with a betraying wobble that sent him sprawling to the ground. 

It never got any easier, seeing Jack like that.

So he lingered, like the snow that clung to the mountain peaks long after winter should’ve receded, one hand at his side, close enough to grab hold if Jack’s shifted wrong. A few years back, he might’ve kept his distance out of stubborn pride, his own, or Jack’s. But the fear of seeing Jack fall, of finding new bruises blooming across his lovers’s face or forearms, overruled any hang-up he had about appearing too soft. Jack may have teased him sometimes, calling him Mother Hen or shaking off his concern, but Ennis didn’t give a damn. He cared too much to be careless.

When Jack finally found his footing, straightening his spine and shaking out the ache in his hip, Ennis eased back a step. He knew better than to crowd him, Jack insisted on walking under his own power once he got going, “You good?” Ennis murmured

Jack gave him that familiar nod and tapped his cane against the gravel. Ennis nodded in return, satisfied, letting Jack step out from behind the open door and move toward the yard. He kept his eyes trained on Jack’s movements the way a hawk shadows a rabbit on the ground. The muscles in Ennis’ back tensed when Jack navigated a particularly uneven patch of gravel, but Jack pressed on without a slip, heading for the smoother ground near the main house. Only once Jack cleared that last rut did Ennis relax, just a little, enough to let out the faintest sigh. He reached out and swung the passenger door shut with a soft thunk.

Meanwhile, Tyler kept himself planted by Black Betty, tucking his hands under his armpits in an attempt to ward off the gathering chill. He’d learned young, maybe younger than most, that it was safer to stay on the outside, observe, and keep from imposing on folks. He’d had his share of trouble that started simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Better to stand out of the way and see how things played out.

Tyler could already feel the cold seeping through the thin fabric of his jacket, and the thought of sleeping on the stiff leather bench seat in his truck made him shiver. But he steeled himself. Worse things had happened.

Jack and Ennis made their way toward the house, only a handful of steps, before Jack abruptly stopped. Ennis nearly stumbled, forced to slam his heel down quickly to keep from colliding with Jack’s back. The two of them exchanged a brief look, a flicker of confusion passing between them.

“Y’gonna stand there all night, or you comin’ inside?” Jack asked, glancing over his shoulder with a puzzled expression. It seemed he’d expected Tyler to follow without needing an invitation.

Tyler’s hand drifted up to scratch the back of his neck, a gesture he’d never quite grown out of. “No, Mister Twist, I uh… I appreciate it, but I don’t wanna be any trouble. Figure I’ll just sleep in my truck.” The words came out in a rush and he fought the urge to wrap his arms around himself for warmth. He didn’t want to tell them the real reason, about how cramped bunkhouses or rooms full of strangers set off panic. He couldn’t imagine Jack or Ennis understanding what years of unwanted touches and mistrust had done to him. If my own father didn’t believe me, he thought bitterly, why would they?

Jack and Ennis exchanged a look like they’d just smelled something foul, an unspoken conversation passing between them, much like the one Tyler had witnessed back in the diner parking lot. Then Jack shook his head, eyebrows knitting together. “Kid, it’s gonna freeze out here tonight,” he said bluntly. “And we got a perfectly good guest room upstairs that’s gatherin’ dust. Might as well put it to use.”

Tyler opened his mouth to refuse again, but Jack beat him to it, waving his cane for emphasis.

“Besides,” Jack added, tapping the cane lightly on the dirt, “I’m not exactly usin’ the upstairs these days. Stairs and my hip don’t get along too well, y’see.” He paused, then added in a conspiratorial murmur, “And if you’re worried ‘bout privacy, the room’s got a good, solid lock. I know what it’s like bein’ your age. I’ve got a son of my own, after all.”  

Heat burned across Tyler’s cheeks and crept down his neck at the not-so-subtle implication. He tried to hide a nervous little laugh that threatened to escape, but he couldn’t manage it entirely, a small snort leaking out. “Yes, uh, yes, Mister Twist. I… well, thank you.”

Tyler trailed behind Ennis and Jack, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, eyes flicking across the yard as if half-expecting something to jump out of the dark. He kept his head down, counting his own steps under his breath, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, pausing at the bottom of the porch stairs just long enough to land on a clean number. He felt embarrassed at his own superstition, but forced himself up the last two steps anyway, hoping nobody had noticed his little hesitation.

Ennis reached the front door first, rummaging through the ring of keys in his hand. The chime of metal against metal grated on his ears, each key reminding him of a hundred small tasks that still needed doing around the ranch. “Goddamn it,” Ennis muttered under his breath, fumbling in the dim porch light. “Which one’s the front door again?”

Jack was right behind him, cane tapping unevenly on the worn boards. “You know, if you labeled ‘em—” he started, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“Quit your yappin’,” Ennis snapped, though there was no real bite to it. Finally, he found the right key and slid it into the lock, twisting until the door popped open with a familiar creak. He yanked the key out and stepped inside. The wooden entryway was old pine, scuffed by years of use. Mud clung to Ennis’ boots, and he grimaced, knowing Jack would give him hell if he tracked dirt all over the living room again.

He braced one palm against the wall and bent to pull off one boot, then the other, leaving them lined up next to the entryway. The hours of driving had left him stiff, and he rolled his shoulders to shake off the ache as he straightened up. Jack himself followed Ennis in but lingered, leaning more heavily on his cane. Ennis shot him a warning look, he damn well knew Jack wasn’t supposed to be yanking off boots while standing like that, not with how his leg acted up. But Jack made no move to take them off, which relieved Ennis. Probably just waiting until he could sit down. 

Tyler lingered just inside the open doorway, fingers curled around the edge of the frame, his knuckles pale against the worn wood. He stood half in, half out of the house, shoulders hunched as if expecting to be told he’d made a mistake, that this sudden welcome was just some misunderstanding he’d be blamed for later. His eyes darted everywhere at once, taking in the faded wallpaper, the gleam of the lamp, the scattered boots by the entryway, the couch sagging under the weight of a worn quilt. Every detail seemed like it needed memorizing in case he had to make a quick exit. There was something almost wild about the way he hovered there, the look of a wild animal torn between hunger and fear, desperate to stay but half-ready to bolt at the smallest wrong move.

Jack’s voice broke the hush, gentle but steady, “Go on in, son.” His tone was matter-of-fact, almost brisk, as though the idea that Tyler didn’t belong had never crossed his mind. That simple confidence seemed to leave Tyler no room to argue. It gave him a path forward where none had existed a second ago.

Tyler murmured a barely audible, “Thank you, sir.” He ducked his head, the brim of his hat hiding his face for a moment, and shuffled forward in careful steps. He made sure not to let his boots scuff the floorboards, moving with a self-consciousness that made it clear he was always waiting for a correction, always braced for the sound of someone telling him to get out. He eased the door shut behind him, as if afraid the very sound might earn him a glare, then stood uncertainly just inside the threshold, hands tucked deep in his pockets, shoulders drawn in tight as he waited for whatever came next.

Ennis exhaled as he finished tugging his second boot off, padding across the worn hardwood to the tall standing lamp in the corner. He flicked the switch, and the lamp flared to life, bathing the living room in a pale yellow glow. The couch, battered coffee table, and a few scattered magazines took shape in the soft light.

Ennis started to turn back toward Jack when the sudden wagging of a tail drew his attention to the couch. “Jack,” he muttered, gesturing toward the cushions where a patchy, red-and-white shape was now very much awake. “Your damn dog’s on my couch again.”

Sure enough, sprawled across the cushions was a red heeler, its ears perked with excitement. At Ennis’ voice, the dog leapt down, nails tapping against the hardwood as it trotted over to Jack. Seeing Jack’s eyes light up at the sight, Ennis felt a familiar twist of affection and exasperation. He’d never quite gotten used to the dog’s name, Hamburger Helper, of all things, but he’d resigned himself to it. Jack’s sense of humor was behind that questionable choice.

“C’mere, boy,” Jack murmured. The heeler pressed against Jack’s leg, tail wagging so hard its whole body shook. Jack bent to ruffle the dog’s ears, his free hand gliding affectionately over the rust-colored fur. For a moment, Jack almost looked like a kid with a new puppy, and a small smile tugged at Ennis’ mouth despite himself.

“You leave Hamburger Helper alone,” Jack drawled in mock warning, casting Ennis a sideways look. “He ain’t doin’ no harm.”

Ennis huffed, rolling his eyes but unable to keep the corners of his lips from quirking up. “Ain’t no harm ‘cept puttin’ dog hair all over the place,” he muttered, but there was no real bite in his words. Truth be told, he didn’t mind the mutt half as much as he pretended. Still, someone had to keep the house in some semblance of order.

That was when Hamburger Helper shifted his attention away from Jack and trotted straight to Tyler. He froze for a beat, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to pet the dog, but a moment later, he reached down and gave him a gentle rub behind the ears. The dog leaned into Tyler’s touch, a grunt rumbling in his throat. Tyler smiled, and it was such a pure, genuine expression that it caught Ennis off guard. For the first time since they’d brought the kid back here, Tyler looked like he wasn’t tangled in a thousand worries.

“Well,” Jack declared with a faint edge of triumph, “looks like Hammy likes you.”

Ennis snorted, though amusement curved his lips. “That dog likes anyone still breathin’,” he muttered. Hamburger Helper had a habit of following every stranger around like they were his new best friend. A lot like Jack that way, come to think of it.

Tyler just kept petting the dog, his focus on the soft fur beneath his palm, but there was something in his eyes, some mixture of curiosity and gratitude, that Ennis recognized. A kid half-starved for kindness, desperate for a place to belong, if only for a little while. Ennis felt his chest tighten uncomfortably. He tried to remember how it had felt to be that young, that lost.

“Uhm…” Tyler began, the slight waver in his tone giving away his nerves. “Where d’you want me to put my boots?” He seemed almost afraid to do the wrong thing, as if one misstep might shatter whatever fragile arrangement they had going here.

Ennis and Jack exchanged a quick glance, the kind they’d shared for years, an entire silent conversation passing between them in a heartbeat. Sometimes, Ennis forgot how second nature that was. He saw Tyler’s expression flicker with mild confusion as if he’d picked up on that silent exchange.

Jack swung his attention back to Tyler. “Right there’s fine,” he answered, nodding toward the small mat on the hardwood near the entryway.” 

“Yes sir, Mister Twist, sir,” Tyler blurted, bobbing his head in a show of politeness that made Ennis feel another tug of sympathy. The kid was wound tighter than a spring. Ennis sighed inwardly, his own anxieties momentarily overshadowed by a desire to ease Tyler’s.

“Jack’ll do just fine,” Jack replied, brushing aside the formality with a soft grin. “And that’d be Ennis,” he added, nodding in Ennis’ direction, “not Mister Del Mar.” 

Tyler had dropped down to sit, working on removing his boots. Jack shot the kid yet another glance, and he too felt that jolt of sympathy just as Ennis had. Tyler’s boots had obviously seen better days, repaired over and over again until it was a miracle that they were even able to be repaired anymore.

When the boots finally came off, he lined them up carefully next to Ennis' pair on the mat, feeling a flicker of relief at the neatness of it. But the relief didn't last, replaced quickly by anxiety twisting in his gut. They still weren't right. He adjusted them again. Once, twice, a third time. Still not good enough. Tyler swallowed hard and tried once more, nudging them with the tips of his fingers until the toes matched perfectly, exactly aligned with Ennis’ boots. He forced himself to stop after the fourth time, even though the left one still didn’t sit quite right.

He stood up, pressing his palm hard against the wall to steady himself, trying to calm the jittery nerves racing through him. His mouth felt dry as he glanced up hesitantly, eyes darting from Jack to Ennis. The sudden silence seemed louder than shouting. It rang in his ears and crawled under his skin. Did he do something wrong already? Had he offended them by sitting down? Maybe he'd put his boots in the wrong place after all. Maybe they expected something else entirely. He looked at the boots again, were they too close to Ennis’? Would that come off like he was assuming something, claiming space that wasn’t his? Maybe they thought he was presumptuous, or worse, ungrateful. His chest tightened further, each thought crowding and tripping over the last, spiraling until he struggled to draw a full breath.

He clenched his fists in his jacket pockets, trying to hide how much his hands shook. His eyes darted downward, fixing on the floorboards. He shouldn't have come here. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was imposing, an inconvenience, a problem they'd regret bringing home like a stray dog they'd soon get sick of feeding. His thoughts looped and tangled until he couldn't even remember what he'd done wrong, only that something had been wrong. He couldn’t breathe through it, couldn’t stop it, only stand there frozen like a deer with its leg caught in a trap.

Jack’s voice was soft as he motioned toward the small table tucked in the corner of the living room. “Phone’s over there, if you wanna call your folks. Let ’em know you’re safe.”

Tyler froze. The word folks rang through his head like a fire alarm, louder than it had any right to be. His body responded before his mind could catch up, a sharp flinch, barely perceptible unless you were looking for it, like a dog ducking from a raised hand. He hoped they didn’t notice. Jack’s voice hadn’t carried any judgment, no pressure in it at all. Just kindness. That somehow made it worse.

Folks.

Tyler let the word echo in his head, tasting the bitterness of it like copper on his tongue. It didn’t belong to him anymore. Had it ever? What did it mean, really? People who cared where you were? Who worried if you’d eaten? If you were cold? Tyler didn’t have that. All he had was a father who wore the title like a badge, a man who barked orders and bruised ribs in the same breath. A man more concerned with appearances than what was bleeding beneath the surface. A man who looked at his son like he was something sick that needed to be cut out.

His mother hadn’t stopped it. Hadn’t spoken up. Hadn’t reached for him when he was thrown out into the night like trash. And his sister, sweet, curious, too young to understand, just watched with wide eyes and silence as Tyler disappeared.

No one was waiting for his call.

But he didn’t want Jack to think he was ungrateful. He didn’t want this offer of kindness to go sour, for Jack to assume he was too proud or too cold. He’d learned the hard way that even small gestures could turn volatile if you didn’t answer right. He swallowed, the motion tight and rough, and wrapped his left hand around his right wrist, scraping his thumbnail hard against the inside of his forearm. 

He lifted his eyes just enough to meet Jack’s, then quickly dropped them again. His voice came out too practiced, the way it always did when he needed to lie without making it sound like one. “Thank you, Mister Twist, sir,” he said, voice stretching thin as he forced the words out. He tried to keep it steady, tried to bury the quiver that wanted to slip through. “But, uh… it’s real late, and I don’t figure I oughta wake nobody up. They… they ain’t much for calls at this hour.” 

Tyler kept his gaze pinned to the floor, trying to steady the anxious thrum in his veins. He’d made his excuses, forced out something that sounded polite enough, and now he stood there, waiting for Jack’s response like a guilty kid caught sneaking cookies.

He heard a shift of weight on the floorboards, and when he glanced up, Jack’s gentle expression hadn’t changed. “Alright,” Jack said, cane in one hand, the other resting at his side. “Didn’t mean to push. Offer’s there if you change your mind, kid.”

Ennis cleared his throat quietly, the sound barely breaking the tense hush in the room. Tyler risked a quick look at him. The man’s brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a firm line, but it didn’t feel like anger. More like a guarded concern. If Tyler had to guess, Ennis was still trying to decide if taking him in was worth the trouble. If he’d be one more burden to shoulder, one more mouth to feed, one more risk and honestly? Tyler couldn’t blame him. If he was in Ennis’ shoes, he’d have hesitated too. Tyler was good at hiding his baggage, sure, but only for so long. Eventually, it always found a way to spill out. 

Jack straightened as much as his leg would allow him and motioned down the hallway with a tilt of his head, “C’mon,” he said, “Ennis’ll show you where you’ll be stayin’. Ain’t much, but it beats a bench seat.”

The warmth in his voice twisted something in Tyler’s gut, making his chest feel too tight for air. Why was he being nice? What did he want? Why hadn’t they changed their minds yet? The knot inside him pulled tighter. People didn’t stay kind. Not when they figured out the truth. Not when they saw what was under the surface. 

Ennis didn’t say anything at first, just shot Jack a glance, quick, like he wanted to argue but knew there wasn’t a point. It was clear he didn’t like this. Taking in a stranger. Letting him in their home. Tyler read that look for exactly what it was. A warning. One wrong move, and he’d be out the door faster than he’d come in. 

But Ennis just exhaled through his nose, then turned to Tyler. His expression didn’t soften much, but when he spoke, it wasn’t unkind, “Right then,” He said, jerking his head towards the staircase, “C’mon then.” 

Tyler followed, heart pounding. He kept his footsteps light, his head down, still half-convinced he was going to be told there’d been a mistake, that the offer had been made too quickly, that he was too much trouble, too risky. It always felt like he was one misstep away from being right back to where he started. Alone. Cold. Unwanted. 

❖

Ennis lingered by the door a moment longer than he had to, watching as Tyler stood  in the center of the spare bedroom like he didn’t quite trust the space around him. The boy hadn’t said much, just a quiet “thank you” and a small nod when Ennis pointed out the extra blankets in the dresser and the bathroom down the hall. His shoulders were still wound up high, like he expected someone to shout at him or throw him out before he could sit on the bed. 

Ennis didn’t say anything else. He just gave another curt nod and pulled the door shut gently behind him, letting it click softly into place. As he made his way down the stairs, he rolled his shoulders to work out the tension, running a hand along the worn wood of the banister. He moved on muscle memory, every creak of the steps familiar under his weight, but his thoughts were still upstairs on the jumpy kid with eyes that looked too old for his face, who handled thank-yous like they might come back to bite. 

He crossed the living room in socked feet. Jack was already settled on the couch, cane propped beside him, boots still snug on his feet. Ennis paused in front of him, letting out a low breath. “Least you waited,” he said, dipping his chin toward Jack’s boots. He lowered himself into a crouch, minding his knees on the hard floor. “Thought I was gonna find you toppled over again.”

Jack’s answering grin lit up his face, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Figured I’d spare you the trouble of haulin’ me up off the floor.” he teased, though a flicker of pain in his gaze hinted at the truth. Sometimes, he couldn’t get his boots off without a struggle. 

Ennis huffed a quiet chuckle, hooking his fingers around the back of Jack’s first boot, “Generous of you.” He murmured. He tugged, and felt Jack wince in response, the strain in his leg muscles a reminder of old injuries and deeper scars. Jack stifled a wince, sucking in a breath through his teeth, but didn’t protest. With a final yank, the boot slid free. Ennis set it aside, careful not to knock it into the coffee table. 

He reached for Jack’s other boot, lifting his gaze momentarily. “You alright?” he asked, keeping his voice low. He saw the tightness in Jack’s jaw as he shifted his weight on the couch. 

Jack nodded, looking away briefly. “Been worse,” he said quietly. “’Least I got you to do all the grunt work.” His attempt at humor flitted across his features, but Ennis caught the underlying relief there.

Ennis tugged off the second boot with equal care, trying not to jostle Jack’s leg. Once he’d set that boot down, he straightened slowly, dusting his hands against his jeans. The lamp’s glow turned Jack’s hair a softer brown, accenting every line on his face that Ennis knew by heart. He remembered a time when Jack wore fewer lines, fewer aches. They both had.

The tension in the room hung heavier than before, like there was something unspoken caught between them. Ennis glanced upstairs, toward where Tyler had disappeared. Maybe that was the reason for the knot in his gut, for the guarded look in his eyes. He didn’t like the idea of letting a stranger into their space, not after everything they’d been through. But he also couldn’t deny the haunted look he’d seen in Tyler’s eyes, or how that look reminded him of a younger self, someone battered by the world, bracing for the next blow.

Ennis dropped his voice, leaning closer to Jack. “He’s jumpy,” he murmured, flicking his gaze toward the dark stairwell that led to Tyler’s room.

Jack’s bright smile dulled, replaced with a thoughtful frown. “Scared outta his skin’s more like it,” he said, turning the cane gently against the couch cushion. “Kid could barely hold his bag without shakin’.”

“Ain’t sayin’ he don’t need help,” Ennis replied. There was no denying that. Tyler looked like a stray, worn ragged by too many nights alone and too few people who gave a damn.

“But you’re worried about whether we’re the ones that ought to give it,” Jack supplied, voice gentler than before.

Ennis nodded slowly, dropping onto the couch beside him. The seat cushion sank under their combined weight. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to put words to the knot in his gut. “We don’t know him, Jack,” he began. “You start handin’ out second chances too easy, and I’m… I’m not about to stand by while you get hurt again on account of your heart bein’ bigger’n your head.”

A flicker of pain crossed Jack’s eyes, and the corners of his mouth tightened, the usual brightness in his expression dimming. He leaned back, gaze wandering toward the stairs Tyler had climbed. “He looked like you used to,” Jack said softly, tinged with regret. “All hunched in, bracin’ for a kick if he so much as breathes wrong. Don’t think I can just turn him away seein’ that.”

Ennis swallowed. Those words hit like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t deny them. He’d lived that fear once, worn it like a second skin. Maybe that was the reason he hadn’t argued harder when Jack made up his mind to help the kid. “Yeah,” he admitted at last, “Saw it too.”

Jack’s hand drifted over the couch cushion, fingers brushing Ennis’ thigh in a comforting gesture. “He’s just a kid,” he repeated, quieter this time. “He doesn’t got nowhere else. Thought maybe we could give him a leg up.”

Ennis covered Jack’s hand with his own, giving a small squeeze. “We’ll keep an eye on him,” he said, finding a measure of calm in stating it aloud. “Make sure he’s not trouble. And if he is, well…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang.

Jack nodded, some of the tension draining from his posture. Silence wrapped itself around them again, the clock on the mantle ticking away the seconds. Shadows played across Jack’s face, emphasizing the faint gray at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes, lines Ennis recognized because he’d memorized each and every one. They’d fought tooth and nail for the piece of peace they had now, and a part of Ennis worried that bringing an unknown into their home risked shattering that fragile quiet.

But another part of him, the part that remembered flinching at every kindness, couldn’t stand to see the same fear in Tyler’s eyes.

Jack curled his fingers around Ennis’ knee, silent gratitude in the simple pressure. Ennis laced their hands together, letting the warm hush of the lamplight wash over them. Tomorrow, they’d sort out chores, figure out how Tyler might help around the ranch, see what he was made of. 

❖

Sleep didn’t come easy for Ennis most nights, but tonight it was worse. Tonight it hung just out of reach, taunting him with its absence. Usually, when his thoughts turned restless, he could find peace in the familiar weight of Jack beside him, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his back pressed close against Ennis’ chest, steadying the places that still felt brittle after all these years. But now, with a stranger sleeping under their roof, Ennis couldn’t settle.

The kid hadn’t done anything wrong, had barely said a word, truth be told, but that didn’t stop the unease from digging its claws in deep. Ennis lay flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest like he was bracing for impact, eyes fixed on the ceiling even though he couldn’t see a damn thing in the dark. There was a scratchy kind of tension under his skin, the kind that didn’t go away no matter how many times he shifted or flipped his pillow. Just knowing there was someone else in the house, someone he didn’t know, didn’t trust, kept setting off alarm bells in the back of his head.. 

It felt ridiculous, worrying this much over some scrawny teenager who looked like he’d blow away in the wind. But Ennis had spent enough years in this world to know better. He knew what men were capable of, knew how danger could wear an innocent face and a wounded heart. And he’d failed Jack before, more than once. Failed him by letting fear call the shots. Failed him by turning his back when he should’ve stood his ground.

He wasn’t gonna do that again.

Ennis leaned in, pressing a careful kiss to the crown of Jack’s hair, letting his lips linger there for a moment longer than he meant to. Jack stirred faintly beneath the covers, shifting closer in his sleep, and Ennis felt that familiar tug in his chest, the one that always made it hard to leave the bed, no matter how restless his mind got.

“Goin’ for a smoke, darlin’,” 

The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, the boards creaking faintly despite his best effort to move quiet. He paused, listening, making sure Jack hadn’t roused fully. Sometimes the pain kept Jack up for hours, especially when the weather started turning like this, nights when his hip ached too deep for rest and the warmth of Ennis pressed up against him was the only thing that dulled it. Wouldn’t do to wake him now, not when he looked so damn peaceful.

He padded across the bedroom in socked feet, pulling his flannel on over his shoulders as the chill seeped in from the drafty corners of the house. The September air had that bite to it now, the kind that meant winter was waiting just over the horizon. As he slipped out into the hall, the house stretched around him, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall. When he passed the stairwell, he slowed, glancing up at the dark shape of the landing above. The kid was still up there somewhere, tucked into the guest rooM. The thought unsettled Ennis more than he cared to admit. He didn’t trust easy, and having a stranger asleep in his house rubbed against his instincts like sandpaper. He lingered for a beat, listening for any sound, footsteps, a creak of the floorboards, something, but all he heard was silence.

Ennis crossed the worn floorboards of the living room, the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the mantle clock the only sounds keeping him company. His boots waited by the door, lined up neatly on the faded mat beside Tyler’s scuffed pair, still there, still orderly, like the kid was afraid to leave the slightest mess. Ennis gave them a brief glance, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes, before turning his attention back to his own well-worn pair.

He stepped into them without fuss, the familiar scrape of leather swallowing his socked feet, and gave a little shift to settle them snug. The house was quiet in a way that made his skin itch. Too much quiet sometimes left too much space for his thoughts. He reached for the latch and thumbed it open with a practiced motion. The door gave under his hand with a soft click, the metal barely making a sound, though the old hinges sighed in protest as they always did, groaning just enough to make him wince. Still, he eased it open slow, careful not to let it swing too wide, and the chill of late September rushed up to meet him like an old friend.

Ennis eased the door shut behind him, letting the latch catch with a quiet click, and stood there for a moment in the stillness. He drew in a long breath of the cold mountain air, filling his lungs with the sharp scent of pine, hoping it might clear the thoughts spinning in his head. All he’d wanted was a minute of quiet, a little distance from the restless coil of worry that had settled in his gut.

But as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he spotted a shape hunched low on the front steps, half-swallowed by shadow.

Tyler.

The kid was sitting stiff on the edge of the porch, arms drawn in close like he was trying to make himself smaller, knees bent up, elbows resting there. His hat was pulled low, but not low enough to hide the wide-eyed look he cast over his shoulder when he saw Ennis. Those hazel eyes gave him away, flashing up to meet Ennis’ gaze like a cornered animal waiting for the shot to land. That look hit Ennis in a place he didn’t much like to visit, a place buried deep in his own skin. He’d worn that same look too many times growing up, flinching before the hand ever raised.

But what surprised him more than the kid himself was the thin column of smoke curling up from between Tyler’s fingers, the glow of a cigarette burning bright red in the dark. The boy startled so hard it nearly slipped from his grip, his hand jerking like he’d been scalded. He straightened too fast, breath catching on a cough that rattled in his throat, too sharp, too practiced, like he was trying to hack the guilt out of his lungs before Ennis could say a word.

“Sorry, sir—” Tyler stammered, the words spilling out fast, tripping over themselves. “I—I’ll put it out, if y’don’t allow it. Wasn’t meanin’ no disrespect. Just… just needed somethin’, is all.” His voice cracked midway through, thinned out by nerves or cold, or both. His fingers trembled where they held the cigarette, and his body was still pulled in tight, hunched on himself like he was waiting for something bad to follow. Ennis could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his eyes flicked to the door like he was already mapping out an escape route. One foot wrong, and the kid would’ve taken off into the dark like a spooked deer.

And God help him, but that hit Ennis right in the chest.

His daughters had never looked at him like that. Not once. They’d seen his bad moods, sure, but never flinched like this boy just had, like the very sight of Ennis might mean pain was on its way. That kind of fear didn’t come out of nowhere, it was made. Beaten into a kid over time until they jumped at shadows and blamed themselves for drawing breath wrong.

Ennis tried to push the thought aside, but it stuck, stubborn and bright in the back of his mind. He wasn’t any better, wasn’t some shining example of grace. He couldn’t have been older than ten the first time K.E. brought one home, pulled it from some stolen pack after their folks died, splitting it between them out back behind the shed. They’d coughed their lungs out and lit another the next night anyway.

Unbidden, his thoughts drifted to Jenny again. Tyler couldn’t be much older than her. Maybe a year, maybe less. Same age, more or less, but life sure as hell hadn’t been as kind to him. That knowledge settled heavy in Ennis’ chest as he watched the boy squirm, still waiting on judgment like it was only a matter of time. Ennis just sighed, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels, the paper bent and worn from weeks of riding around in his coat. He flicked open the lid with one thumb, tugged a cigarette free with his teeth, and fished out the polished Zippo Jack had gotten him last Christmas, engraved with a mountain and worn smooth in the places his thumb always landed.

The flame snapped to life with a metallic click, warm against the cold night air. He lit the cigarette, then snapped the lighter shut with a flick of his wrist and tucked it back into his pocket, “How long you been at it??” he asked at last, not looking at Tyler directly, choosing instead to blow a stream of smoke into the dark like he was talking to the air itself.

Tyler hesitated, the cigarette trembling faintly between his fingers. For a second it looked like he might lie, smooth it over with some polite answer to keep Ennis off his back. He shifted where he sat, boots planted awkwardly on the step below, and finally brought the cigarette back to his mouth, drawing in a drag that trembled just slightly on the inhale.

“Since I was thirteen, sir,” Tyler mumbled, the words barely carrying across the space between them. His voice cracked on the number like it still hurt to admit it. The smoke drifted unevenly from his lips, chased by a faint, nervous cough he tried to swallow down.

Ennis grunted softly, a sound more thoughtful than disapproving, then took a slow drag, exhaling smoke that drifted off into the cold, “Thirteen,” Ennis repeated, more to himself than to Tyler. “Hell of an age to start.” Ennis let out a low whistle, shaking his head just a little, “And how old are you now, huh?”

Tyler rubbed his thumb against the worn edge of his jeans, eyes fixed somewhere past the railing, far off where the pasture met the tree line, “Eighteen, Mister Del Mar, sir.” He hesitated, then added, “Nineteen come December.”

Ennis took another pull from his cigarette, let the ember burn long before exhaling a slow plume that curled into the cold. “You ain’t gotta keep callin’ me that,” he muttered, “Mister Del Mar. Makes me feel like I’m ninety.”

Tyler shifted again, his boots scraping softly against the wood. His shoulders hunched like maybe that small correction itself was another test, one he wasn’t sure he’d passed. “Yes, s—Ennis.” The word sat awkward in his mouth, like a borrowed coat that didn’t quite fit.

Ennis gave a quiet grunt, not unkind, and stared out across the yard where the shadows of the barn and pasture stretched  under the moonlight. Somewhere out there, cattle shifted in their, the faint rustle of movement carried on the wind. He thought of thirteen-year-old Tyler lighting his first cigarette, where was it? Behind a gas station? Out past the fence line where no one could see? Maybe hiding from a father with a short fuse and a quicker hand.

That thought sat sour in Ennis’ gut, settling heavy like too much whiskey on an empty stomach.


Ennis cleared his throat after a while, and broke the silence before it grew roots, “You got any work experience?” 

Tyler hesitated, the question turning over in his mind like he was checking for a trap, then shrugged, like maybe that answer was easier to give. “Did some ranch work down in Amarillo. Couple months here and there before that. Worked a feed lot once. Didn’t stay long. Boss was a piece’a shit.”

Ennis let out a soft grunt, the kind that said yeah, been there, though he didn’t put words to it.. He could’ve said ain’t they all, but figured Tyler knew that already. Instead, he took another drag off his cigarette, watching the smoke trail up into the stars.

“We’ll take a look at your truck come morning,” he said, flicking the last of the ash off his cigarette, “Ain’t no mechanic, no matter how much Jack runs his mouth sayin’ I am. But I’ll give it a go.”

“Yes, sir.” The answer shot out too fast,  too rehearsed, like it’d been beaten into him somewhere along the way. He stiffened halfway through, realizing it, and stumbled over his own tongue. “I mean, Ennis. Sorry.”

Ennis almost smiled. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to lift, but didn’t quite get the signal, “You ain’t gotta apologize every five seconds neither,” he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

Tyler ducked his head, mumbling something too soft to catch, and snuffed out the rest of his cigarette against the heel of his boot. He sat there fidgeting with the filter between his fingers, then, after a long beat, asked in a voice so hesitant it barely made it across the porch, “Uh… do I gotta be up at five?”

Ennis finally turned his head, brow furrowed in something between confusion and faint disbelief. “You plannin’ on sleepin’ in?”

Tyler’s whole posture jolted upright, eyes going wide, panic flashing bright in his face like he’d just stepped wrong on thin ice, “No! No, sir, I mean, no, just meant… just meant I didn’t wanna set it wrong, that’s all. I—I get up early. I do. I wasn’t tryin’ to—” 

“Easy,” Ennis interrupted, holding up a hand before the kid could trip over himself any harder. He sighed and looked away again, voice calmer this time. “We ain’t runnin’ a boot camp, kid. S’just a ranch.”

“Right,” Tyler said quickly, the word barely out before he tacked on, “Sorry.”

Ennis exhaled hard through his nose and ran a hand down his face, rough palm scraping against stubble. “Jesus Christ.”

The quiet slipped back in, heavier now, like a wet blanket draped across both their shoulders. It hung there a while, neither one quite sure what to do with it.

Then Tyler shifted again, tugging at a thread on his sleeve. “So, uh,” he started, careful and hesitant, “you and Mister Twist been workin’ this place long?”

Ennis side-eyed him, squinting like he wasn’t sure if the kid was messing with him. “You makin’ conversation now?”

Tyler flushed, ducking his head lower, shoulders curling up like he wanted to disappear into his jacket. “I just… figured it was better’n sittin’ here quiet the whole time.”

Ennis blinked once, then gave a small, tired shrug, like he didn’t have the energy to argue. “Fair enough. Just... don’t talk much, is all. Ain’t good at it.”

Tyler gave him a quick, sideways glance, then shrugged too, the barest tug of something like a smile flickering across his face. “Me neither.”

Ennis huffed a short laugh, dry and brief, like a gust of wind through brittle grass. “Well, reckon we make a hell of a pair, then.”

Tyler ducked his head again, but it wasn’t the same beaten-down slump as before. This time, it was quieter, almost shy. Like he didn’t quite know what to do with the faint flicker of warmth in Ennis’ laugh. Like he wasn’t used to hearing someone laugh with him instead of at him. A soft, breathy snort slipped out of him before he could stop it, barely louder than the wind cutting down off the ridgeline. He kept his eyes low, thumbs working the crumpled cigarette filter until it gave way in his palm, soft and flattened.

The laugh faded soon enough, whisked away by the cold breeze spilling down from the mountains, but for a brief second, it lingered between them. Like the fading heat of a campfire long after the flames had gone out. Ennis gave a long, weary sigh, shoulders rolling as he stood, joints stiff from the cold and the long day behind him. The porch creaked under his boots, the boards groaning like they didn’t much appreciate the weight of him shifting.

Tyler didn’t move to follow. He stayed hunched on the steps, fingers fidgeting with what was left of the cigarette, his posture still guarded but not wound so tight now. The brim of his hat hid most of his face, but his shoulders had eased some, looser in a way Ennis didn’t miss.

Ennis lingered a second longer, looking down at him in the dim porch light. There were things he could’ve said, bits of wisdom that weren’t really wisdom at all, maybe some awkward offer of reassurance, but none of them made it past his teeth. He just jerked his chin toward the door

“Don’t stay out all night,” Ennis said, nodding toward the stretch of cold wrapping itself tighter around the porch. “Ain’t gonna do you no favors, freezin’ your ass off first night on the job.”

Tyler blinked up at him from under the shadow of his hat, startled by the gentleness more than the words. But he nodded quick enough. “Yes, sir. I mean—” He stumbled, flushing faintly. “Ennis.” The name sat awkward on his tongue, but he forced it out anyway.

Ennis exhaled through his nose, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his face. Not a laugh, but something close. “Goodnight, kid.”

He stepped inside, the warm light catching the curve of his shoulders as the screen door creaked shut behind him with a soft click. It closed out the cold, left Tyler sitting alone in the dark with nothing but the stars, the scrape of wind through the pine trees, and a silence that, for the first time in a while, didn’t feel so unfriendly.

Chapter Text

It was strange not to wake up to the sound of slamming doors or cold wind rattling his truck's frame. Stranger still was the sensation of warmth on his face, not from the rising sun beating through cracked glass, but filtered through curtains drawn over a window. For a moment, Tyler lay completely still, blinking up at the ceiling. There was drywall above him. No dirty fabric sagging overhead. No frost-glazed windows. Just four clean walls and a roof that didn't leak.

He sat up slowly, sleep clinging to the edges of his body like a second skin, and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. A small part of him braced for it to vanish, some dream he'd conjured in the middle of another long night behind the wheel. But when his hands fell away, the guest room remained. The blanket still bunched around his waist. The unfamiliar dresser still standing in the corner. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of wind beyond the window and—

His nose twitched.

Tyler's head tilted as he sniffed the air again. Something savory drifted up the stairs, and it took him longer than it should have to recognize the scent for what it was, eggs maybe, or bacon. Real food. Breakfast.

He hadn't smelled anything like that in weeks. Hell, months, maybe. Not unless it came out of a fast-food wrapper or off a gas station shelf. And certainly not first thing in the morning. He glanced at the bedside table, heart stuttering when he sawI no alarm flashing angry red numbers at him. No sign that he'd overslept. That was good. That meant no one was mad. No one was waiting to tear into him the second he stepped out the door. Tyler's eyes flicked to the door. Still locked. The knob untouched, the bolt still slid firm into place. Nothing had moved while he was sleeping. No one had tried to come in. The relief spread through his chest like cool water after a long drought, easing the tightness in his ribs just enough to move.

He sat up fully, letting the blanket fall away, and lowered his feet to the floor. The feeling that met him was startling. Soft. Carpet. Not cold plywood or the hard ridges of his truck's floorboard, but carpet. And socks. Socks. He'd taken his boots off before bed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that without being forced to. The sensation was so foreign it made him pause, flexing his toes against the fibers like he was testing if they were real.

Shaking it off, he pushed to his feet and crossed the room to the desk, where his duffle bag still sat, unzipped, right where he'd left it. The window above the desk looked out over a stretch of pine, sun glinting off the dew still clinging to the needles. Tyler didn't let himself stare too long. Instead, he flipped the bag open and started to rummage through the jumbled mess inside, fingers brushing denim, old receipts, a crumpled candy wrapper or two. Eventually, he pulled out a worn black t-shirt, the kind of black that had faded into charcoal over time. It was his Iron Maiden shirt, the Piece of Mind one with the straightjacketed Eddie snarling on the front. He held it up for a second, inspecting the frayed collar and the cigarette hole near the hem, then brought it to his nose and sniffed.

A faint trace of detergent. Maybe something he'd shoved into a laundromat dryer weeks ago. It didn't smell like mildew, and it didn't smell like sweat. That was good enough for him.

Tyler peeled off the shirt he'd slept in with quick movements, the fabric catching slightly at the shoulders before he tugged it free. He balled it up without much thought and shoved it down into the duffle bag, pressing it into the corner. The room was still cool from the night air drifting in through the cracked window, and goosebumps pricked up along his arms as he bent over the duffle again, pawing through the tangle of clothes by feel, fingertips brushing denim seams, the thin hems of worn T-shirts, the rougher fabric of a work shirt before landing on something softer. He pulled it free to check, shaking it once to let it fall open in the dim light.

It was the red flannel. Faded in spots from too much sun and washing machine wear, but still held together by stubborn stitching and good fabric. Wrangler brand, he noted absently, the little tag poking out from the inside collar. He slid it on over the Iron Maiden shirt, rolling his shoulders to settle it across his frame before working the snaps closed one by one. Snaps, not buttons. He liked that about it. Easier on mornings like this, when his hands still felt clumsy from sleep. The motions were automatic, something his hands knew how to do without help from his brain, and it gave him a few seconds to breathe, to steady the flutter in his chest that hadn't quite left him yet. Once the flannel was done up, he smoothed his palms over it, pressing out the worst of the wrinkles before glancing down at his jeans.

Still clean. No new stains, no obvious wear that hadn't already been there. He ran a hand down one thigh, checked the knees, then shrugged and tugged the hem of his shirt down tight, making sure it was tucked in neat beneath his belt. Everything felt in place. Presentable. Respectable. Maybe that'd be enough to start the morning without anyone looking too long at him.


Then the thought hit.

His boots were downstairs.

It landed soft at first, barely a whisper in the back of his mind, but it didn't stay that way for long. It curdled fast, rooting in the pit of his stomach. Tyler's hand stilled on the curve of his belt buckle, his whole body going still, like a deer catching wind of something wrong just beyond the treeline.

Downstairs.

Not here. Not where he could see them. Not where he could reach them.

And what if someone had moved them? What if they'd been taken, or tossed out, or just shifted a few feet from where he left them? What if they got pissed, thought he was being disrespectful, tracking filth into a place he hadn't earned the right to stand in? What if someone had touched them?

That thought hit the hardest.


The idea of someone's hands on his boots, his things, without asking, without warning, made his skin crawl. A familiar panic buzzed in the base of his skull. Didn't matter that they were just boots, that they were falling apart anyway. They were his. And he'd made the mistake of not keeping them close.

The flannel clung too tight all of a sudden, like the sleeves were cinching around his shoulders. He tugged at it, trying to make more room to breathe, but the panic didn't ease. His heartbeat was getting louder than the quiet. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, unsure what to grab onto. He tried to push the thought away, to bury it under something reasonable, but his mind was already racing, dragging up every memory it could find to feed the fear.

You know better. Should've kept 'em with you. Idiot. Dumb. Don't go forgettin' how this works just 'cause someone smiled at you for a minute. You let your guard down and this is what you get.

He clenched his jaw, tried to drag himself back into the room, back into now. It was probably fine. It had to be fine. They said he could stay. He hadn't heard any footsteps last night. No shouting. No knock at the door. No one had come stomping up the stairs to drag him out by the collar. They'd said he could stay. Jack had smiled at him. Ennis had… well, not smiled, but he hadn't glared either. No one had told him he'd done anything wrong.

Tyler tried to shove the panic down, tamp it down like coals in a dying fire. Tried to keep it from catching, from burning hot enough to take over. He focused on the motions, getting dressed, checking the seams of his shirt, smoothing down the fabric, as if repetition might ground him, might give him something to hold onto. Just follow the steps. That's what his grandpa always said. When everythin' feels like it's about to break, go back to what you know.

He moved on instinct, still riding the edge of that uneasiness coiled in his chest, but determined to finish getting ready like it was just any other morning. The black felt of his Resistol was scuffed in places, worn smooth in others, molded by time and the shape of two generations of Montgomery men. He lifted it carefully and settled it on his head with practiced ease, adjusting the brim until it cast just the right shadow across his eyes.

His hair had started curling at the ends again, light brown and soft where it brushed against the back of his neck. The shag was creeping past the point of manageable, the kind of length that would've earned him a snide comment back home, Lookin' like some kinda girl with that mop. But Tyler liked the weight of it, the way it softened his face a little, made him look more like Raymond and less like Wade. Still, he knew he'd need to cut it soon. Before it started drawing the wrong kind of attention. But that took money, and more than that, it took someone he trusted to sit behind him with scissors. Lately, neither of those things had been easy to come by.

He turned back toward the bed, dropping to one knee beside it. The sheets were still warm from where he'd been sitting just minutes before, but he didn't let himself linger on that. Instead, his hand reached beneath the pillow, fingers closing around the leather sheath he knew would be there. The bowie knife, Raymond's, hadn’t been more than an arm’s length from him since the day his grandfather pressed it into his hands. Carefully, he slid the sheath through his belt, adjusting it until the handle rested just where he liked it, close enough to grab without fumbling, far enough forward that it wouldn’t jab him when he sat. The blade grounded him in a way not much else could. Feeling it there, pressed snug against his side, let a little bit of the pressure in his chest ease, just enough to stand up straight again.

Tyler didn't know where the floorboards creaked in this house. That alone set his nerves on edge. Back in his childhood home, he'd learned every weak board by heart, the ones that groaned underfoot, the ones that shifted just enough to give him away if he wasn't careful. Knowing where to step had been a matter of survival. Here, he was walking blind. He took a careful step toward the door, weight balanced at the balls of his feet like a deer trying not to snap a twig. But the moment his foot came down, the wood beneath him gave a low groan. Not loud, but loud enough in the still of the early morning.

His head whipped toward the door, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. He half-expected footsteps, fast, angry ones. He could already hear the imagined words What the hell do you think you're doing? You think you can just stomp around like you own the place? Expected the door to swing open and catch him mid-step, caught red-handed for... what, walking? Existing too loud? His stomach curled in on itself.

Too loud, you're too loud, you're always too goddamn loud.

He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, willing the thoughts to quiet down, but they didn't. They never did.

You're making too much noise. Jack and Ennis are already going to regret letting you stay. They're gonna think you don't know how to act in a house. They're gonna see what you are, and they're gonna kick you out like everyone else. Hell, they probably already want to. This just gives them the reason. Ruining it already, Tyler. Ruining it before it even starts. You never learn, do you?

His hands curled into fists at his sides, fingernails biting into the heel of his palm. His chest ached with the tight burn of shame, hot and nauseating. No one had said a word. No footsteps had come stomping up the stairs. But it didn't matter. His body reacted like the punishment was already on its way.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to move.

One step. Lighter this time. Careful. He reached out with trembling fingers and grasped the doorknob, twisting it so slowly it barely made a sound. But the door creaked open with a low groan, the sound stretching out into the hallway like it wanted to announce his presence to the whole damn house.

Tyler winced.

Everything's gonna give you away today, ain't it?

He stared into the hallway, shoulders pulled tight like a man waiting for a blow. Nothing came. No voices. No doors slamming open. Just the muted hush of morning and the smell of something frying downstairs. 

Tyler moved with the hesitance of a stray dog edging toward an outstretched hand, the kind that didn't know whether it was about to be pet or kicked. His shoulders were hunched just slightly, as if bracing for a blow he wasn't sure would come. He kept his eyes low, scanning each board for signs of weakness, but the stairs were unfamiliar, too polished, too quiet, too nice. Nothing like the ones back home that he'd learned to avoid with the precision of a landmine map.

His hand skimmed the wall as he descended, fingertips barely grazing the paint, counting softly in his head to keep himself anchored.

One. Two. Three…

The air smelled like bacon grease and fresh coffee, warm and comforting, but Tyler couldn't quite let himself enjoy it. Not yet. His nerves were already lit up like an electric fence, buzzing just beneath the surface of his skin. He couldn't afford to get too comfortable. He didn't know the rules here. Didn't know if someone was waiting at the bottom with a look that said What the hell are you doing in my house?

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Every step felt too loud, too heavy, even though he was doing his best to move quietly. He wasn't stomping. He knew he wasn't. But it didn't matter. The noise played tricks on him, bouncing around in his skull louder than it really was. He felt like a bull in a damn china shop. Like every move he made was just another crack in whatever fragile grace he'd been given.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen…

He breathed through his nose, trying to ease the knot tightening beneath his ribs. Tried to imagine Raymond's voice, the way he used to count fenceposts out loud during long drives just to soothe Tyler's nerves when he was a boy. He held onto that memory like a lifeline. 

Fourteen.

There was no yelling. No doors flung open. No one stomping toward him with questions on their tongue. Just the soft sounds of a house waking up. A normal morning, he guessed. For other people.

His heel hit the final step.

Fifteen.

Right. That was right. He'd counted them last night on the way up, whispering numbers under his breath. Fifteen stairs. No more, no less. He hadn't known then if he'd still be here in the morning, but he'd still memorized the count. Just in case. Just in case he needed to leave fast, or find his way back in the dark.

When Tyler stepped into the kitchen, the first thing that hit him was the sound. Buck Owens crackled softly from a radio perched in the windowsill, the signal just fuzzy enough to remind him of long drives down backroads, static blending with steel guitar. The melody filled the room, winding around the scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee. Jack's laugh followed next. Tyler caught the tail end of it just as he entered, a genuine chuckle that melted some of the tension still riding high between his shoulders. The rhythm of quiet domestic motion continued, Ennis' boots scuffing lightly against the floor as he moved between the stove and counter, the scrape of a spatula on cast iron, the unmistakable hiss of eggs hitting hot grease.

Tyler hovered for a second just inside the threshold, unsure if he was supposed to speak or wait to be noticed. He didn't want to interrupt. Didn't want to get in the way. But before the anxiety could start crawling too deep under his skin, Jack glanced over his shoulder. He spotted Tyler and grinned wide, one arm draped across the back of his chair like he didn't have a single concern in the world.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Jack said, syrupy with amusement. "Mornin', sleepin' beauty. Bed treat you alright?"

Tyler flinched, just barely, not from the words, but the attention. His throat tightened. For a second, he couldn't get anything out. His fingers curled tighter into the hem of his shirt, and he ducked his head, eyes fixed somewhere near Jack's boots instead of his face.

"Y-yes, sir," he mumbled. "It—it was real nice. More'n I deserve. Thank you, Mister Twist, sir. Real nice. I, um…" He trailed off, his voice strangled by nerves, heart thudding too loud in his chest.

"I reckon I'll head back out to my truck tonight," he added quickly, words tumbling over each other. "Ain't tryin' to get in y'all's way, I swear. Didn't mean to take up your space or nothin'. Just didn't want to cause a fuss, is all." His hands shook where they gripped the sides of his flannel. He wasn't even sure why he was talking so fast, just that it felt like he had to say it first, before they said it for him.

Before they told him to go. Before the warmth disappeared.

Jack blinked at him, that smile faltering just a bit, just long enough for something unreadable to pass across his face. Not annoyance. Not confusion, exactly. Just something sad, tucked behind the eyes. He set his coffee down with a soft clink, the sound somehow too loud in the hush of the kitchen. Then he shifted in his chair, turning fully toward the doorway with his forearm resting across the table, all pretense of teasing set aside. Whatever he saw in Tyler had pulled his full attention.

"You ain't in nobody's way, Tyler," he said, "Ain't takin' up too much space. Ain't causin' a fuss. You slept in a bed, is all. 'S what it's for." He paused, just long enough to let the words settle before adding, "And it's too damn cold to be sleepin' outside in that truck anyhow, ain't that right, Ennis?"

Over at the stove, Ennis blinked like he'd been pulled from somewhere far away. He looked up, startled, clearly hadn't been tracking the conversation, just focused on flipping bacon and managing the heat on the eggs. He turned slightly, glancing between Jack and Tyler, brows knit in that way that meant he wasn't sure what he was being asked but knew he'd better say something.

"…Huh? Uh. Yeah," Ennis grunted, then gave the eggs a quick stir and turned back to the skillet like that was all the input required of him. He didn't sound irritated, just distracted, more comfortable with bacon grease and silence than whatever tenderness Jack was trying to ease across the table.

Jack didn't press it. Just leaned back again, satisfied enough with the answer, and nodded toward the table like that settled things, "So go on," he said, tilting his head toward the empty chair across from him. "Ain't no sense in hoverin' by the door like you're fixin' to bolt. Sit. Eat. You're allowed to be here, Tyler."

You're allowed to be here, Tyler.

The words echoed in his head long after Jack had spoken them, as if his mind couldn't quite process the shape of them. Not because he hadn't heard them clearly, but because he didn't know what to do with them. They didn't slot into any familiar place. They didn't fit with the way the world had taught him to understand himself.

Allowed. What a strange thing.

Tyler lowered himself slowly into the chair Jack had motioned to, every movement stiff and uncertain, like the invitation might be revoked if he moved too fast. His hands stayed in his lap, fingers twisted together, trying to keep from fidgeting. Trying to act normal, whatever that meant.

He stared down at the table, heart still racing from earlier, and tried to remember the last time someone had told him he was welcome somewhere. Not tolerated. Not put up with. Welcome.

His mind went back further than he expected, all the way to a chipped kitchen table with a faded floral tablecloth, where his grandma set out biscuits from scratch and his grandpa teased Annie into a fit of laughter with a bad impression of her teacher. Tyler had been maybe fourtenen, fifteen at most, legs too long for the chair he used to fit in fine. Annie beside him, grinning with a mouth full of jam, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard. Raymond at the head of the table, raising his coffee cup like a toast.

That had been the last time.

An ache bloomed behind his ribs, spreading like frostbite across the inside of his chest. The warmth Jack's voice had stirred, that brief flicker of comfort Tyler barely let himself feel, extinguished just as fast as it had come. Snuffed out by the kind of thought that never asked permission before barging in.

Would he ever see Annie again?

His stomach turned, and for a moment, the kitchen blurred around the edges. The light coming in through the window, the gentle crackle of the radio, the smell of breakfast, it all went distant, muffled, like he was slipping out of his own body.

Was she safe?

That was always the first thing. Was she still trying to figure out which version of Wade would be walking through the door at the end of the day? Was she watching what she said, walking on eggshells the way he used to? Or had it gotten worse since he left? Had his absence made things harder? Did she miss him? Or had she stopped asking? Had someone told her to stop? Told her to grow up, quit crying over someone who "made his bed," who "chose that life"? Had they twisted it in her head the way they always twisted things, until she started to believe it?

Did she think he left her?

That thought hit hardest of all. It stole the air from his lungs. Left him staring down at the table with his jaw clenched and his nails digging into the fabric of his jeans. Did she think he just disappeared because he wanted to? Because she wasn't enough reason to stay?

He sucked in a shaky breath, lungs burning, and tried to force the sting behind his eyes to back down. It clawed at him anyway, but he clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, the way he'd been taught. Crying wouldn't help. Crying never helped. It was easier to shut it off when he could hear Wade's voice in the back of his skull, cutting through the noise like it always did. Familiar as the grooves in a worn-out record, repeating the same lines over and over until they stuck.

There's my pansy son again. Can't go five damn minutes without cryin'. Jesus Christ, grow up already. You want folks to see what kind of man you turned out to be?

Shame crawled up his neck like a rash. He hated that it still worked, that just the memory of Wade's voice was enough to shut him down, to make him feel like he was ten years old again, trying to hide the fact that his lip was trembling while his father glared at him like he was something filthy tracked in from outside.

He swallowed hard. Blinked again. Didn't dare look up.

Ennis scraped the last few strips of bacon from the cast iron with practiced efficiency, the grease popping softly as he shifted them onto a chipped ceramic plate. The smell lingered in the warm morning air, salt, smoke, and the richness of rendered fat, but Ennis hardly registered it anymore. His mind had already drifted ahead, to the next chore, the next mess, the next thing that needed doing.

He turned, and the second his eyes landed on the basin, his expression soured.

There it was. Again.

Jack's half-drunk coffee mug. Still full enough to slosh. Still warm enough to steam faintly in the chill morning air, which meant he hadn't left it there long ago, just long enough for it to be Ennis' problem now. No attempt to dump it, no rinse, not even a casual tilt toward the drain. Just abandoned, like always, like Jack believed mugs were self-cleaning if you gave them enough time. Ennis let out a low exhale through his nose and set the skillet down in the empty side of the sink with a dull clang. He reached for the mug, and lifted it with two fingers like it might bite him. The cold coffee inside had gone thick and sour, the color of muddy creek water, and the smell rising from it made his stomach tighten.

"Jesus," he muttered, mostly to himself. Ennis turned on the faucet and gave the cup a quick rinse, then turned the faucet off with a flick of his wrist. He glanced over his shoulder just long enough to catch Jack watching him from the table, already smirking like he knew what was coming.

"Y'know," Ennis said, "it ain't that damn hard to rinse out your mug, Jack."

It wasn't anger. Not really. Just the low-grade irritation that came from years of repeating yourself and knowing you'd probably have to say it again tomorrow. The comfort of cohabitation, even when it grated. Jack had a thousand little habits that poked at Ennis' patience, and Ennis had a thousand more that Jack didn't let slide, either. 

Jack didn't flinch. Didn't argue. Just took a long, unhurried sip from the second mug he was working on, the fresh one, and let the first offense pass like it always did. His lips curled around the rim in a lazy grin, eyes glinting over the top of it, already gearing up to return fire.

"And it ain't that hard to clean your damn toothpaste outta the sink either, is it, Ennis?" he fired back, one brow raised like he'd just laid down a winning hand.

Toothpaste in the sink. Christ.

It wasn't that Jack was wrong, he wasn't. Ennis had left a streak of minty blue crusted around the drain that morning, same as he always did. He brushed quick, didn't look down, didn't care. Jack'd been griping about it for years, always with that damn twinkle in his eye like he thought he was real clever for noticing.

Ennis grunted, jaw working for a second before he muttered, "Least I brush my damn teeth."

The words weren't loud, but they didn't need to be. Just enough for Jack to hear them clear as day.

And Jack did. He let out a bark of laughter, head tipping back as he slapped the side of his thigh, "That right?" he said, still grinning as he raised his mug like he was making a toast. "Hell, I must've missed it with all the grumblin' you do first thing in the mornin'. Can't hear the toothbrush over all that bitchin'."

Ennis rolled his eyes, already regretting that he’d given Jack the satisfaction of a reaction at all. That was the trouble with Jack, you let him see you twitch once, and he’d spend the rest of the day poking at the bruise just to see if you’d do it again. So Ennis turned back to the stove, letting the hiss of the skillet and the smell of bacon anchor him. He worked with the same care he always gave to simple tasks, because simple tasks didn’t talk back. They didn’t pry. They didn’t look at you with eyes that knew too much.. bacon flipped just so, eggs turned out clean, toast stacked in even triangles. Simple work. That was the point. Simple didn’t demand answers. Simple didn’t look at you like it could read your mind.

Jack's plate came first. It always did. Not because he asked. Not because he expected it. Just because that's how it had always been, without question, without explanation. Habit, like the rest of it. Ennis slid the plate across the table with a bit more force than necessary, the ceramic landing with a muted thunk against the wood. He didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. If Jack wanted thanks or ceremony, he’d have to get it somewhere else.

But Jack being Jack, he couldn’t just take it and leave it at that.

Jack looked up from his coffee, eyes catching in the low light, that spark in them softer than anything he'd let past his mouth. A slow, lopsided grin started at the corner of his mouth and stretched into something that damn near took over his whole face.

"'Preciate it, cowboy," Jack drawled, tipping his chin in that familiar way that made the words land heavier than they sounded. Like it wasn’t just thanks for the plate in front of him, but for a hundred mornings before and maybe a few yet to come.

Ennis didn’t answer, just gave the smallest nod and turned back to the stove, because he’d never been any good at finding words for that kind of thing. And Jack, as always, didn’t need him to. He kept his eyes low, fixed on the stove like it might give him something to focus on besides the way Jack's smile still lingered in the back of his mind. That damn smile always reached deeper than it should, settling in the space between his ribs like a splinter. It got to him in ways he didn't have the language for, and this early in the morning, before he'd even had his coffee, he didn't have the patience to try and name it. Better to keep his head down and his hands moving. Let Jack talk. Let the moment pass.

He made the second plate for the kid. Eggs, bacon, toast, same as Jack's, but with just a little extra. A few more scoops, an extra slice of bacon, one more piece of toast. Maybe it was too much, maybe the boy wouldn't finish it all, but Ennis didn't care. The kid looked like he needed it. Looked like someone who hadn't sat down to a real breakfast in longer than he'd admit. And Ennis didn't make a habit of fussing over strangers, but there was something about the way Tyler sat, shoulders hunched, eyes too wide, flannel hanging loose on a frame that should've had more weight, that made it hard to do anything but give.

He turned with the plate in hand and took a slow step toward the table, pausing just long enough to glance down at Tyler. His expression didn't give much away, just the usual unreadable calm, a man who didn't waste words unless they were worth saying.

"You eat eggs?" he asked. Not a real question. Just a confirmation. A courtesy.

Tyler nodded too fast, almost anxiously, as if afraid a pause might be mistaken for disrespect, "Yes, sir. Mister Del Mar, sir." The words came out tangled, tripping over themselves in their hurry to please. He looked down at the table the second they left his mouth, like he regretted saying anything at all, "I—I mean, if that's alright. I don't wanna take anythin' that—"

Ennis didn't let him finish. Without a word, he stepped forward and set the plate down in front of him with the same care he'd used for Jack. No hesitation, no comment, just a full plate placed firmly on the table. He turned back to the drawers, opened one, and pulled out a fork. He walked it back to Tyler's spot and set it beside the dish with a soft clink of metal on wood. Then he turned away, back to the counter for his own plate, without waiting for thanks.

Tyler, for once, didn't look scared, just confused. His brow furrowed slightly, eyes flicking between Jack and Ennis as they traded jabs over breakfast. The words sounded harsh on the surface, like the start of a fight, but the tone was all wrong. Jack was grinning around his coffee like he was enjoying himself, and Ennis, though his back was still turned, hadn't snapped or slammed anything. No tension in his shoulders. No clipped tone. They were smiling. That threw him more than anything. He couldn't picture his parents smiling at each other, not in any memory that didn't curdle at the edges. Even the good days had felt like walking a tightrope over broken glass.

Shit.

He flushed, cheeks going hot before he could stop it. Why the hell was he comparing Jack and Ennis to his parents? He didn't know these men, barely knew their names, and already his brain was reaching, desperate to sort them into some kind of safe category. He dropped his gaze to the plate in front of him, picking at the edge of his eggs with the side of his fork, embarrassed by his own thoughts. He didn't need to go shoving them into the box of might-be father figures, didn't need to start sorting through his grief and desperation for somewhere to put it. He wasn't a kid anymore. He didn't need another man to disappoint him.

But even as he tried to shake the thought, tried to push down the flush of embarrassment rising in his throat at the way he kept comparing these two men to people he'd once known, another memory stirred, one that didn't carry the same sting.

His grandparents.

Raymond and Loretta Montgomery hadn't been perfect, but they hadn't scared him. Not like his parents. They didn't scream or throw things, didn't go silent for days like the world had ended. They bickered. Argued about practical things, how much salt belonged in the stew, which gas station had the cheaper diesel, whether Raymond had actually checked the fence line or just said he did. Loretta used to call him a mule-headed old fool, always with her hands on her hips, And Raymond, for his part, would just chuckle low and kiss the top of her head as he passed, muttering under his breath, Better'n bein' a delicate damn flower, woman.

Tyler's brow furrowed slightly as he watched Ennis ease into the chair beside Jack, like he'd done it a thousand times before without needing to think about it. There was nothing dramatic about it, no lingering glance, no big gesture. Jack didn’t say anything, didn’t so much as glance up, but his body angled toward Ennis all the same, subtle enough you might miss it if you weren’t paying attention. Tyler was paying attention. More than he wanted to. He didn't want to think about it. God knew he tried not to. But his brain had a way of locking on to things, turning them over again and again, even when he begged it to stop. It dragged him along like it always did, down a track he didn't want to follow, showing him something he wasn't supposed to see.

They act like an old married couple.

The thought landed, and Tyler recoiled from it instantly, as if he could shove it back into whatever dark corner it had crawled out of. It felt like trespassing, like overhearing something private, even though no one had spoken a word. His ears went hot, and he dropped his gaze to his plate, heart ticking faster in his chest. It was all in the small things. The easy rhythm between them. The way Jack’s teasing seemed meant only for Ennis' ears, the quiet back-and-forth that needed no translation. The smile Jack allowed himself only once Ennis had looked away, like it was too private to share with anyone else. The way Ennis, without thought or ceremony, set Jack’s plate in front of him first every time. It was nothing loud or showy, nothing the rest of the world would point to. But it was care, plain as day.

And that was the part that really unsettled him. It wasn't just the observation that made him squirm. It was the desperate part of his mind that wanted it to be true. That hoped, foolishly, that maybe they were something more than friends. That maybe men like him could be something more.

But that didn't make sense. That didn't line up with the world he knew.

Because they were men. And Tyler knew, better than he ever should have had to, that men like Jack and Ennis didn't turn out queer. They didn't feel the way he did. They didn't have to hide the way he did. They didn't look at other boys and feel their chest cave in with longing and shame all twisted up together. They weren't wrong, broken, fucked-up. They weren't like him.

They weren't pansies.

That was the word Wade had always spit at him. Pansy. Fairy. Faggot. Words Tyler had learned to flinch at before he even knew what they meant. Words that had taught him the boundaries of the space he was allowed to take up. Words that had carved out a cage around him. 

Men like him didn't get to be okay. They didn't get to be loved. They got hit. They got kicked out. They got told to keep their hands to themselves, to quit looking at boys that way. Told they were perverse. They got told God didn't make mistakes, but you, boy, you might be the first. They got told to straighten up or get out. And when they couldn't, when Tyler couldn't, he learned just how fast love could turn to hate.

So if Jack and Ennis were… something, and no one was beating them for it, no one was casting them out, if they were still here, still sharing coffee and bickering over nothing, then what did that mean? What did it mean about the years he spent chasing scraps of safety, convincing himself that being alone was better than being seen? What did it say about all the bruises Tyler had taken like penance? About all the nights he'd spent begging whatever God was listening to fix him, to make him normal, to take it away?

What did it say about the silence? About the loneliness? About every time he'd been told he was wrong for something he never asked for in the first place?

Because if Jack and Ennis were okay, if they were happy, then maybe it hadn't been Tyler's fault after all.

Maybe he'd been punished for nothing.

He didn't want to ask those questions. Didn't want to peel back that scab. He'd worked too damn hard to keep it covered, pressed down beneath layer after layer of silence, buried so deep even the memory of it had gone blurry around the edges. But the second he started thinking, really thinking, his brain started scratching. Tearing. Like an animal trapped behind his ribs, trying to claw its way free.

He deserved what happened to him. That's what he believed, deep down. That's what had always made the most sense. He'd invited it. Let it happen. Didn't fight back the way he should've. Didn't scream. Didn't bite or kick. Maybe he hadn't even wanted to stop it. Maybe he froze. Maybe he let it happen. And if he let it happen, then wasn't it on him?

Wasn't that what Wade always said? Those things only happened to boys who asked for it.

Maybe you liked the way it felt, just a little. Admit it.
Maybe you wanted to be wanted so bad you'd take it from anybody. Even him.
Maybe you wanted to be touched like that, you filthy little faggot.

His breath hitched. The room tilted. His heart thudded against his ribs like it was trying to break free of his chest, and he didn't know if it was guilt or shame or panic making him feel like he couldn't breathe. All he knew was that his body felt wrong. Heavy. Clumsy. 

Disgusting little queer. You make people sick just looking at you.
You're not a victim. You're sick. Dirty. Tainted.
Contaminated.

That word stuck the worst. Contaminated. Like something had gotten inside him and rotted everything from the inside out. A stain he couldn't scrub off, not with bleach or scalding water or prayers whispered to a God he wasn't sure was still listening. It was in the way he walked. The way he talked. The way his voice got too soft when he got nervous. It was in the way people looked at him sometimes, like they saw something he couldn't hide no matter how hard he tried.

That was the worst part. He didn't know how to stop being this thing. Whatever this thing was. He wasn't even sure he wanted to be this thing. He was just marked. And everyone saw it.

And still, the same logic circled back again, like it always did. He'd deserved what happened. That was how the world worked. Balance. Order. Cause and consequence. You mess up, you pay. That's what Wade always said. Whether he was pissed about a broken rule or something bigger, that was his answer. That was how he justified it all.

You fuck up, you pay for it. Simple as that.

And Tyler had fucked up. Not just once. Not just with him. But in all the small ways that added up into something unforgivable. The way he looked at boys when he thought no one noticed. The way his stomach flipped when someone smiled at him too long. The way his eyes dragged over shoulders, hands, mouths. The way he couldn't help but react. He walked wrong. Talked wrong. Felt wrong. He'd never been clean. Not once. Not even when he was little. And if the world had taken things from him, if people had hurt him and used him and left him bleeding, then maybe that was just the consequence of being who he was. 

His heart was thudding so hard he thought it might shake the damn table. He couldn't let it show. Couldn't let them see what was clawing its way through his chest. Couldn't move, couldn't leave, couldn't run. Not without looking rude, not without drawing eyes, and if Jack or Ennis looked at him right now, really looked at him, he didn't know what they'd see.

He lined up his fork and knife on either side of his plate, handles perfectly straight. Then he nudged them both, left, then right, then left again, until they clicked into place. Three times. Always three. His magic number.

He tapped his fingertips against the edge of the table, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, just soft enough not to make a sound. The rhythm steadied his breathing. Gave his hands something to do. If he could count, then he could keep the thoughts from spiraling too far. If he could repeat, then maybe the noise in his skull would ease up enough to let him finish breakfast without choking. Then, he brought his hand to his lap and pinched the inside of his thumb, just below the nail. Just enough to feel it. A little pain to chase the bigger one back into its cage.

Tyler had just finished his final adjustment of the fork, handle perfectly parallel to the edge of the plate, tines aligned with the grain of the table, when Jack's voice cut through the static of his thoughts.

"Tyler?"

The sound was gentle, but it still made Tyler jolt like he'd been caught doing something wrong, flinching in his seat as though Jack had raised a hand instead of just his voice.

"Yes, Mister Twist, sir?" The words spilled out, too fast and too formal, like a reflex apology. Tyler's voice snagged slightly on the "sir," and he winced the second he heard himself say it. His hands dropped to his lap, fidgeting against his jeans, fingertips brushing the stitching like maybe it could ground him. His brain spun circles around him, flipping through old instincts, old memories, what had he done wrong? What had he missed?

Jack hadn't done anything wrong. Neither had Ennis. They weren't hurting him. They weren't looking at him with disgust, or suspicion, or that disappointed stare he knew too well. He wasn't doing anything bad. Wasn't making anyone sick. Wasn't contaminating the room just by sitting in it.

Still, his stomach twisted like he'd been caught with something dirty.

Jack didn't seem to notice the panic flickering in Tyler's eyes. Or if he did, he was kind enough not to call it out. He smiled, like they'd known each other longer than just a single morning.

"Once we finish up breakfast," he said, pausing to glance at Ennis, who gave a small nod from across the table, "Ennis is gonna head out and take a look at your truck. If you're feelin' up to it, I could walk you around the place. Show you where things are, what we got out here. Give you the full welcome, if that sounds alright."

The words came slow, not in a condescending way, but like Jack wanted to make sure they had room to settle before he kept going. And that, more than anything, made Tyler feel a little dizzy. It was so gentle. So… undeserved. Tyler blinked, unsure if he'd heard it right. A tour? Like he was welcome here? Like he was worth being shown around? The idea lodged in his chest. It sounded too kind.

Still, he nodded. Hesitated. Then nodded again, firmer this time. "Yes, Mister Twist, sir," he said quietly, almost sheepish. "That'd be real good. Thank you."

Jack smiled just a little wider, like the answer had pleased him, "Well then," he said, reaching again for his coffee, "Best eat up. I got a lot to show you."

Chapter Text

The sun had risen just enough to chase off the lingering bite of morning, casting a warmth across their shoulders as Jack and Tyler made their way down the gravel path. The light settled over the fields, brightening the edges of the grass and painting the pine-covered ridgelines in softer hues. Jack moved slowly, boots crunching steady over the gravel path that wound between the barn and the pasture. The warmth bought him a few more hours before he'd have to admit to himself that his hip was aching again, before he'd need to go fetch the cane. For now, he could manage without it, and he was stubborn enough to take that as a small victory.

Tyler walked beside him, long legs adjusting awkwardly to match Jack's stride. It took conscious effort not to outpace him, and it showed in the way his steps clipped just a little at the end, like he was pulling against his own momentum. He kept glancing sideways, at Jack, at the fence line, at the trees in the distance, but every time Jack said something and tilted his head to speak, Tyler would have to look down to meet his eyes. And each time, he'd seem to remember just how much taller he was, like it caught him off guard again, the angle of it making him visibly self-conscious. So he kept his gaze slightly ahead or slightly to the side unless directly spoken to, like he was trying to respect a boundary no one had laid out but he knew existed all the same.

Jack, as always, couldn't stomach the silence for long. The hush of early morning stretched around them, filled only with the whisper of breeze through the pines. To most, it might've felt peaceful, hell, maybe even holy, but Jack had never been the type to sit with his thoughts when there was a perfectly good reason to run his mouth. And a kid beside him walking stiff like he was waiting for the next shoe to drop? That was reason enough.

"So," he said, drawing the word out as he cast a sideways glance at Tyler, "How old are you, huh?"

Tyler's head jerked slightly, eyes darting toward Jack before falling back to the ground. He blinked, twice, and for a moment it looked like he was sorting through his own memory, trying to find the safest way to answer something that didn't feel like small talk, "Eighteen," he mumbled, the words barely carrying on the breeze. "Turn nineteen in December."

The brim of his hat cast a shadow down his face, but Jack could still see the way his jaw worked, the nervous twitch of his fingers where they rubbed anxiously along the side of his thumb. A repetitive motion, like he was trying to wear the thought away. Jack didn't answer right away. Just made a low sound in his throat, more hum than response, as he nodded to himself, "Hell, Bobby was eighteen just a few years back. S'crazy how fast that goes."

That made Tyler glance at him, briefly, but with a flicker of curiosity he didn't seem to know was showing.

"My son," Jack added, sensing the need to explain. "Bobby. He'll be twenty-one in January. Still feels like I was just teachin' him how to drive last year."

Tyler didn't have a response to that. Whatever flicker of curiosity had crossed his face a moment earlier vanished with the kind of speed that suggested it never should have been there in the first place His gaze dropped again, chin tucked low beneath the brim of his hat, as if the leather of his boots had suddenly become far more interesting than anything Jack might have to say. He didn't retreat completely, but the wall went right back up, Jack caught it, and for a second, he just watched him. The tight shoulders. The restless hands. The way he kept his eyes down like they might show something if they stayed up too long. 

It was damn near uncanny, the way Tyler carried himself when he got nervous. Tight-lipped. Guarded. Jack had seen that look before, years ago, high up on a mountain that had changed everything. Ennis had worn that same expression once. Or something close enough to it that the memory caught Jack off guard. He remembered the first few days on Brokeback, when Ennis had hardly spoken at all, just nodded or grunted or let the wind do the talking for him. Back then, Jack had taken it as a challenge. Hell, maybe he still did. If he could get Ennis to talk, he figured, he could get anyone to. Tyler included.

So he tried again.

"Where you from, son?" Jack asked, keeping his voice easy. Not a demand, not a push. Just a question tossed out like a rope. "Ain't local, right?"

Tyler's head tilted slightly, not quite a nod, more like a flinch at being addressed again. But he answered, almost automatic, "Texas," he said, the word clipped, like that was all there was to say on the matter.

Jack huffed a quiet breath through his nose, "Well, hell. That don't narrow it down much." He kicked a pebble off the path and watched it tumble into the grass. "Texas is damn near a country all on its own. Fort Worth? Amarillo? Austin? Could be anywhere from the panhandle to the Gulf and still just be 'Texas.' You gonna make me guess?"

Tyler stiffened. The bristle was subtle, a shift in his jaw, a narrowing of his eyes, but Jack saw it clear as day. He tried to school it down, but it was there. That reaction. Like the question had grazed something he didn't want touched, "Anson," he muttered, "I'm from Anson." The name came out low, almost reluctant, like it left a taste he didn't want to linger on his tongue.

Jack slowed a step, letting the name settle in his head. He pictured the map, the highway markers, the dusty stretches of backroad cutting through West Texas. Anson wasn't a place people mentioned often unless they'd lived there. It sat tucked in among dry fields and railroad tracks, the kind of place that didn't change much and didn't make a fuss, "Anson," Jack repeated, turning the word over in his mouth like it might give up more if he said it twice. "That's west of Abilene, right? Little ways past Hawley. Out in Jones County?"

Tyler nodded, a quick motion. He didn't want to talk about it, not really, but his mouth moved anyway, "My grandpa was the sheriff there. Jones County. For... I dunno, twenty-four years or somethin' close." 

He didn't mention Wade. He didn't have to. Just saying the word "grandpa" brought the rest of it clawing to the front of his mind. The way his father had swooped in the second Raymond announced his retirement, all proud smiles and polished boots, using the weight of the name. Montgomery. It had been Raymond's name first, earned with sweat and time and respect. But Wade had picked it up like it was owed to him, slapping it on signs and shaking hands at church, like it didn't matter who he really was as long as the last name fit.

Tyler had grown up under that shadow without realizing it. It had always been there, that pressure, subtle at first, when he was a kid, before he understood what it meant. Before he understood what kind of man Wade really was. Back then, it had been a point of pride, something the teachers smiled about, something the church folks nodded at. Montgomery boy, huh? Sheriff's grandson. Bet you keep your nose clean. And for a while, he'd tried to. God, had he tried. He thought if he walked right and talked right, if he kept quiet about everything he wasn't supposed to feel, maybe he could live inside that name without choking on it.

They came to a stop in front of the barn Tyler had seen the night before, just a glimpse of it then, caught in the beam of his headlights as Black Betty finally rattled her way to the end of the driveway. In the morning light, the structure looked bigger, the red paint faded to the color of rust, wood darkened in places. The roof sloped low under the weight of time, and the sliding doors sat slightly uneven on their tracks, like they'd been shoved one too many times in a rush.

Jack nodded toward it, squinting up at the old thing with something between resignation and pride, "We'll stop here first, yeah? Let you meet all the horses." The way he said it, with that slight tilt of sarcasm under the words, made it sound like there were too damn many for his taste. Tyler caught the flicker of a grin Jack didn't quite bother to hide, like he knew full well he was being dramatic.

Jack grabbed hold of the handle and tugged the door open with a screech of metal-on-metal. The old tracks protested but gave way, and the doors slid open far enough to light into the barn's interior. The space inside was wide, though cluttered, tools leaned against the walls in uneven piles, a few halters and bridles hung half-assedly on hooks, and bales of hay were stacked with no real rhyme or reason. It wasn't dirty, but it was disorganized, and Tyler's fingers twitched at the sight of it. His gaze tracked the scattered tools, the uneven rows of buckets, a coil of rope half-unwound and sagging across a beam. His mind had already started sorting it all into categories, what needed fixing, what could be cleared, where things would make more sense. He didn't say anything, but the itch to start straightening things out was immediate and almost overwhelming.

Jack caught the way he lingered and gave a small huff of amusement. "Don't ask me what the hell's goin' on in here," he muttered as he stepped inside. "This is all Ennis' domain."

As they moved farther into the barn, a few horses stirred at their arrival, shifting in their stalls. Heads appeared over the half-doors one by one, curious eyes, twitching ears, soft exhales fogging in the cool morning air. One of them let out a snort, and Tyler jumped just a little before he caught himself.

"We board some for folks," Jack went on, nodding toward the row of stalls. "Ennis handles most of that. There'll be folks in and out through the year, sometimes more during summer. Fair warning, some of 'em like to talk."

They stopped at the first stall, and a big dark chestnut stepped forward, ears pricked, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. His head stretched out over the half-door, taking in the unfamiliar boy standing beside Jack. Tyler's shoulders stiffened, but not from nerves this time, his whole face lit up in a way he clearly didn't mean to show. His lips parted like he might say something and then thought better of it. One hand twitched toward his jeans pocket, then back to his side, fingers flexing with the effort of keeping still. His eyes didn't leave the horse.

Jack rested his forearm casually along the top of the stall door, eyes warming with something familiar as he glanced at the gelding. "This here's Cigar Butt," he said, the name rolling off his tongue with an edge of amusement. His mouth twitched in a half-smile like he was already hearing the echo of Ennis muttering about it.

Cigar Butt blinked slow and heavy-lidded as Jack reached out and scratched between his eyes, and the gelding leaned into it like he'd been waiting all morning for that exact moment. Big head, steady posture, the confidence of a horse who'd seen plenty and wasn't fazed by much anymore. Jack smiled at the familiar feel of the horse under his palm. First one they'd brought to the ranch. Quarter horse, level-headed, reminded Ennis of that old bastard Aguirre's horse from Brokeback. Which, of course, meant the name had already been picked before the trailer even backed into the barn.

"This one's Ennis'," Jack added, a little softer now. "Always has been. No one else rides him if Ennis can help it. He's particular like that."

Tyler nodded like he heard him, but his eyes hadn't left the horse. He was chewing at the inside of his cheek, like he was trying to work up the nerve to speak. When he finally did, it came out soft and unsure, like he wasn't quite convinced he had the right to ask.

"Can I, uh… can I pet him, Mister Twist? Sir?" His voice caught at the end, too polite by half, like the words had been drilled into him from years of being told what not to do. His hand twitched again, and he dropped his gaze, already bracing for a no.

Jack glanced sideways at him, then back at Cigar Butt, who was still leaning into the scratch with the sleepy satisfaction of an old dog who knew exactly how this went. He didn't answer right away, letting the moment hang just long enough for Tyler to squirm a little. Then he stepped back half a pace, hand falling away from the gelding's forehead with a pat that made the horse snort softly and shake his mane.

"Course you can," Jack shifted his stance, making space between himself and the stall. "Ain't no need for all that 'sir' business neither. Told you, just Jack'll do fine."

Tyler's head snapped up fast, eyes wide under the brim of his hat like he wasn't sure he'd heard right. He blinked a few times, caught off guard by how easy the yes had come, and for a second he didn't move. It was like his boots had taken root, grounding him there between fear and want. But whatever held him back lost its grip when Cigar Butt snorted again, flicked his ears toward the boy, and gave a little nudge of his chin against the stall door like he was waiting.

Tyler’s hand rose halfway, hesitated in midair like he might still change his mind, and then finally settled, palm-first, against the gelding's forehead. His touch was light at first, like he was afraid he'd scare the animal off just by making contact. The horse didn't flinch. He only breathed out through his nose, and nudged a little into the touch like he knew exactly what Tyler needed. Tyler's hand lingered, soaking in the sun-warmed texture of short chestnut hair, the solid curve of bone underneath. His fingers moved slowly, one cautious stroke down the middle of the gelding's face, and the change in him was near immediate. He froze, then let out the smallest, breathless sound, half a laugh, half a sigh. Jack caught the way his chest rose and fell, the faint shimmer in his eyes as he stroked down between the gelding's eyes.

"Good boy," Tyler whispered, so faint Jack almost didn't catch it. "You're real pretty, ain't you?"

Jack leaned his elbows against the stall door, watching the two of them. The kid looked young now. Not just in the way all eighteen-year-olds still had some baby left in their cheeks, but in the way he was open for once. Not trying to hide behind his hat or silence. Jack figured it'd pass soon enough, but he let him have it for now, "You ride?" He asked, keeping his tone casual. He didn't want to break whatever spell had settled between the boy and the horse, but the question had been sitting on his tongue since they stepped into the barn.

Tyler nodded, still petting gently, like he didn't want to stop. "Yes, sir," he said out of habit, then caught himself, eyes flicking to Jack. "I mean… yeah. My grandpa taught me. Used to ride a lot… 'fore things got… before I left."

Jack nodded, slow and thoughtful, his eyes still on the way Tyler's hand moved over Cigar Butt's neck. There was a softness to the kid now that hadn't been there earlier, a bit of ease sinking into his shoulders like the horse had drawn something out of him just by standing still and breathing. Jack didn't want to break that spell, didn't want to go jabbing at sore spots, so he let that one little phrase, before things got, drift past without comment. Whatever it meant, he figured Tyler would tell him when he was ready. If he ever was.

"That's real good then, son," Jack said, the words easy as they rolled off his tongue. He tipped his hat back with one finger, squinting down the line of stalls like he already saw the day's work laid out ahead of them, "I reckon Ennis'll have you out helpin' with the cows before too long. He don't like to waste daylight, or extra hands." He cast a sidelong glance back at Tyler, gauging the boy's reaction.

Tyler nodded again, this time without hesitation. "That's what I was doin' at the last ranch I worked. Didn't do much else, really." His hand moved absently along the horse's cheek, like petting him was second nature, something he didn't have to think about.

Jack smiled faintly, stepping in a little closer. "Your granddad the one taught you how to work cattle too?" It wasn't just idle chatter. Jack was fishing careful now, throwing out the only bait that seemed to keep Tyler biting. That granddad of his, whoever he was, had clearly been a steady hand in the boy's life, and Jack wasn't about to overlook a safe subject when it landed this well.

What he didn't expect, what stopped him short for a second, was the smile Tyler gave him in return. It wasn't much, just a small upturn at the corners of his mouth, like it had snuck out without permission. But it was real, and it changed the whole shape of his face. Softer. Younger. A glimpse of who he might've been, if things had gone different.

"Yessir," Tyler said again, voice warm in a way it hadn't been before. "He taught me just about everything. Used to take me out real early, crack'a dawn most days. Said cows didn't give a damn how tired you were."

Jack gave a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well hell, sounds like you got more sense than half the fellas Ennis and I've had come through this place. Don't spook easy, know your way around livestock, don't mind gettin' up early. Shit, Ennis might just take to you faster than he took to me."

Tyler ducked his head, the brim of his hat shielding his face, but not before Jack caught the flush of color rising in his cheeks. He didn't know how to take praise, that much was clear. But he didn't flinch from it either. That counted for something. Jack made a mental note, same as he'd done with Bobby years ago, to remember that. A little encouragement at the right moment could go a long damn way, "C'mon then, son," Jack said, stepping away from Cigar Butt's stall and motioning for Tyler to follow. "Got a few more friends I think you oughta meet."

Tyler fell into step behind him, his gaze sweeping the length of the barn. His eyes moved stall to stall, catching every flick of an ear, every muzzle resting on a half-door. There was a kind of hunger in the way he looked, like he hadn't seen this many horses in one place in a long time, maybe ever, and wasn't sure if he'd get to again. Jack noticed it, tucked somewhere between the tightness in his shoulders and the way his hands kept curling and uncurling like they wanted something to hold. They stopped in front of a wide stall with a palomino inside, her coat shining like soft gold under the slats of sunlight cutting through the windows. She lifted her head at the sound of Jack's voice, a long white blaze running down her face, ears pricking forward as she blinked at the two of them.

"This one here's Daffodil," Jack said, reaching out to scratch just behind the mare's jaw. She leaned into it, like she'd been expecting him all morning, "Junior picked that name. Ennis' oldest. You'll notice a theme startin' real soon."

Tyler tilted his head, taking in the mare's soft eyes and calm posture. There was a little flicker of something on his face, amusement, maybe, just shy of a smile. A short laugh escaped him before he could catch it, more of a huff of breath through his nose, and Jack pretended not to notice the way he tried to smooth it down. The next stall housed a bay mare with a rich, deep coat that gleamed like polished mahogany. She was already halfway sticking her head out before they even stopped, lips reaching toward Jack's shirt pocket with single-minded determination.

"Petal," Jack said with a laugh, gently swatting her muzzle away, "Another one of Junior's masterpieces. Ennis gave her the whole talk about names needin' to mean something strong and sensible, but she just pointed to this one and said, 'She looks like a Petal.' And that was the end of that."

Tyler shifted a little closer, watching as Petal's ears flicked toward him. She sniffed the air between them and gave a low huff, steam curling from her nostrils. He didn't quite reach out, but Jack could see he wanted to. There was a kind of longing in the way he stood, shoulders pulled tight, like if he relaxed too much, the whole moment might slip away from him.

"Pretty," Tyler murmured, the word barely there.

Jack smiled to himself and moved them along to the next stall. This one held a strawberry roan, lean and long-limbed with a dusting of white across her coat and a pale star set in the center of her forehead. She didn't move when they stepped up, just blinked, slow and unimpressed, like she had better things to do than be gawked at.

"And this one's Tulip," Jack said, lifting a brow like he still couldn't quite believe it. "Yeah, I know. We got Daffodil, Petal, and Tulip, like we're runnin' a damn flower shop instead of a ranch." He leaned against the stall rail, arms crossed loosely. "Junior again. Ennis just about swallowed his tongue when she said it, but he didn't say no. Never has when it comes to her. Man's a hard-ass most days, but you get his girls involved, and he folds like wet paper."

Finally, they reached the last stall at the end of the row, tucked in the corner where the light from the high barn windows slanted down in long golden beams. Inside stood a striking Tobiano Thoroughbred, tall and lean, his coat a patchwork of gleaming white and dark bay. One ear twitched toward them before the rest of him turned. The horse stepped forward without hesitation, ears pricked, nostrils flaring as he reached his head out over the door to get a better look at Tyler. He sniffed once, snorted, and gave a short toss of his head like he'd already made up his mind. Jack stopped just outside the stall and leaned one arm along the rail, a familiar fondness creeping into his voice. "And this fella here, this here's our last boy. Lightnin'."

"Thoroughbred?" Tyler asked quietly, as if afraid speaking too loud might spook him.

Jack nodded, one hand resting easy on the stall door. "Fast as hell when he wants to be. Built like a runner, acts like one too. He ain't mean, but he's got a mind of his own. Ennis says he's too high-strung for real work, but I say he just needs the right kind of rider."

Inside the stall, Lightning pawed the ground once with a clack of hoof against straw, a restless motion that made Tyler jump just a little before he caught himself. His shoulders rolled back tight as if to cover the startle, but Jack didn't say a word about it.

"He don't bite," Jack added with a half-smile, eyes still on the gelding. "Well… not unless you give him a real good reason."

Tyler gave the barest twitch of a grin at that, short-lived but genuine, and reached his hand out slow. He hesitated, palm hovering a few inches from the stall rail, like he was still waiting to be told it was alright. Lightning made the decision for him. The horse stepped in, closing the space with surprising gentleness, and pressed the soft velvet of his muzzle against Tyler's hand. The contact was brief, testing, but it was enough. Tyler's fingers settled against the long line of his nose, tentative at first, then firmer. He stroked down along the white blaze, his lips parting slightly like he'd forgotten how to breathe for a second.

"Damn," Tyler said, barely above a whisper, like the words weren't meant for anyone but the horse. "You're real somethin', ain't you?"

Lightning gave a low, almost bored-sounding snort and turned his head away, brushing Tyler's hand aside with the edge of his muzzle like he'd decided the moment was over. The sudden shift startled Tyler just a little, but instead of pulling back, he let out a quick, breathy laugh, more genuine than anything Jack had heard out of him yet. It was a short sound, surprised and unguarded, like it slipped out before he could think to hold it in. Tyler rubbed the back of his hand where the gelding had nudged him and shook his head slightly, still smiling.

"Guess he's had enough of me," he muttered, glancing back at Jack with a small shrug, trying to play it off, but the glow hadn't quite faded from his face.

Jack gave a quiet chuckle of his own and pushed off the stall rail with a grunt, stretching his back as he stepped away from the line of stalls, "Well," he said, brushing his hands together, "That just about wraps it up in here. Got a few more things to show you outside before the day gets away from us." He turned toward the barn doors but paused just a step ahead, glancing back over his shoulder with a thoughtful look, "Hey, mind if I call you Ty?" he asked, voice a little gentler than before, like he was testing the waters.

Tyler blinked, surprised by the question. His mouth opened like he wasn't sure what to say at first, but then he gave a small shrug, "Ain't nobody called me that in a while. But… yeah. That's fine, sir, I mean, Jack."

They'd just started walking toward the back door of the barn, Jack a few paces ahead, when a high-pitched yelp broke through the otherwise quiet space. Jack jerked to a stop mid-step and looked down, already cursing under his breath. Sure enough, winding herself between his boots like she owned the damn place was a scraggly tortoiseshell cat with one torn ear and murder in her eyes, "Goddammit," Jack muttered, hands bracing on his hips as he narrowed his eyes at her, "You again. I didn't mean to go steppin' on you, girl," Jack cooed, now crouching just slightly and holding out a hand in a half-hearted peace offering. "C'mere now."

Satan held her ground. Then, with the same cold grace she used to terrorize mice and full-grown ranch hands alike, she padded one step forward, just enough to make him think she might accept the olive branch, and slashed at his knuckles with a flash of claws.

"Goddamn!" Jack jerked his hand back, sucking in a breath. "Ow! You little shit!"

Satan sat back on her haunches and licked her paw as if nothing had happened, utterly unbothered by the carnage she left behind.

From behind, Tyler let out a choked snort. Jack turned just in time to catch the boy trying, and failing, to keep a straight face. Shoulders quivering, hat tipped low, one hand pressed uselessly over his mouth. It wasn't a laugh so much as a barely-suppressed wheeze.

Jack gave him a look, not really annoyed, then turned back toward the cat and muttered, "And Ennis still wonders why I call you Satan."

The cat, murderous little thing that she was, didn't slink off like usual after drawing blood. Instead, she pivoted with surprising grace and made her way toward Tyler, tail high, eyes locked on him with a curiosity Jack had never once been on the receiving end of. Tyler froze at first, uncertain, boots rooted in place, but the longer she stared at him, the more his posture eased. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe just that quiet awe he had when he thought no one was looking. Whatever it was, he dropped to a crouch without hesitation, one forearm balanced against his knee as he reached out with an open palm.

Jack watched, arms crossed over his chest, already suspicious. "You're braver'n me, I'll give you that," he muttered, voice low.

Satan came within inches of Tyler's hand, paused, then sniffed. Once. Twice. Then she did that odd, off-putting thing cats sometimes did, mouth falling open slightly, lips peeled back from her teeth like she was smelling something she couldn't quite make sense of. Tyler's nose scrunched up as he laughed quietly, startled but amused by the strange expression on her face.

Tyler giggled. An honest, boyish sound that cracked straight through the quiet of the barn. "She's makin' a face," he said softly, glancing up at Jack, delighted.

Then, as if to add insult to injury, Satan, the very same cat who'd terrorized grown men off the ranch and drawn blood from Jack on multiple occasions, tilted her head, gave one last appraising look, and brushed her side right up against Tyler's hand. Her tail flicked up to curl slightly at the tip, a soft, unmistakable gesture of approval. Jack's mouth dropped open, caught halfway between outrage and sheer disbelief. His arms uncrossed with purpose, hands thrown out in front of him like the gesture alone could explain the blasphemy unfolding in front of his eyes. "Are you fuckin' shittin' me?" he barked, voice bouncing off the rafters.

Satan, predictably, ignored him entirely. She didn't so much as twitch an ear in acknowledgment. Instead, she remained draped against Tyler's leg. Her tail flicked contentedly once before she slinked off beneath a mound of hay, the soft rumble of her purring trailing after her like smug confirmation that she'd made her choice. Tyler stayed crouched there for a second, blinking up at Jack with that same wide-eyed, innocent look he'd worn when asking to pet the horses. Like he hadn't just tamed the barn's most vicious, ill-tempered resident with a single outstretched hand and a soft giggle. 

Jack stared after her, slack-jawed, before rubbing a hand over his face and muttering, "Unbelievable. She likes you." He said it like it was the most offensive thing that had happened all week, "I'm gonna hear about this for weeks," he added, dragging his hat lower like it might shield him from Ennis's inevitable teasing. "He already thinks I'm lyin' when I say she's out for blood. You just wait, next time she takes a swipe at me, he's gonna say I must've deserved it."

Tyler straightened up slow, his palms brushing down the legs of his jeans, scattering bits of straw and dust that clung stubbornly to the worn denim. The faint flush on his cheeks lingered, not from embarrassment anymore, but something softer, maybe the warmth of being wanted, or the strange relief of a cat choosing him over everyone else. "She the only cat y'all got?" he asked, glancing toward the pile of hay Satan had disappeared under, like maybe she'd come back if he waited long enough.

Jack huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Hell no," he said, already turning back toward the barn door. "We got a whole damn militia of 'em out here. Ain't even sure where they all come from half the time. But they keep the mice down and Ennis claims that's all that matters."

He held up a hand, ticking names off his fingers. "There's the big orange bastard, we call him Tiger, fat as hell, meaner than he looks. The gray one's Buckaroo, sneaky little shit. And then there's the striped one, Spaghetti. Don't ask. Bobby named him and it stuck."

Tyler bit back a grin, his mouth twitching like he didn't know whether to laugh or be polite. "Spaghetti?" he repeated, testing the word like it might change meaning if he said it with enough disbelief.

Jack rolled his eyes and waved a hand like it was a long-settled matter. "Don't even try to understand it. I stopped askin' questions years ago. All I know is Ennis won't call 'em nothin' but 'that damn cat.' All of 'em. Doesn't matter which one's causin' trouble or curled up in the hay, they're all just 'the damn cat' to him."

Tyler laughed again, a little freer this time, head ducked down like he wasn't quite sure he was allowed to enjoy himself that much yet. But the sound hung in the air, and Jack caught it in the same way a man might catch the first sign of spring after a long winter, cautiously, but hopeful. He looked back once more toward the shadows in the barn, still half-hoping Satan might reappear, and murmured, "Guess I'll keep an eye out for Spaghetti, then."

Jack stepped closer and clapped a hand gently on Tyler's shoulder, not enough to startle him but firm enough to guide him forward. "Come on, Ty," he said, the nickname slipping out easy now. "Still got a hell of a lot more to show you before Ennis starts hollerin' and puts you to work."

Tyler flinched the moment Jack's hand landed on his shoulder. It was nothing, just a simple, passing touch, casual in the way a man might clap his buddy on the back after a long day. But Tyler felt it like heat pressing straight through the flannel of his shirt and down into his skin. The muscles between his shoulder blades locked up tight, a sharp sting of nerves crawling down the back of his neck.

It wasn't Jack's fault. Jack hadn't done anything wrong. Tyler knew that. Knew it in the part of his brain that still had logic left. But logic didn't mean shit when the rest of him was already spiraling. The dread came fast, curling in his gut like it had been waiting for just the right moment. Tyler knew the difference between safe and unsafe in theory, but in practice, that line blurred the second someone touched him. Even kindly. Especially kindly. That was the trick of it.

His mind was already racing ahead of reason, painting disaster where there was none. Don't freeze. Don't make it weird. Just smile. Say somethin'. But his tongue felt thick in his mouth and his jaw had gone tight.

He sucked in a slow breath and dropped his gaze, thumb finding its way to the weathered brass buckle at his waist. The metal was smooth, worn down from years of use, the initials R.M. carved deep into the center, Raymond Montgomery's buckle, passed down to him before he ever had to shave. Tyler traced the letters with soft pressure. Once. Twice. Three times. His grandpa had told him it was lucky. Tyler wasn't sure about that, but it did help. A little. Sometimes.

You're overreacting. He didn't mean nothin' by it. He ain't him. He ain't gonna hurt you. It's Jack. Just Jack.

But the thoughts didn't stop. They never did.

You froze up, his mind hissed. He saw. He's gonna start asking questions. Watching. Wondering what's wrong with you. And when he figures it out? He'll change. They always do. He'll touch you again just to see if you flinch. Just to see what else makes you freeze.

He shook his head slightly, as if that'd dislodge the thoughts. They stuck anyway, clinging like burrs to every corner of his brain. The same ones that had followed him from Anson to Amarillo to this place. They weren't gone. Just quiet for a little while. Now they were back with a vengeance. He wished he could take a pat on the shoulder like anyone else. Smile. Nod. Keep walking. Not feel like the floor had dropped out beneath him. Not feel the trap he could never quite prove was there.

Jack had already moved a few steps ahead, whistling low under his breath, unaware of the little war still raging behind him. Tyler stared at his back for a moment, forcing his boots to move, one step, then another, until he fell in beside him again. He kept his hands near his belt, thumb brushing the buckle. shoulders still drawn tight beneath his flannel.

They stepped out the back door of the barn and into the warm, open stretch of yard that rolled down toward the fields. The sun was higher now, bright and full above the tree line, casting long beams of light across the packed dirt and fence posts. Tyler barely had time to adjust to the change in brightness when a blur of fur came tearing around the side of the house, paws skittering, ears flapping, tongue wagging. The collie came bounding across the yard, tongue lolling out of his mouth in a crooked grin. His coat was thick and slightly unkempt, sable and white, and it shimmered in the sun with every eager stride. His tail swept back and forth like a banner caught in a strong wind, stirring up little clouds of dust as he skidded to a dramatic halt just a few feet away. He froze, alert, ears perked forward as he sized up the stranger beside Jack.

Jack leaned down, scratching the dog roughly between the ears, and the collie leaned into the touch like he'd been waiting for it all morning. "This here's Cash," Jack said, voice fond. "He's our sheepdog. Sort of. When he feels like it, anyway."

Cash gave a huff, then turned his attention to Tyler, tilting his head slightly like he was sizing him up. Tyler's face softened, some of the tension in his shoulders unwinding. He crouched low without thinking, resting his arms on his knees and letting one hand dangle, "Hey there, boy," he said gently, voice almost shy. Cash padded forward and sniffed around his boots, then moved up along his jeans, tail wagging all the while. After a few seconds, satisfied with whatever his nose told him, the collie nudged Tyler's hand with his snout and pressed in close.

"He's friendly," Tyler said, a little more sure now, watching the dog melt under his touch.

Jack gave a short laugh. "Friendlier than he looks, most times. Especially with folks he don't know. You must pass the test."

Tyler glanced down again at the dog, who had already plopped onto his side like he owned the damn yard. "Guess so."

Jack hooked his thumbs in his belt and scanned the far edge of the yard. "Which means the rest of the damn circus oughta be rollin' in any minute now. Those little assholes like to follow him."

"Sheep?" Tyler asked, glancing up with interest.

"Yup," Jack said with a nod. "We mostly keep 'em for weed control, eatin' through the overgrowth and cleanin' up the fields. But the wool's a nice bonus too, come shearin' time."

Tyler huffed softly through his nose, running his hand down Cash's side. The dog's fur was coarse but warm, and the steady rise and fall of his breath felt grounding beneath Tyler's palm. "I ain't worked with sheep before."

Jack huffed a soft laugh. "Well, you're in for somethin'. They're loud, nosy, stupid as hell, and always tryin' to get into shit they ain't supposed to. But you'll get the hang of it. Cash keeps 'em mostly in line." He glanced at the dog, who was now rolling in the dirt like his work for the day was already done. "Or at least he pretends to."

Tyler gave Cash one last affectionate scratch behind the ears, fingers brushing through the thick ruff of fur around the dog's neck. Cash leaned into it like he could've stayed there all day, but Tyler eventually straightened, brushing his palms on his jeans as he rose back to his full height. The collie gave a lazy wag of his tail before trotting off toward the shade of the porch.

Tyler drifted back to Jack's side, falling into step as they started walking along the fence line. The boards were sun-bleached, lined with tufts of grass and wildflowers growing up around the posts. Tyler's eyes wandered as they walked, taking in the curve of the hills beyond the pasture, distant aspen leaves, the way the sunlight rolled in across the open land. It was the kind of view that didn't look real at first. Like something you'd see on a postcard, not in real life.

Jack jerked his chin toward the open field ahead. "We got a couple more dogs runnin' around here too," he said casually. "Hammy's brother, goes by Meatball. And we got a blue heeler named Smokey. They mostly help Ennis with the cattle, so you'll be seein' 'em plenty soon's he gets you out there with the herd."

Tyler's mouth twitched, and he bit down gently on the inside of his cheek to keep the laugh from slipping out too quick. "Meatball?" he repeated, giving Jack a sideways glance. "To go with Spaghetti?"

Jack grinned, clearly pleased that someone finally caught it. "Uh-huh. That was Bobby's idea too. Said if we already had Spaghetti, it only made sense." He shook his head, smiling to himself. "You and him might get along just fine. Seems like you're already speakin' the same language."

Tyler could feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck, the faint flush making its way across his cheeks no matter how hard he tried to will it away. He wasn't even sure what he was blushing at, Jack hadn't said anything teasing or cruel. Just friendly conversation, drawing a line from Bobby's strange sense of humor to his own, trying to make the moment easier. Trying to include him. And yet, the warmth in his face wouldn't settle. It was like his body couldn't figure out the difference between kindness and danger.

He kept his eyes forward, nodding slightly, and swallowed down the nerves that always seemed to sit just behind his teeth. Jack didn't notice, or if he did, he didn't say anything, and they walked in silence for a few steps, the dry crunch of grass under their boots the only sound for a while. The landscape kept unfolding around them, the ranch revealing more of itself with every step. Wide, open fields stretched in every direction, broken up by the rusted lines of barbed wire fencing, the distant shapes of grazing cattle, and the glint of sunlight off a pond farther out. It was bigger than Tyler had imagined. Quieter, too. Peaceful in a way that felt almost eerie.

He was just starting to lose himself in the rhythm of the place when a sudden, loud braying shattered the quiet.

Tyler jolted hard, damn near stumbling a step sideways before catching himself. His head whipped toward the sound, and sure enough, just beyond the fence stood a shaggy, sun-faded donkey, peering at them like he'd been waiting all morning to scare the hell out of someone.

Jack let out a groan and ran a hand down his face. "Ah, hell. Forgot he was out here." He motioned vaguely toward the donkey with one hand, already sounding like he regretted acknowledging him, "That right there is the ranch's resident useless sack of shit. Name's Buck."

Tyler stared, still half-startled, as the donkey brayed again. louder this time, like he was proud of himself. His ears twitched but otherwise he didn't move, just stood there like he'd been personally offended by their existence.

"Buck?" Tyler repeated, still trying to get his heart rate back under control.

"Yeah. Me and Ennis ain't got a damn clue where the bastard came from. One day he just… showed up. Wandered onto the property, parked himself right there by the fence, and ain't left since."

The donkey honked again, louder this time, and blinked slowly at them like he couldn't be bothered to give a shit either way.

"Won't work, won't leave, won't shut up," Jack continued. "Ennis tried to chase him off a dozen times. I gave up after the second."

The donkey brayed again, long and nasal, then started chewing on something Tyler was pretty sure wasn't even food.

"So he just… lives here now?" Tyler asked, watching him like he expected the thing to suddenly say something in English.

Jack sighed. "Apparently. Buck the freeloader. We didn't invite him, but I guess he figured it didn't matter."

The moment Buck caught sight of Tyler, he froze mid-chew. His long ears tilted back just slightly, not pinned, but angled in a way that suggested suspicion. He brayed again, louder this time, and took a stiff step closer to the fence. Tyler met his gaze, eyebrows raised, unsure what the hell he was supposed to do under the judgmental stare of a donkey.

Jack slowed his steps and glanced over. One look at the scene and he started laughing under his breath, shaking his head. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered. "Looks like you've already made a hell of an impression."

Tyler tore his eyes away from the donkey long enough to glance at Jack, disbelief written plain across his face. "What'd I do?"

"Far as Buck's concerned?" Jack shrugged,  "Showed up. Breathed. Looked at him too long. Pick a reason. Don't matter, he don't like anybody. Hell, I'm not even sure he likes us and we feed the bastard. You're just gettin' his version of a warm welcome."

Tyler blinked, baffled, and took a half-step back just in case the donkey got any ideas. "He really like this with everybody?"

"Pretty much," Jack said, still watching the scene with open amusement. "Only thing he loves is raisin' hell. That and standin' in the damn way. You're just gettin' the usual welcome. He's probably pissed you gave Cash attention first."

Tyler glanced toward the donkey again, who had now resumed his slow chewing and looked about as smug as an animal could. "Think he wants me dead," Tyler muttered.

Jack laughed, patting Tyler lightly on the back, more of a nudge than anything forceful, as if he remembered not to startle him. "Don't take it to heart. He's all noise. Mostly. Just likes to think he runs the place." He jerked his chin toward the stretch of fence up ahead, where the land opened out toward the grazing pastures. "C'mon. Leave him to his throne. Drama queen's had his moment."

The rest of the walk passed easy enough. The sun had climbed a little higher, spilling light over the fields, and the cool morning air was beginning to warm. Tyler stayed close to Jack's side as they circled around the far end of the barn and toward a smaller fenced-in patch just past the coop. That's where he first spotted her, sprawled out half in the shade, half in the sun, eyes blinking slow and content like she had nothing in the world to worry about.

"June," Jack called gently, and the big white dog lifted her head, tail thudding against the ground once before she pushed up onto her feet.

Tyler knelt down as she approached, one hand outstretched in quiet invitation. June trotted over without hesitation, her coat thick and heavy, like fresh snow. As soon as she reached him, she leaned into the touch, pressing her broad head against his chest like she'd known him forever. Tyler let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, fingers slipping into the dense fur behind her ears. He scratched lightly, then ran his hand down the side of her neck, feeling the coarseness and warmth of her undercoat beneath his calloused fingertips.

"She's a sweetheart," he murmured, more to the dog than to Jack.

"Don't let her fool you," Jack replied with a chuckle. "Come nighttime, she turns into a whole different beast. God help whatever comes prowlin' close. June don't miss."

Tyler nodded, still petting her gently, before glancing around the yard again. "That the only one like her?"

Jack shook his head, looking out toward the tree line. "Nah, we got another one, Buddy. He's an Anatolian. Big bastard, little more serious than June. You probably won't see much of him till feedin' time. Keeps to himself most days, but he's always watchin'."

Tyler watched as June circled once and collapsed into the cool shade under the overhang beside the coop, eyes already half-closed, content now that her curiosity had been satisfied. Tyler's gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than necessary, grateful for her quiet acceptance. Animals didn't ask questions. They didn't pry. They just were.

Jack seemed to be scanning the yard like he was thinking about what else they could poke their heads into, that familiar glint of trouble already forming behind his eyes. Before he could get too far into whatever scheme he was cooking up, a voice cut clean through the warm air behind them.

"Jack."

They both turned as Ennis rounded the corner of the barn, sleeves rolled up past his elbows and a thin sheen of sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. His hands were dirty, forearms streaked with grease, and the look on his face was more business than welcome. He tilted his chin toward Tyler in a sharp gesture.

"You done showin' him the grand tour?"

Jack slid his hands into his back pockets and tilted his head slightly, the picture of innocent charm. "I reckon I am. Thought I'd ease him in a little. Why? You got plans for him already?"

Ennis didn't smile. He squinted against the sun, eyes narrowing like he couldn't quite believe the question needed asking. "Seein' as I only got two damn hands and one of 'em's gotta hold a wrench, I need somebody to hold the flashlight," he said dryly, nodding his head toward the driveway where Black Betty sat, hood popped open, "I need Tyler. Unless you think June here's gonna learn to hold a flashlight?"

Jack raised his eyebrows like he was impressed by the sarcasm. "She's a smart dog. Smarter than me some days. But I guess we'll try the boy first, see how he does."

Ennis gave Tyler a short, pointed nod, barely more than a tilt of the chin, but it said everything it needed to. Follow me. No words, no explanation, just that unspoken kind of directive Tyler had long since learned how to read. He fell into step immediately, boots crunching the gravel as he trailed behind, keeping close but not too close. It reminded him of every job he'd ever taken with a man twice his age and half as patient, where silence was a language and getting in the way was the quickest way to end up back on the road.

Chapter Text

Tools were scattered in the grass near the open hood of Black Betty, some clean, others coated in black grease, all of them clearly used and left mid-job. A little portable radio sat next to the front fender, letting out You Done Me Wrong in warbling tones, as if George Jones' himself was crooning from the bottom of a tin can. Tyler stood still for a moment, eyes flicking over the familiar mess of a driveway repair job, then back to Ennis, who was already reaching for a heavy flashlight with a grimy hand. He passed it over without fanfare. Tyler took it carefully, hands brushing just slightly in the handoff, and Ennis noticed the way the kid's fingers hesitated for a half second too long, like he wasn't sure if the touch would sting.

"You said it was knockin'?" he asked, wiping a trail of sweat from his brow with the side of his hand. The question wasn't impatient, just practical, like he was already sifting through the possibilities in his head.

Tyler nodded, then caught himself and spoke aloud, "Yes, Mister Del Mar, sir." The words came out in a rush, old muscle memory, but as soon as they left his mouth, he winced. He sounded too formal, too much like a kid afraid of saying the wrong thing. He could feel the heat crawling back up his neck again. "I mean… yes, sir. Sounded like someone dumped a bunch'a marbles in the engine and slammed the hood shut."

Ennis looked up, one brow lifting just slightly. There was a flicker, just a flicker, of something that might've been a smile if you didn't know him too well. But it didn't quite reach his mouth. Instead, he turned his attention back to the open hood with a low grunt that wasn't disapproval, just… thinking. "Marbles," Ennis repeated under his breath, like he was turning it over. He leaned forward, resting both hands on the edge of the truck, peering into the dark tangle of belts and hoses and parts that probably hadn't seen a proper service in years, "That's a new one."

Tyler raised the flashlight and aimed it carefully where Ennis was looking, watching the other man's movements like it was a test. There was no yelling, no scolding, no barked orders. Just quiet assessment. Ennis shifted slightly, angling himself to get a better look into the truck, his eyes focused, "You keep the light steady," he said after a pause, glancing sideways. "Don't dance it around. If I can't see what I'm doin', I sure as hell can't fix it."

"Yes, sir," Tyler said, softer this time.

Ennis turned back toward the engine and started feeling his way around, one hand braced on the truck's edge while the other moved with care. Tyler could hear the faint scrape of calloused fingers over metal, the occasional click as he nudged parts aside or tapped a bolt to test its give. His brow furrowed, nose scrunching as he worked.

"You notice any oil leakin'?" he asked, albeit a little muffled under the hood. "Might see a brown puddle under your truck, right about where you usually park."

Tyler shook his head fast, then realized Ennis might not see that in the narrow angle he was working from. "No, sir," he said, a little louder this time. "Ain't seen anythin' like that. Ground's always dry when I move her."

Ennis clicked his tongue, a soft sound of mild impatience, then nodded toward the engine bay. "Move the light a little to the right."

Tyler froze. 

Move the light to the right. Easy enough. Should've been, anyway. But it wasn't. Not for him. Not when it came out of someone else's mouth in the form of a direction and landed on his shoulders like a test he hadn't studied for.

Right. What was right?

His right, or Ennis'? Was Ennis expecting him to mirror the direction? Or did he mean it from his own point of view, bent over the engine the way he was? Tyler's eyes flicked to the flashlight, then up to Ennis, who hadn't moved, hadn't looked at him yet, just kept working, waiting for something that should've taken Tyler a second but already felt like it had stretched into a full minute. The silence didn't help. It felt like a countdown ticking louder in his chest. He gripped the flashlight tighter, breath caught somewhere high in his throat. Panic bloomed in the back of his head, creeping in fast, wrapping around his thoughts and squeezing till they felt slippery. That was always the way of it, he could take a hit, survive a night in the cab of a freezing truck, handle being yelled at or ignored. It was the everyday commands. The expectation that he'd just know how to respond, quickly and correctly, like other folks seemed to do without trying. That was what always got him. 

Back when Raymond was teaching him to drive, he used to say steering wheel or glovebox instead of left or right, trying to rewire Tyler's brain with landmarks instead of words. It had helped, sort of. Tyler had gotten used to turning toward the parts of the truck instead of trying to calculate direction in his head, but even back then, he’d hesitate half the time, afraid of messing up, of hearing that soft sigh that always came when Raymond had to correct him again. Only Raymond wasn’t here now, and Ennis Del Mar didn’t strike him as the sighing type. Tyler’s stomach twisted as he risked a glance toward the older man. Ennis hadn’t turned. Still had his head dipped beneath the open hood, his forearms braced on either side like he had all the time in the world. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t waiting. Watching. Expecting.

He glanced at Ennis, who was still focused on the engine, not looking his way. Tyler's heart kicked up just a bit as he glanced down at the flashlight, feeling the sweat build up at the base of his neck. Don't freeze. Just move.

He shifted the light left at first, too quick, just by instinct.

Ennis squinted into the sudden glare and slowly turned his head, meeting Tyler's eyes with a flat expression that said more than words ever could. "That'd be your other right."

Tyler's stomach bottomed out. His fingers jerked the flashlight the other direction so fast it nearly slipped from his hand. "Shit. Sorry. Sorry, sir. I got it." The words tumbled out in a breathless rush, and he hated how high his voice had gone, how it cracked right at the end. He hated the heat that flared across his neck and the tremble in his hands he couldn't quite hide. Hated the way he was already bracing for more sharp words, disappointment, maybe even a muttered Christ almighty, like he was stupid for not getting it right the first time.

Christ, boy. Can't you do anything right? What the hell's wrong with you? Ain't that goddamn hard.

Ennis didn’t need to ask. One glance told him more than he wanted to know.

Tyler stood there like he expected the world to come down on him. His hands trembled where they gripped the flashlight, and his bottom lip had the faintest quiver, like he was trying hard not to let it show. Every muscle in his shoulders was pulled tight, his whole frame stiff, coiled like he was bracing for a blow. Not just words, either. The sight didn’t make Ennis angry. It didn’t make him uncomfortable in the way he usually got when folks cried in front of him or brought up things he didn’t know how to handle. No, this was something else. A crawling heat in his chest, the kind that made him clench his jaw and look away too fast. Not at Tyler. At the ground. At the truck. Anywhere but at that look of quiet panic carved across a face that should’ve never had to learn how to wear it.


He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Hell, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been good at this kind of thing to begin with. Raising girls was different. They had Alma. And even then, he’d done it mostly from the edges, letting their mother fill in the gaps he never could. Tyler wasn’t his, and this wasn’t supposed to be his problem. But he could see plain as anything that Tyler needed something. Not comfort, maybe, but relief. A way out of whatever corner he’d gotten stuck in. Ennis cleared his throat, scratching absently at his jaw as he looked back down into the engine. “Y’wanna trade jobs with me?” he asked, “Reckon your hands’ll fit better in here anyhow. Lotta tight spots, and I ain’t exactly built for precision.” 

Tyler’s eyes darted up, surprised, like he hadn’t expected kindness to be the next thing out of Ennis’ mouth. He nodded fast, too fast, a jerky movement like his body didn’t trust the moment not to shift again. Ennis stepped aside, passing over the wrench as Tyler handed off the flashlight, and their hands brushed again for just a second, enough to feel the tremor still riding along Tyler’s fingers. He stepped back and let Tyler lean in over the engine, adjusting the flashlight just enough to give him good light. Tyler didn’t ask for clarification. Didn’t complain. He just bent to the task like he’d do anything to keep busy, to be useful. And Ennis watched him for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

Who the hell had done this to him? Who’d looked at a boy like that and decided it was alright to scare him into silence? To make him expect pain for something as simple as mixing up directions? Ennis didn’t know much, but he knew what fear looked like in a young man’s eyes. Knew the shape of it. He’d seen it in the mirror more times than he liked to admit.

Ennis didn’t mean to stare. He’d been watching the engine, flashlight steady in his hand, when Tyler set the wrench down and reached up to roll his sleeves higher on his arms, more out of habit, maybe, than need. The day had warmed, sun climbing higher over the barn roof, and the inside of Black Betty’s hood trapped the heat like an oven. Tyler’s shirt was damp down the spine, clinging in creases and folds that mapped out the shape of his back. He was sweating, working hard, like any ranch hand would be on a warm afternoon. But when those sleeves rolled up, when his forearms were bared to the light, the rest of the world dulled out around Ennis like the volume had been turned down.

It didn’t register right away. His eyes caught the marks before his brain had the sense to understand them. At first, he told himself they were scratches. Old barbed wire, maybe. That was always the first excuse, the most likely one for boys who worked ranch jobs. Maybe he'd slipped loading hay bales, or caught his arm on an old tool. Ranch work left you scraped up plenty. He knew that. But these weren’t the kind of cuts you got by accident. They weren’t random. They weren’t ragged. They were straight. Intentional. Measured in spacing and depth, some of them old and pale, others still pink, recent enough to sting if brushed the wrong way. A few had scabbed over. None of them belonged there.

Ennis swallowed against the tightness building in his throat, jaw clenched hard as he forced his gaze back to the engine block. The smell of hot metal and oil rose around them, the sharp smell of it grounding him enough to breathe again. He adjusted the flashlight absently, angling it back where it belonged, but his mind stayed tangled up in what he’d seen. Ennis didn’t have the words for the kind of fury building up in his chest. He wasn’t good with words anyway, not when it counted. But something deep in him, a cold, hard part he usually kept buried, was already naming names, even if he didn’t know them. Already building a list of wrongs, already calculating what he’d do if he ever found out who’d failed this boy.

Ennis cleared his throat, the sound barely audible over the soft hum of the radio drifting through the open air. Glen Campbell’s Southern Nights was playing now, and he clung to it like a man reaching for solid ground, needing something, anything, to shift the weight of what he'd just seen. He hadn't meant to stare, hadn't meant to notice the scars, but once his eyes had caught them, they’d refused to let go. Small talk had never come naturally to him. It always felt like stepping into boots two sizes too small, but silence wasn’t working either. Not now, not with the image of Tyler’s arms burned into the back of his mind like a brand. He had to say something, steer the air between them back to neutral before the kid noticed just how hard Ennis had been staring. He caught the tail end of the song, fingers tightening on the flashlight before he spoke.

“So,” he started, eyes fixed firmly on the rust-bitten edge of the radiator, like if he didn’t look at Tyler, it wouldn’t feel so goddamn awkward, “What kinda music d’you listen to?”

He chanced a glance sideways, just in time to see Tyler pause mid-motion, socket wrench clutched loose in his hand. The boy’s face had gone still, like a deer who’d just heard something in the brush. His eyebrows ticked up in surprise, mouth parting just slightly, and for a second, he looked so genuinely caught off guard that Ennis felt a strange flush of regret. It was the same sort of look you’d get if you asked your dog whether he wanted to talk about his feelings.

Christ, might’ve been better if he’d just slapped the kid. He could’ve handled that reaction better than this look.

Ennis blinked, leaning back a little, caught off guard. “What?” he muttered, the defensiveness slipping in like it always did when he felt off-balance. “Ain’t that strange of a question.”

Tyler blinked again, slower this time. Then gave a small shake of his head, like he was trying to clear it. His mouth pulled in tight, thoughtful, like he had to chew the words before spitting them out. “Just didn’t figure you’d care,” he said finally. “Or ask.”

Ennis rubbed the back of his neck, his skin tacky with sweat, collar sticking to him like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. “Well,” he said, “I asked, didn’t I?”

Tyler hesitated again, then wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans and muttered, “Judas Priest. Mostly. Some Metallica. Slayer sometimes. Uh… Iron Maiden, too. Stuff like that.”

Ennis blinked at him, slowly. Then again, like maybe the second time would help the words make more sense. He squinted, trying to piece together whether what he’d just heard was English or some new brand of nonsense entirely. “Judas what now?”

Tyler looked up, finally, and for the first time since they’d started working, there was a flicker of something alive behind his eyes. A flicker of humor. “Judas Priest,” he said slowly, like he was explaining electricity to a man still using a lantern. “They’re a metal band.”

“Metal,” Ennis repeated flatly, the word clearly tasting strange in his mouth. He stared at Tyler like he was trying to figure out if this was a joke, or a test, or both.

“Yeah. Y’know. Guitars. Loud drums. Lots of noise. Long hair.” He gestured vaguely toward his head, where his shaggy hair curled a little at the base of his neck. It wasn’t long by rockstar standards, but it was longer than anything Ennis would've allowed for himself, “It’s good,” he added, quieter now, as if preparing for mockery. “Helps me think. Helps me… not think, sometimes.”

Ennis grunted, skeptical, tilting his head a little as he tried to picture it, Tyler sitting cross-legged somewhere, maybe on his bed or in a truck cab, blasting what sounded like angry racket just to “think.” 

“Can’t say I’ve heard any of that,” he said after a moment.

“That’s ‘cause you’re old,” Tyler said without thinking. The second the words left his mouth, his eyes went wide. His back stiffened like a dog caught chewing boots it shouldn’t have touched, and his face flushed deep red. “Shit,” he muttered fast.  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Was just--just jokin’, I didn’t mean to--”

Ennis lifted a hand without looking, just a lazy wave that cut Tyler off without sharpness. “I am old,” he said dryly. “Ain’t a secret. Don’t go losin’ your damn mind over it.”

Tyler still looked rattled, but his shoulders eased a bit, just enough to notice. His fingers twitched back to life, picking up the rhythm of the bolt again. Ennis watched him for a few seconds, then turned back to the flashlight, adjusting it slightly so the beam hit square on the socket. Then he spoke up again, soft, like he wasn’t sure whether he should share or not but did anyway, “Turbo Lover.” He didn’t look up. “That’s one of their songs. From Judas Priest. One of my favorites.”

Ennis didn’t laugh, but something softened in his expression, just a flicker. “Well,” he said, “maybe you’ll hafta play it sometime. Let me hear what all the fuss is about.”

Tyler glanced over, almost unsure, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure. If you want.”

From what little Tyler had come to know about Ennis Del Mar, he could say with full confidence that the man would hate Turbo by Judas Priest. Probably wouldn’t last thirty seconds before muttering something about noise and turning it off. But still, he’d asked. Not mockingly, not in that half-smirking way most folks did when they wanted to make fun of him for it, just asked like it wasn’t strange, like it mattered. And hell, that alone was enough to make Tyler smile. It was the kind of question that most folks would’ve used as bait for a joke. Hell, he’d lost count of the times someone wrinkled their nose when he mentioned what he listened to. Called it “Devil’s music,” like they couldn’t wait to remind him of how damned they thought he already was. That line had come out of Wade’s mouth more than once, always slurred, always bitter, as if the music itself were responsible for everything wrong in Tyler’s life. And it wasn’t just him. Employers, strangers, didn’t matter. They all looked at him like music said something shameful about his character. But Ennis hadn’t. He just asked.

But Eli hadn’t minded. Eli was the one who got him into it in the first place. One of Tyler’s clearest memories, one that stayed sharp no matter how much time passed, was the two of them lying on the floor of Eli’s room, elbows touching, the battered stereo between them crackling out the opening riffs of “The Trooper.”

There was another memory, not so warm, but just as vivid. Tyler couldn’t have been older than ten. It was late, probably close to midnight, and Wade had stumbled in from the station with whiskey on his breath and anger bubbling just under the surface. But it didn’t matter what the reason was. Wade’s anger didn’t need justification. It just needed somewhere to go. And more often than not, that place was Tyler.

Even as a little kid, Tyler had already learned the rules. Don’t talk too much, don’t look too long, don’t cry where Wade can hear it. None of it ever really worked. Wade always found something. The way Tyler walked. The way he flinched. The way he looked too soft, too quiet, too weird. Tyler never really knew what part of him Wade hated most. All he knew was that it was always enough. If he couldn’t get to his grandpa, then Tyler only had one place left to run. Elijah. Eli had always been there. Even as a kid himself, only four years older, Eli had taken it upon himself to protect him. He’d stepped in more times than Tyler could count, standing between Wade’s raised voice and Tyler’s shaking shoulders, taking the heat like it was second nature. Looking back on it now, Tyler didn’t know how Eli had done it. How he’d been so steady when he was still just a boy, too.

Eli had been his lighthouse in the storm. And remembering that, remembering how his brother never looked away, never flinched from the fire, left Tyler with a strange, bittersweet gratitude in the years that followed. Grateful to have had someone like that, and angry that Eli ever had to be that person in the first place.

Tyler hadn’t even realized how far he’d slipped out of the moment until the sound of Ennis clearing his throat snapped him back like a rubber band. His spine straightened instinctively, the wrench in his hand going still against his thigh. He blinked, breath catching in his throat, the weight in his chest still clinging to him like it didn’t want to let go. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring off. Might’ve been seconds. Might’ve been longer. All he knew was that his eyes had gone unfocused somewhere between the edge of the hood and the brittle treeline behind it, and in that moment, his thoughts had wandered where he usually didn’t let them go. Back to Elijah. It was too much for Tyler to think about. How the beatings got worse. How there was no more buffer. No more shelter. Just him and Wade, with no one left to stand between them.

He glanced up, bracing for it, expecting the look, the narrowed eyes that said he was wasting time. Instead, he was just watching him. One brow drawn, a quiet crease forming between his eyes. There was no anger behind it. Just a kind of measured curiosity, like he was trying to figure out what exactly had just flickered across Tyler’s face. There was no judgment in it. Just… observation. Maybe even concern, though Tyler wasn’t sure he deserved that.

“I--” His voice caught, and he swallowed, eyes darting down before he forced them back up again. “I’m sorry, Mister Del Mar. Sir. I didn’t mean to drift off like that, I was just--” He shook his head, trying to find words that wouldn’t sound pathetic. “Was listenin’. Got a little… sidetracked, is all. Won’t happen again.”

He didn’t know why his mouth felt dry all of a sudden. Or why his hands wouldn’t stop flexing around the wrench, his knuckles pale beneath the grime. It wasn’t like Ennis had raised his voice. Hell, he hadn’t even frowned. But Tyler could feel that old panic rising in his throat anyway, that aching, familiar pressure of trying not to mess up. Trying not to be a burden. Trying not to be too much.

“I asked if you’d jump in the truck and turn the engine. Need to hear where the knockin’ is comin’ from.” The words came out even, just like always, but there was a thread of expectation stitched into them, a quiet nudge that pulled Tyler back into motion like a hook behind the ribs.

Tyler jerked his head up like he’d forgotten he was still being watched. “Oh, uhm, yessir. I can do that. ’Course,” he stammered, the words fumbling out as his fingers scrambled to catch up with the thought.

He set the wrench down on the frame of the truck, metal clinking against metal. His fingers hesitated a second longer than they needed to, gripping the lip of the truck as though letting go might make something slip. Then he wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans, more out of habit than need, and reached into the front pocket of his flannel. The keys were wedged deep, caught in the denim crease, and it took him a second of fumbling to get a hold of them. Cold metal kissed his fingertips when he finally dragged them out.

His shoulder bumped the mirror as he reached for the handle, and he muttered a soft “shit” under his breath, shaking it off and pulling the driver’s side door open with a creak that sounded older than anything had a right to. Sliding into the cab of Black Betty felt like stepping into a second skin. Familiar in all the wrong ways. The cracked vinyl of the bench seat groaned beneath him as he settled in, the faint smell of oil, grease, and old cigarette smoke clinging to the interior. The windows were fogged slightly at the corners, and the faint smudge of fingerprints lined the glass where he’d rolled them up too quick the night before. He fit the key into the ignition with a quiet, practiced motion, but didn’t turn it right away.

Ennis didn’t know the first goddamn thing about Judas Priest. Or Slayer. Or whatever the hell else Tyler was talking about, rattling off band names like they were old friends. Ennis gave a few noncommittal grunts here and there, kept his focus on the task in front of him, but the truth was, all that talk about metal music and “Turbo Lovers” might as well’ve been in another language. He didn’t get it. Didn’t need to, really. What he did understand, what was becoming clearer by the minute, was the sinking realization that this truck of Tyler’s wasn’t worth saving. They’d been elbow-deep in it for a while now, trying one thing after another, checking bolts, tapping valves, testing leads, all with that same dull hopefulness Ennis had seen in men bluffing their way through a losing poker hand. But hope didn’t fix bent metal. And it sure as hell didn’t undo the sound of a rod knock that’d rattled the whole frame when Tyler turned the key.
 

"Okay," Ennis called, voice raised just enough to carry over the sputter of the engine. "Kill it and come out here."
 

The cab went quiet after a turn of the key and a reluctant cough. A few seconds later, Tyler slid out of the driver’s seat and shut the door behind him with a dull clunk. He looked like he’d been holding his breath. His cheeks were pink from the cold or maybe from frustration, and a few damp curls stuck to the back of his neck. He came around the front, wiping his hands on his jeans even though he hadn’t touched anything greasy.

“You ever rebuild an engine before?” Ennis asked, straightening up from where he’d been leaning over the fender. His back gave a quiet pop, and he rolled his shoulder with a grunt that said the workday had already gone too long.
 
 
Tyler blinked, caught off guard. “Me? No, sir,” he said, tone pitched with honest surprise, like it couldn’t possibly be him Ennis was talking to. “I done oil changes, brakes, fixed a busted fuel pump once. Changed a starter in my buddy’s truck. But nothin’ real serious.”
 
 
 “Didn’t figure,” Ennis said flatly. He tossed his rag onto the fender and stepped back, looking the whole vehicle over like he might see something different if he squinted hard enough. He didn’t.
 
 
 “She’s done,” he said after a long pause, “Rod’s gone. Sounds like she threw one clean through the block. That knock you heard? That wasn’t nothin’ good. Even if I had a lift and a whole shop’s worth of parts, which I don’t, you’d still be lookin’ at a full bottom-end rebuild. New crank, new pistons, maybe even machine work on the heads if they’re cracked. And that’s just to get her runnin’ again. Ain’t even touchin’ what the suspension or trans might look like.”
 
 
“Shit,” Tyler said quietly, after a long beat. He stood up and stepped back from the truck, hands bracing on his hips. “I was hopin’ it’d just… I dunno. Be a hose or a belt or somethin’. Somethin’ fixable.”
 

He watched the way Tyler’s shoulders slumped, just slightly, like the weight of that truth was pressing down on him. Ennis reached up and pulled the brim of his hat lower against the sun, then gave a nod toward the barn in the distance, “Come on,” he said. “Let’s clean up, check on the horses, maybe get out into the pasture and ride out to see how the cows are doin’. Better ways to spend the last light of the day than standin’ around mournin’ a dead truck.”

Tyler looked up at that, just a flicker of movement in his eyes, like the thought of a different focus might be enough to keep his mind from spiraling. He gave a short nod, then followed Ennis across the yard, boots crunching gravel beneath him. He didn’t say another word, but the way he trailed just half a step behind, like he didn’t want to admit how badly he needed the distraction, said plenty.

❖

The sun was sinking by the time they came in from the barn, painting the world in that soft gold that only showed up at the end of a long day. The sky above the ridgeline was streaked in ribbons of pink and pale lavender, fading into velvet blue. The horses had been turned out, tails flicking lazily as they wandered the far end of the pasture. Tyler’s thighs ached in that familiar, satisfying way, deep muscle soreness that told him he’d ridden right. Worked hard. Pulled his weight. He followed a few paces behind Ennis, still coming down from the rush of the afternoon. It had been his first real day back in the saddle in what felt like forever, and for a while out there, he’d almost forgotten the tight knot of anxiety that usually lived at the base of his spine.  Petal had been steady beneath him, easy to guide, and riding behind Ennis had taken the pressure off. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it. The saddle. The reins in his hands. The feeling of following someone’s lead without having to guess whether it would end in a raised voice or worse. Ennis didn’t bark orders. He didn’t demand Tyler do anything beyond keeping up. Just rode ahead of him, and Tyler had followed. 

The front door clicked shut with a soft thud as Tyler eased it into place, more careful than he needed to be. He jiggled the knob once. Twice. Listened to the latch click, then pulled just slightly to test it again. Shut tight. He blinked, trying to force the anxious thought out of his head, the one that told him he’d be yanked out of bed and thrown against the wall for not checking twice. He wasn’t in Anson anymore. Wade wasn’t here. No one was gonna drag him by the collar for leaving something open. His fingers lingered on the knob like they always did, the old panic still tucked behind his ribs like a bad habit. He could hear Wade’s voice even though he was states away. Can’t even close a goddamn door right, boy? You want the whole fuckin’ neighborhood in here?

Ennis didn’t say anything, just leaned back against the wall and hooked one boot with the toe of the other, kicking it off. He didn’t look at Tyler, just moved through the same ritual he’d probably done a thousand times before, boots off, hat hung, coat unbuttoned. Tyler watched for a second, taking his cue like he had the night before, only this time he didn’t feel quite so awkward. He didn’t hesitate as long before stepping out of his own boots, placing them neatly beside Ennis', just so. Lined up right, no mud on the rug. 

Ennis tossed a glance over his shoulder as he made his way toward the kitchen, wiping his hands off on the hem of his shirt, “Go on up and get cleaned up, huh? Water’s hot. Might do you some good. You can finish unpackin’ after.” His tone wasn’t pushy, wasn’t anything but casual suggestion, but it still landed like a stone in Tyler’s gut.


He stood frozen at the foot of the stairs, hands twitching slightly at his sides. He remembered the moment earlier, when Ennis had helped carry his duffel bags up after it became clear Black Betty wasn’t gonna start again, when it became clear he was staying. Not just for the night. Maybe longer. Long enough that he needed a room. A shower.

He swallowed hard.

Every part of him wanted to say no. Wanted to dig in his heels, make some excuse. Maybe he needed to check on something outside. Maybe he wasn’t dirty enough to bother. Hell, maybe he’d shower tomorrow, wasn’t like he was covered in mud or anything. But the real reason crawled beneath his ribs like a kicked dog. He didn’t want to be naked. Not in a house that wasn’t his. Not with other people moving around downstairs. Not with a door that might not lock right. Not with running water dulling his hearing and steam fogging the glass so he couldn’t see what might be coming. He didn’t want to unpack either. That made it permanent. Settled. His stuff scattered in drawers and closets meant he wasn’t leaving anytime soon, and that made his chest squeeze. If things turned sour, if Ennis got quiet in that wrong kind of way or Jack looked at him too long with pity or suspicion, he’d have no way to bolt. No truck. No money. No exit.

But he couldn’t say all that.

So he nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes sir. Course.”

Ennis gave a small nod and disappeared around the corner to Jack’s office, voice floating behind him. “Towels’re in the hallway closet. Take your time.”

Tyler mumbled a thank-you and turned toward the stairs, trying to keep his steps even. Calm. He didn’t look back.

His heart thudded heavy against his ribs as he reached the top of the stairs, every creak of the steps sounding louder than it should have. He walked slowly down the hallway, gaze darting to each closed door as if expecting one to fly open. It wasn’t the shower itself that scared him. It was the vulnerability of it. Stripping down, being naked in a house that didn’t belong to him. Not knowing who might knock. Not knowing who might walk past. Not being able to hear clearly over the water. It felt like walking blind into an open field with nothing but a bullseye painted across his back.

He moved slowly, socked feet nearly silent against the hardwood, until he reached the closet. His hand hovered near the knob, hesitating. He didn’t want to touch it. Didn’t want to make any noise at all, didn’t want to do something wrong. Stupid. Wrong house, wrong door, wrong move, and suddenly everything good might turn on a dime. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched, and then, with two fingers, eased the knob just enough to crack the door open. No squeak. No voice snapping at him from down the hall. Just the soft hush of breath leaving his lungs.

Inside, the shelves were neatly arranged, soft, clean towels folded in stacks, pale blue and white. Tyler grabbed one from the middle of the pile, not the top. He didn’t want to mess up the order. The towel was warm from the enclosed space, and he clutched it to his chest like it might somehow ground him, like it might shield him from everything he didn’t want to think about.

You’re bein’ stupid, he told himself. They ain’t like that. Jack and Ennis. They ain’t like that.

Still, his stomach twisted as he gently eased the closet door shut, barely letting the latch click into place. The towel was still clutched tight against his chest like a shield, the soft cotton bunched in his hands. He stood there for a second too long, like maybe the quiet of the hallway would offer some last-minute out. But there was no sound. No footsteps. No voices. Just the ticking of a distant clock and the faint groan of the old house settling into its bones. Tyler swallowed hard and turned, careful with every step, his weight distributed on the balls of his feet like he was walking on thin ice. His shoulder brushed the wall once, and he flinched, half-expecting someone to call out, What was that? Who’s up there? But the silence stayed steady.

He knew, logically, knew, Jack and Ennis were downstairs. Knew they weren’t the kind of men who’d punish him for making a little noise. Knew they had invited him into this house, helped him carry in his bags, made space for him like it was nothing. But the need to stay invisible had been carved into him for years. Stay quiet. Don’t be a problem. Don’t be a burden. Don’t draw attention. It didn’t go away just because he’d crossed a state line.

When he reached the bathroom door, his heart started thudding faster, heavier. It wasn’t loud in the hall, but it felt loud inside him, each beat landing like a knock against his ribs. He stopped in front of the door and stared at the knob like it might bite him. The brass was cool under his palm when he reached out, but his hand wasn’t steady. The tremor started small, in his fingertips, but it spread, wrist, forearm, then his  whole arm had gone shaky. It made his stomach twist, like he’d swallowed something rotten and it was working its way through him in waves.

It felt like standing at the edge of something. A cliff, maybe. Or the mouth of a cave he didn’t want to go into.

He didn’t want to do this. God, he didn’t want to. 

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead lightly to the doorframe, just for a second. Trying to steady himself. Trying to be brave. But bravery didn’t come easy when your whole life had taught you that being vulnerable meant being hurt. That skin was just something to be taken advantage of. That privacy didn’t belong to boys like him.

And worse, he could still hear Wade’s voice in the back of his head, as clear as if he’d followed him up the stairs. That hateful tone full of disgust, the one that never needed to be raised above a mutter to make Tyler feel two inches tall. What, you scared of water now? You want folks thinkin’ you some kind of dirty little thing? Get your ass in there and wash up, boy. You stink.

The water didn’t help. Never had. Even when he cranked it hot enough to scald,  he still felt cold. Still felt filthy. It was like trying to scrape something out from under his skin that wouldn’t budge. Like the worst parts of him had taken root. Grown thorns. No matter how hard he scrubbed, his arms, his chest, the inside of his thighs, it was never enough. He never came clean. He blinked hard, jaw tight, and twisted the knob. The door swung open on hinges that whined a little, and Tyler winced at the sound. He stepped inside fast and shut it behind him. Locked it. Clicked the latch down tight. Then tried it once. Then again. Three times, just to be sure. Just to be certain that no one could get in unless he let them.

Because Ennis had told him to. Because he didn’t want to be a problem. Because the alternative, sitting downstairs and being noticed for not showering, felt worse in a different way. Because it didn’t matter how many times he said no, or please, or don’t. It had never mattered before. Why would it now?

He started with his shirt. Long sleeves. The familiar softness of worn flannel. He peeled it off slowly, careful not to let the buttons clack against the counter. Then the undershirt. Pulled it over his head and folded it too, each edge lined up just so, his hands moving like they’d practiced this ritual a hundred times. Which they had. Because folding meant focus. Meant control. Meant his mind could stay just a little ahead of the panic that clawed at his throat. Socks came next. He sat on the closed lid of the toilet to pull them off, one at a time, fingers clumsy against the fabric. Then jeans. He unbuttoned them slowly, working the metal loose, and slid them down, trying not to think about the way his bare legs looked in the low bathroom light. Everything was folded neatly, because it gave his hands something to do. Because that’s what he’d learned, control what you can. Make things orderly. Make it neat. Don’t give them a reason to look at you longer than they have to.

When he was down to just his underwear, Tyler stalled out completely. His hands hovered at his sides, then lifted halfway to his waistband before falling again. His chest was rising too fast, like he’d just run half a mile instead of standing still in a quiet bathroom. The air wasn’t cold, but still, Tyler’s skin broke out in goosebumps. His arms prickled, and a tremor rolled down his back so sharp it made his shoulder twitch. He stared down at the tile floor like it could anchor him. Pale grout lines, neat squares, all lined up like something orderly he could hold onto. But his focus wavered. Slipped sideways. In his mind, the tiles turned yellowed and cracked. The light overhead started to buzz in his ears, just a little, like it used to. And suddenly he wasn’t at North Star Ranch anymore. He was thirteen. Or maybe eleven. It all bled together. He was standing barefoot on cold linoleum, trying not to cry, trying not to breathe too loud. Trying not to make it worse.

His fingers were shaking as they curled into the waistband of his briefs. He gripped tight for a moment, too tight, then forced himself to move. One sharp breath in, one quiet exhale out through his nose, and he tugged them down in a single motion. Stepped out of them before he could stop. Before he could second-guess. Before he could start crying. The porcelain was cool beneath his feet. He reached for the tap and turned it, slowly at first, then fully. The pipes groaned a little, then water rushed out in a steady stream. He twisted the knob toward hot and waited. Steam rose steadily, curling into the air, blurring the mirror above the sink until his reflection disappeared into a blur.

Good.

He didn’t want to see himself anyway.

His shower had been fast, barely more than a rinse, really. He hadn’t let himself linger. The heat hadn’t sunk deep enough to do any real good, but it was better than nothing. The second he was dry enough, he’d pulled on his clothes with quick motions, underwear, jeans, a clean shirt, socks tugged on one at a time. His hair was still damp when he left the room, leaving a few wet patches on the collar of his shirt. He stepped into the hallway and made straight for the stairs, still catching his breath. His skin prickled beneath his clothes from the memory of the water running down his back, the steam, the silence. He hadn't realized how bad it had gotten until the air hit him afterward. The panic had crept in quiet, like smoke under a door. Now he was just trying to walk it off.

Counting helped.

"One… two…" he muttered under his breath, fingers brushing the banister as he went. The stairs creaked underfoot, but he kept the rhythm. "Three… four… five…" He barely made a sound otherwise, his steps light, practiced from a lifetime of learning how not to be noticed. "Six… seven…"

The scent hit him before he hit the landing. A rich smell, meaty, spiced, with just enough kick to sting the edge of his nose. Chili. Homemade, by the smell of it. And good. Real good. His stomach let out a low growl he couldn’t quite suppress, like it was just now remembering it was allowed to want things. He paused at the foot of the stairs, the hum of voices distant from the kitchen, the clink of silverware against the side of a pot. Normal sounds. Domestic. They should’ve comforted him. They almost did.

He drew a breath through his nose, letting the smell of dinner fill his lungs. Chili. Actual, honest-to-God dinner. Back home, dinner was a luxury you earned. Wade had used food like a leash, tightening it when Tyler asked for too much, letting it go slack just long enough to make him believe it was safe, then yanking it back hard the second he made a wrong step. Most nights, Tyler had gone to bed hungry, not just in his stomach but in his very being. Starved for warmth, for kindness, for anything that didn’t come with a price tag.

He didn’t know if he’d ever stop being surprised by things like this, by the fact that dinner was just… there. Waiting for him. That someone had made it without expecting anything in return. No yelling. No strings. No price to be paid later.

Tyler hesitated against  as he stepped around the corner, fingers twitching at his sides. Jack and Ennis were already seated, bowls in front of them, steam rising in slow spirals from the chili like it had just been ladled out. Their quiet conversation had tapered off, replaced by the soft clink of metal against ceramic, the occasional sip, the scrape of chair legs adjusting just slightly across the floor, homey, like something off a TV show Tyler wasn’t sure he was allowed to watch as a kid. 

But it wasn’t them that stopped Tyler in his tracks. It was the place waiting for him.

Same spot as breakfast. Same chair. But this time, it wasn’t just a spot, there was a bowl. A real bowl, already filled, chili thick and dark and rich-looking, with a folded napkin, a spoon set neatly beside it, and a glass of water glinting faintly in the light. Steam rolled from the surface of the food, and Tyler could see bits of tomato and kidney bean and what looked like tender beef all swimming together, the surface dusted with black pepper and maybe even a hint of paprika. For a moment, he couldn’t move. His throat went tight. His eyes burned. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away quickly, jaw working, trying like hell to shove the feeling down where it wouldn’t be seen. It was just dinner. Just food.

But it wasn’t.

There weren’t any strings. No one had made him beg for it. He hadn’t had to earn it by staying quiet, or keeping out of sight, or doing the hard work no one else wanted. He hadn’t been handed it with a grumble and a warning that he better be damn grateful. It was just… there. Like someone had thought, Tyler will be hungry. Better make sure he’s got a bowl.

He hovered behind the chair, shoulders tight, staring down at the place like it might disappear if he reached for it too fast. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Maybe to be told it was a mistake. Maybe to hear, That’s not for you, what the hell made you think you could just sit there and eat like one of us? He didn’t want to assume. Didn’t want to take without asking. Didn’t want to be called selfish again, or greedy, or worse. His gaze flicked up once toward Jack and Ennis, still eating, not watching him, not acting like this was a big deal. They hadn’t made it a big deal. Which somehow made it worse, because it was. To him, it was everything. It was care. It was acknowledgment. It was safety, or something like it. And that scared the hell out of him.

He might’ve stood there forever if Jack hadn’t looked up just then, glancing toward him with that easy, lopsided smile of his, like he’d noticed Tyler’s hesitation and thought nothing of it.

“There’s cornbread in the oven,” Jack said, tipping his head toward the stove. “Still warm. Or if you ain’t a cornbread fella, there’s crackers in the pantry. Bobby don’t like cornbread neither. Says it’s too sweet, but what the hell does he know.”

Tyler blinked. His hands unclenched slightly. His breath came in a soft exhale, like the pressure in his chest had eased just enough to let it go. Jack hadn’t looked at him with suspicion. Or pity. Or that familiar exhaustion grown-ups wore when they were already fed up before he’d said a single word. Just calm kindness. Just… normalcy. He wet his lips, still unsure, still stiff with habit. “Oh. Uhm. Thank you, Mister Twist.”

Jack waved a hand. “Ain’t gotta thank me for food, kid. There’s sour cream and cheese in the fridge, too, if you like that sort of thing. Oh, and a couple cans of Dr. Pepper, I think. You bein’ from Texas, I figure you like Dr. Pepper same as me.”

That earned a real response. Dr. Pepper. God, he hadn’t had one in weeks. Tyler’s head lifted a little, and he nodded, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jack had thought about it. Thought about him. What he might like. What might make him feel more at home. “I do. Love Dr. Pepper, sir. Thank you. Really.”

Jack’s grin widened, eyes crinkling at the corners like he’d just won a quiet game nobody else had been playing. “Good,” he said, reaching for a chunk of cornbread with his fingers and tearing a piece off. “See? Told you, Ennis. Makes you and your damn Coke the odd ones out.”

Across the table, Ennis didn’t even look up. He just made a low noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a grunt and a grumble, as he stirred his spoon through the thick red-brown swirl of his chili, “Least mine ain’t got twenty-three flavors of whatever the hell,” he muttered, and if there was a note of dry amusement tucked under the flatness of his voice, Tyler wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it.

Still, even with the tightness in his chest and the nerves buzzing in his limbs, Tyler crossed the kitchen in slow steps. The fridge door opened with a soft tug, the rubber gasket pulling free with a hiss. Cold air spilled out, brushing against his flushed face, cooling the damp at the back of his neck and wrists. His eyes scanned the shelves instinctively, trained by habit to search fast and take little. But then, there it was. Wedged just behind a carton of milk and a tub of butter, the familiar maroon label of a Dr. Pepper can, its silver rim catching the light. Tyler stared at it for a second. Just stared. He hadn’t even known he wanted one. Hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t dared. Dr. Pepper was a comfort he hadn’t touched in weeks, maybe longer. The kind of indulgence he’d long stopped expecting. A stupid little thing, but there it was, like Jack had gone out of his way to think of him. His hand moved before he could stop it, fingers wrapping around the cold aluminum, condensation already slick against his skin. The cold bit into the heat of his palm and stilled something inside him, like ice water poured down the center of his nerves. He held it for a moment longer than necessary, just breathing, grounding himself in that sensation.

Tyler nudged the fridge shut and turned toward the stove. The oven was still warm, the lingering heat brushing his thighs through his jeans as he stepped in front of it. He opened the door carefully, flinching slightly at the wave of hot air that curled out, but it wasn’t unpleasant, just comforting. Inside, a cast iron skillet rested on the rack, its surface lined with a dozen squares of golden cornbread, crisp on top and soft around the edges. He reached for a square of cornbread from the pan inside, fingers careful not to touch the hot metal as he worked it loose with the edge of the serving knife. He didn’t grab a plate, some old instinct told him not to make more dishes than he needed. Instead, he yanked a sheet of paper towel from the roll, folded it quick, and used that as a makeshift plate. It was a little thing, but it made him feel steadier somehow. Less intrusive. Like he wasn’t taking too much.

Tyler lowered himself into the seat, careful not to make noise, and set his drink and food down in front of him. The bowl of chili waited patiently, steam rising up into his face, thick with the scent of cumin, tomato, and slow-cooked beef. He took a breath, let the warmth sink into his skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, sat down to a meal that was just his, no tests, no tradeoffs, no waiting for the other shoe to drop.

❖

The mattress dipped beneath Ennis’ weight with a familiar groan of protest, the old springs adjusting to his solid frame like they had a hundred nights before. He moved slowly, shoulders heavy with the day’s labor, the ache in his back persistent from hours spent bent over Tyler’s truck. That quiet creak of the bedframe had become something he looked forward to, not just the relief of rest, but the comfort of routine, of knowing he was home. Of knowing that when he crawled under the worn cotton sheets, Jack would be there. Warm, waiting, always taking up more than his fair share of the bed. The soft rustle of sheets met his ears as Jack shifted, rolling over with a grunt that wasn’t annoyed so much as familiar. He turned to face Ennis, one arm folded beneath his pillow, eyes heavy-lidded but focused. There was a look on his face, expectant, amused, with just a hint of mock impatience, like he already knew how this was gonna go.

Jack didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him like he was waiting on something. His brow quirked slightly, his mouth twitching like he was biting back a smirk.

“What?” Ennis asked, brow creasing as he turned his head on the pillow to meet Jack’s stare. His voice came out rough with exhaustion but tinged with amusement nonetheless.

“Don’t ‘what’ me, Ennis Del Mar,” Jack grumbled, but there was a smile tugging at the corners. “‘Bout wore myself out bein’ patient. You know what I want.”

Ennis let out a quiet huff, turning onto his side to face him fully. He knew, of course he knew. Jack Twist was the neediest son of a bitch he’d ever met, always touching, always nudging close, always looking for any excuse to fold himself around Ennis like a blanket. It was one of the first things Ennis had noticed about him all those years ago and one of the hardest things to let himself lean into. Jack had always craved that kind of affection with an open hunger, like he was making up for years of going without. If Ennis took too long getting into bed, Jack would wait, arms crossed or face pouty, until he got what he wanted. Tonight was no different.

“I swear,” Ennis muttered, dragging one arm out from under the covers and opening it just enough to make space. “You’re worse than the damn dogs.” But he didn’t mean it. Not really. Because the moment he opened his arms, Jack moved in like he’d been holding back all day. He scooted forward, tucked himself in with the ease that came from knowing he was welcome, and let out a satisfied little hum as he pressed his face into Ennis’s shoulder.

Ennis let out a little exaggerated groan, not real pain but something close to teasing, like Jack’s weight had knocked the air out of him. “Damn near crushed me,” he muttered, lips brushing the crown of Jack’s hair.

“Better get used to it,” Jack mumbled, voice muffled against Ennis’s shirt. His arm snuck around Ennis’s waist, fingers splaying wide across his back like he was afraid he might slip away. “You signed up for this.”

“Pretty sure I didn’t sign shit,” Ennis grumbled, though his hand was already settling at the small of Jack’s back, warm and steady. He felt Jack’s breath hitch on a laugh, the kind that shook them both just a little.

“Should’ve read the fine print, cowboy.”

The room was wrapped in stillness, the kind that only came after a long day on the ranch, when even the floorboards seemed to stop their creaking, and the wind outside hushed down to nothing more than a soft sigh against the windows. Ennis had almost let himself believe Jack had finally fallen asleep. He was quiet, breathing slowly, head tucked in just under Ennis’s chin, like maybe the day had worn him out enough to keep him from thinking too hard. But of course, that was never the case. Jack’s mind never quit, not even with the weight of blankets pulled up to his chest and the warmth of Ennis beside him. If anything, night made it worse, like his brain ran faster in the dark, when there wasn’t anything else to distract him.

“So…” Jack murmured, drawing it out like he already knew it’d wake Ennis fully, “what d’you think of Tyler? Still reckon us takin’ him in was a mistake?”

Ennis didn’t answer right away. He let out a quiet grunt, not quite irritated, but clearly not surprised either. Jack always picked the most inconvenient times for serious talk, never over breakfast, never in the truck. Always when the lights were out, when Ennis was two steps from sleep and too worn down to dodge the hard questions.

“Hey now,” Ennis corrected, shifting just enough to press his arm more firmly around Jack’s back, “I never said it was a mistake. I said it was a risk.”

Jack didn’t say anything right away, but the tilt of his head against Ennis’s shoulder made it clear he was listening, waiting.

“But…” Ennis shifted under the covers, arm tightening slightly around Jack’s back. “He’s a good kid. Don’t talk much, but he listens. Pays attention. Didn't need to be told twice when I had him movin’ the calves. Quick learner. Can’t say that about half the grown men I’ve had workin’ here.”

His voice trailed off, and for a moment, he was quiet again. Not because he didn’t have more to say, just because saying it out loud made it harder to ignore.

Ennis stared up into the dark, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling he couldn’t see. “Earlier today, when we were workin’ on that busted-up truck of his, I told him to adjust the flashlight. Just somethin’ simple, move it a little right. He went the wrong way, no big deal. I corrected him, but when I looked up… Jesus, Jack.” He paused, jaw tight, like the memory alone made his chest ache. “His whole face changed. Eyes gone wide. Like I was gonna belt him one for it. Didn’t breathe for a second, like he was bracin’ for somethin’ he didn’t deserve.”

He paused again, jaw working for a second like he was chewing on the thought. He hadn’t meant to talk this much. But it was too late to take it back now, “And then when he rolled up his sleeves.” he paused again, eyes fixed somewhere in the dark even though he couldn’t see shit. “I saw his arms. Scars. Long ones. Some looked old, some not. But they weren’t from workin’ cattle. Weren’t from brush or fence wire. I know what that kind of scarring looks like. These weren’t like that. Either he put ’em there himself, or someone else did. Either way... it says plenty.”

He ran a hand down his face again, slower this time, dragging the rough pads of his fingers over the stubble on his jaw like he could scrub the thoughts out of his skin if he just pressed hard enough. But they clung to him like burrs, persistent, buried deep, impossible to shake off, “I didn’t say nothin’ to him. Figured he was already spooked enough, didn’t wanna make it worse. But I’ve been thinkin’ on it since. Can’t stop thinkin’ on it.” He shifted, adjusting the blanket over his chest, but his hand stayed where Jack could reach it. “What kinda place you gotta come from to flinch like that? To be that quiet, that careful? How scared you gotta be to keep your damn head down all the time, like even breathin’ too loud might get you hit?”

Jack finally moved, just a little. His fingers reached out again, this time lacing with Ennis’s under the covers, thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

Ennis swallowed hard, the knot in his throat tighter now. “I just…” His voice cracked a little, and he cleared it with a breath. “I ain’t sure I know how to help a kid like that, Jack. I ain’t good at talkin’ like you are. Ain’t good at makin’ folks feel safe. I’m just, me. And I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Jack gave his hand a squeeze, “Don’t think he needs fixin’,” he said softly. “Don’t think he’s broken. Just… been hurt too much for too long. He don’t need us tellin’ him what to do or askin’ questions he don’t wanna answer. He needs time. Room. A place where he ain’t got to keep lookin’ over his shoulder.”

“I don’t know where he came from,” Ennis added, “but it ain’t a place he wants to go back to. That much is clear.”

Jack made a soft sound, something halfway between a sigh and a hum, and leaned in until his forehead came to rest against Ennis’s temple. “Then we don’t let him go back,” he said simply. Just the surety Jack always had when he set his heart to something. “Whatever it was that he’s runnin’ from… we’re his out now. We’re the ones that get to make sure he’s got somewhere to go that don’t hurt.”

Ennis’s chest tightened. The idea of being someone’s “out” didn’t come easy to him. He’d barely managed to survive his own youth. He hadn’t had anyone to lean on. The idea that someone else, some boy who hadn’t even hit twenty, might be looking to him for safety, it scared him down to the bone.

“But what if I mess it up?” he asked, quieter than before. “What if I say somethin’ wrong? What if I scare him off without meanin’ to?”

Jack let out a soft breath, like he’d expected that question to come sooner or later. “Then you try again,” he said. “Same way we figured each other out. Ain’t about gettin’ it perfect, Ennis. It’s about showin’ up. About bein’ there. That’s what matters.”

Ennis let that sink in. He didn’t answer right away, just shifted his arm so it wrapped more fully around Jack’s waist, pulling him close until there wasn’t any space left between them. Ennis didn’t have the answers, not yet. But he had Jack. And that was all he needed.

Chapter Text

The morning started off quiet, the kind of stillness that settled over the ranch before the rest of the world decided to catch up. Pale light filtered in through the kitchen windows, catching on the rising steam from the stove. Ennis stood at the stove with a spatula in one hand, turning over omelets that were more practical than pretty. He hadn’t felt like doing anything too complicated. It was a working morning, not a slow Sunday one.

The old radio on the counter gave off a hum of static between notes, Faron Young’s voice lilting beneath the hiss like he was singing from the far end of a canyon. It was peaceful, almost. The kind of quiet Ennis had learned to appreciate more and more these past few years. But Jack had never been one for keeping quiet, not when his mind got to working on something. And this morning, it was clear from the look on his face, elbows on the table, coffee in hand, eyes too damn thoughtful for six in the morning, that he’d already run himself halfway into a conversation before even opening his mouth. Ennis didn’t glance over. Didn’t need to. He could feel Jack’s stare like a burn between his shoulder blades.

Sure enough, after a long pause and a soft clink of ceramic against the table, Jack cleared his throat and said, “I been thinkin’.”

Ennis sighed through his nose, didn’t miss a beat flipping the first omelet onto a plate, “Well,” he said, “That’s usually when the trouble starts.”

Behind him, Jack gave a small, amused snort, “Oughta have a little more faith in me by now.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ennis said, reaching for the last of the egg mixture, “I got plenty. Just ain’t always well-placed.”

Behind him, Jack huffed a laugh, like he knew damn well he’d earned that one. Ennis could picture the look without even turning around, the little twist at the corner of Jack’s mouth, the amused squint in his eyes. But a laugh never meant the end of it with Jack. If anything, it was just the warning shot. Ennis knew where this was headed, knew the circle Jack’s mind had been running in since the day they’d picked that boy up outside Denver. He didn’t need to guess. He already knew the name that was about to cross Jack’s lips.

Tyler.

The kid had only been at the ranch for three weeks, but somehow, every third thought out of Jack’s mouth seemed to orbit him now. Something he’d noticed, something he was worried about, some damn thing the boy had done that stuck in his mind longer than it should’ve. And it wasn’t just Jack, though Ennis liked pretending otherwise. 

Truth was, Ennis had been watching too. More than he should. More than he meant to. The kid was quiet. Skittish. Walked like he was already halfway braced for the next blow. Ennis had seen that kind of posture before, head low, hands busy, eyes always watching the edges of a room like he was waiting for something to jump out at him. He worked hard, harder than men twice his age, throwing himself into chores without complaint. Never asked for more than what was set in front of him. Didn’t crack a smile often, and when he did, it was faint, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold onto it. He didn’t grumble either, not about the cold mornings, not about the rough work, not about being dead on his feet come sundown. Just put his head down and got on with it.

Ennis knew that look. Knew it too well. He’d worn it himself once, years back, and he wasn’t proud of how long it had taken to shed it, if he ever really had. Seeing it again, stamped fresh on someone else’s face, tugged at his gut in a way he couldn’t put words to.

“I was just thinkin’,” he said, setting the cup down with a quiet clink against the table, “Maybe after lunch we head into town. Take the kid along, let him pick out a few things for his room. Don’t feel right, him livin’ outta that little duffel bag like he’s just stoppin’ by for a night.” Jack’s gaze flicked toward Ennis’s back, studying the set of his shoulders as he worked at the stove, then pressed on, “He needs boots, too. Badly, En. Ain’t fair the way he’s runnin’ himself ragged in that worn-out pair. Ain’t much good for workin’ cattle, much less keepin’ his feet under him all winter.” 

Ennis slid the spatula under the eggs, the edge scraping quiet against the cast iron, and gave the pan a practiced tilt. He didn’t bother looking over his shoulder, “Boots ain’t cheap, Jack,” He let the omelet fold neatly in on itself before easing it onto the waiting plate, “Can’t just go throwin’ money around ‘cause the kid’s boots are wore out. Got plenty of other places it needs to go.”

Behind him, Jack sighed, loud enough to make his point without saying a word. The scrape of his chair followed, a restless sound that told Ennis he wasn’t about to drop it. “Ennis,” Jack said, edged with impatience, “Far as I’m concerned, I’m the one that does the damn books ‘round here. I know what’s comin’ in, what’s goin’ out, down to the last damn cent. I wouldn’t’ve brought it up if I thought it’d put us in a bad spot.” 

“Boy’s workin’ his ass off, harder than most hands we’ve had come through here, and you know it. Least we can do is make sure his boots ain’t fallin’ apart under him.” Jack leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair, and shook his head, “Hell, we ain’t been out in forever anyway. Might do us all some good to get off the property for a bit. Drive into town, stop by the mall, grab some dinner. Be somethin’ different. Be somethin’ nice.”

That pulled a chuckle out of Ennis despite himself. He shook his head, finally turning just enough to glance at Jack over his shoulder, “The mall, Jack? That what you’re pitchin’ to me this early in the mornin’?” He turned a little further, just enough to see the spark in Jack’s eyes and the grin beginning to bloom at the edges of his mouth, “Don’t reckon they sell feed or baler parts down there. Might be you’re thinkin’ of someone else.”

Jack grinned wider, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening, “Yeah, the mall,” he said, nodding like he was reading off a map, “Big place. Bright lights. Stores that sell things with tags still on. Folks walkin’ around smellin’ like soap instead of livestock. You might’ve heard of it once, long time ago. Back when you still had patience for new things.”

Ennis shook his head, though the smile lingered, “You and your ideas of fun,” he muttered. Still, he didn’t say no. Didn’t push it away. Deep down, he knew Jack was right. Tyler needed more than just a roof and a list of chores. He needed a pair of boots that didn’t cut into his heels, a bed that felt like his, a reason to believe he had a place here. And maybe a day off the ranch, even if it meant enduring the fluorescent purgatory of the Villa Italia Mall, wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Even if it meant letting Jack have the last word. Which, no doubt, he’d gloat about the entire goddamn ride back.

The worn wood of the staircase let out a now familiar creak beneath Tyler’s feet, each step down sounding louder than the last in the stillness of the kitchen. For a split second, he wished he’d just stayed upstairs. Not out of laziness or sleepiness, but instinct. A flicker of something crawling up the back of his neck that told him he was walking into something. He could’ve dragged his feet, claimed a headache, gone back upstairs and waited it out behind the safety of a closed door. But instead, he made himself keep going. One more step. Then another. Until he was at the bottom, standing there like someone who’d just wandered into a room he wasn’t supposed to be in.

Both Jack and Ennis looked up the moment he came into view, and Tyler froze like a deer caught in the open. One hand hung awkwardly by his side, the other still holding onto the edge of his flannel sleeve, fingers absently twisting the fabric. His whole body tensed up, going stiff under the weight of their attention. Not because they looked mad, because they didn’t. That was somehow worse. They weren’t glaring. No furrowed brows, no angry words ready to drop. Just watching. 

Jack sat at the kitchen table, relaxed as ever, coffee in hand. His eyes were warm, bright even in the low light, but that grin made Tyler twitch. It wasn’t mean. It just said we were waiting on you. Ennis was by the stove, standing still with a spatula in his hand. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t cooking, just watching. His expression was quieter, less open than Jack’s, but there was something behind his eyes. Something that made Tyler feel like he was standing on scales, being measured.

Tyler’s steps slowed. He glanced between the two of them, that prey animal instinct settling in his chest. There was a look being passed between them, one of those wordless exchanges older folks seemed to trade like currency. Some kind of agreement, or plan, or shared decision that he wasn’t part of but was clearly about. It made him feel like he was walking into a room that had already been rearranged behind his back. That look usually meant one of two things: they were either about to give you a task so miserable nobody else wanted it, or they’d been talking about you and finally decided it was time to let you in on the joke. Either way, Tyler didn’t like it.

Jack’s grin widened the way it always did when he was about to lay something on you and act like it was no big deal. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped across the backrest, the other tapping a lazy rhythm on his coffee mug, “Well, hell,” he said, drawing the words out, “Speak of the devil.”

Tyler blinked, throat dry. The words sat heavy in his ears. Speak of the devil. He forced a smile, but it was thin, more reflex than comfort, “Mornin’,” he mumbled, scratchy from sleep and nerves. He tried to sound casual, but his tone missed the mark by a mile, “Didn’t mean to interrupt nothin’.” He didn’t sit. Didn’t even move toward the table. Just hovered awkwardly by the table like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome or already too late.

Jack just chuckled and leaned forward, motioning toward the chair across from him like the whole thing was perfectly normal, “Ain’t interruptin’. Far from it,” he said, “We were just talkin’ about you.”

Tyler blinked. That was worse. That was way worse.

A flicker of something like panic skittered across his chest, searing enough to make his breath catch. His mind started racing, unspooling a list of every possible thing they could’ve been talking about, from chores he might’ve screwed up to reasons he didn’t even know existed. He gave an awkward laugh, reflexive, too dry to be convincing. It didn’t make anything feel easier. His hand rose, fingers brushing the back of his neck, brushing through the curls there like he could somehow rub the tension out of his own spine. His posture stayed tight, one foot nudging at the floor in an unconscious fidget, like he was half a second from backing toward the door without even realizing it.

He didn’t like being talked about. Friendly or not. Especially friendly. That kind of attention never sat right with him. Felt too much like a spotlight, too much like someone peeling back the edges of his skin to see what was underneath. He never knew where to put his hands, how to stand, how to breathe without feeling like he was being studied.

“Were y’all…” he started, then hesitated. He motioned vaguely between the two of them, the gesture half-hearted, like his body didn’t want to ask the question his brain already dreaded hearing the answer to, “Was it… good talkin’? Or…” His voice faltered at the end, unsure. He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. 

Ennis moved finally,  like he’d been waiting for Tyler to get the words out before doing anything else. He set a plate down in front of the empty chair with the same matter-of-fact efficiency he used for most things. Then he looked up, catching Tyler’s eye, “Ain’t bad,” Ennis said simply. “Just… somethin’ we figured might need talkin’ through.”

Tyler nodded slowly, though it didn’t do much to settle the unease gnawing at him. That kind of phrase, “somethin’ needs discussin’,” had a long and ugly history in his life. It was never just talk. It was always a precursor, a warning shot dressed up like conversation. A moment before the blow hit. He’d heard it from teachers, foremen, hell, his own father, and worse, from people who couldn’t quite bring themselves to say you’re not wanted here plain, so they wrapped it up in softer language and handed it to him like a gift. Sometimes they said it like they were doing him a favor.

“This just ain’t workin’ out.”

“I think it’d be best if you moved along.”

“Ain’t no hard feelings, alright?”

Every time he’d heard words like that, it’d been followed by a door closing behind him. He didn’t hear it from Jack or Ennis, not yet, but that didn’t stop his pulse from quickening. His body knew how this script went, even if the actors had changed. He hovered for a second, chewing at the inside of his cheek, then nodded faintly and stepped the rest of the way into the room. His hand crept to the hem of his sleeve and twisted the fabric tight in his fingers. Whatever this was, they’d already decided he was involved. And whether he liked it or not, he was gonna have to hear it.

Tyler sat in his spot at the table, pulling at a loose thread in his flannel, and winced despite himself when Ennis joined them. He felt sick, his heart was pounding rabbit fast against, and yet here he was, willingly feeding himself to the wolf. He didn’t reach for his fork. Didn’t so much as glance at the plate in front of him. The steam rising off the eggs felt irrelevant. Wrong, even. Why bother eating if they were about to tell him to pack up? What would be the point of filling his stomach just to get kicked out on a full one?

Across the table, Jack took a bite of food without ceremony, chewing like there wasn’t a single thing out of the ordinary. He’d already started talking before he’d even finished the bite, “We were just thinkin’,” Jack said around the mouthful, his words slurred slightly but still unmistakable, “Might be a good day to take it easy. Head into town. Check out the mall or somethin’. Figured we could swing by PMM, get you set up with a new pair of boots.”

Tyler blinked, then blinked again, his brow faintly furrowing as he stared at Jack like he’d misunderstood something. His brain lagged behind the moment, still waiting for the real conversation to start. He’d spent the whole morning preparing for some kind of talk about packing up and moving on, or worse, a gentle shove toward the next bus out of Evergreen. He hadn’t braced himself for kindness. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out at first. It was like his brain had to circle the block before the words could land. Like he’d been halfway down a bad road and Jack had taken a sudden turn, and now Tyler didn’t even know where they were anymore.

“What?” he asked, quietly, like even the word surprised him.

Jack looked up from his plate, chewing as he shrugged, “Boots,” he said again, simple as that, “Yours are fallin’ apart. We seen the soles damn near peelin’ off yesterday. Can’t have you out limpin’ through calvin’ season. S’gonna be rough enough as is.”

The words made sense, technically. They were in English. But Tyler’s brain still lagged, like it had tripped over itself. He dropped his eyes again, hand still twisting the thread at his cuff. It frayed further under his fingers, unraveling into a little knot that he clung to without realizing. His voice didn’t come back right away. It got caught somewhere behind his ribs, buried under years of learning not to expect kindness for free. Kindness, in Tyler’s world, always came with conditions. A leash. A hook. 

Boots? New boots?

He didn’t know what to do with generosity when it wasn’t backed by a ledger. When no one followed it up with now you owe me. Every act of help he’d ever been given came with a price, even if it wasn’t spoken out loud. But this didn’t feel like that. Jack hadn’t said anything about paying it back. Hadn’t even looked at him like he was supposed to. And that unsettled him more than if Jack had told him to get lost.

He licked his lips, swallowing down the tightness that had risen into his throat,  “Y’all don’t… gotta do that,” he said, eyes still fixed on the knot of thread in his fingers, “They’re still holdin’ up okay. I mean… ‘s not like I can pay you back or nothin’.” That was the truth of it. Whether they were being nice or not didn’t matter, he couldn’t afford new boots, and having them offered made his stomach twist even more. 

Ennis finally spoke from his place at the end of the table, “We’re buyin’ ’em.”

Tyler’s head jerked up. His heart stuttered in his chest at the firmness in that voice. There was no space left for negotiation in it. No opening to slip away through.

Ennis didn’t dress it up in sentiment or go fishing for thanks. He just laid it out straight, like it was as obvious as daylight, “Can’t have you workin’ out there with me wearin’ shit that’s barely holdin’ together. It ain’t safe. You roll your ankle tryin’ to chase a calf in those boots, you’re out the whole season. And I ain’t chasin’ after calves alone.”

It was practical. A ranch logic kind of answer. Something you could write off as a necessity. Something Tyler knew Ennis was using to dodge the real reason. Because Jack might offer kindness easily and openly, but Ennis didn’t show softness. He didn’t speak in warmth. But Tyler wasn’t blind, he felt it anyway, Ennis had said something. He’d noticed. And for a man who usually kept his words close to his chest, the fact he’d spoken at all said more than anything else could’ve.

“Well hell, I guess it’s settled then. Eat up then, Ty. We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” Jack said, casual, like they weren’t talking about something that made Tyler want to crawl right out of his skin. He gave one of those easy grins that made the whole thing seem like no big deal, just another morning at the kitchen table, no different from the last.

He nodded stiffly, more out of habit than understanding, and glanced down at his plate like he could will himself to be hungry. But his stomach was knotted too tight to even consider eating, nerves coiled so deep he could feel them buzzing in his fingers. A long day ahead. That’s what Jack had said. And he’d meant it with a smile, like it’d be something simple, pleasant, even. But to Tyler, the thought of walking through a mall, of people looking at him with their neat hair and clean clothes, made his chest go tight. He could already feel the way their eyes might slide over him, measuring, questioning, wondering if he was lost or stealing or both. He could hear the phantom judgment in their voices. What’s someone like him doing in a place like this?

He’d take mucking out stalls or being dragged through every inch of the pasture before stepping foot in a place like that. He didn’t belong there. He knew it. Everyone else would know it, too. But they’d made the offer, and he wasn’t about to spit on it. He’d been offered too few kindnesses in life to take one lightly. So he sat there and tried to put gratitude into words that wouldn’t make him sound pathetic.

“Thank you… I—I dunno how to thank y’all,” he said, the words tumbling out like he hadn’t had time to weigh them first, “If there’s anythin’ I can do—anything at all—just say it, and I will, I swear—”

He could feel himself spiraling, the sentence slipping out all tangled, and he hated how small he sounded, how quick he was to offer himself up like he was trying to repay a debt that hadn’t even been asked of him yet. The shame started to bloom hot in his cheeks, flushing down his neck. He was making it worse. He always did when he got nervous, couldn’t stop picking at his own worth like a loose thread he thought he had to tie off with effort.

He was right on the verge of saying something downright pitiful when Ennis cut in, deadpan as ever.

“You can eat your damn breakfast.”

For a moment, Tyler froze. His first instinct was to flinch, to brace for the sharpness he thought he heard in the words, but then he saw Ennis’s face. That half-smile. The kind of smile that didn’t show up often, but when it did, it said more than a whole conversation might. It was a reminder to settle down. To stop tripping over his own feet trying to prove he deserved to be here.

Tyler let out a breath that stuttered on its way out, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. His shoulders dropped just a fraction, and he looked back down at his plate with something close to a real appetite for the first time that morning, “Yessir,” he mumbled, and dug into his omelete before either of them could see the shine in his eyes.

❖

Tyler had known his fair share of uncomfortable car rides. Hell, he could fill a whole book with them if he ever felt like recounting the greatest hits of Montgomery Family Silence and Tension. There were the long ones with his father, nothing but silence stretched between angry sighs and forced conversations that always ended in disappointment. Then there were the quieter rides with Eli, back when they both still thought maybe things would change if they just didn’t say anything at all. Those were gentler, but no less sad, just silence painted over with hope that never lasted. 

Still, none of that quite compared to this particular ride with Jack and Ennis. This one was… different. Not bad, exactly. Just awkward in a way that made Tyler want to climb out of his own skin and walk beside the truck instead.

They were heading into Lakewood, and Tyler had never felt more out of place sitting in a truck cab in his life, which was saying something. The bench seat, while wide enough for three, still felt like it was trying to force them into uncomfortable intimacy. Ennis was behind the wheel, focused on the road with that familiar gaze of his, like he was in a staring contest with the highway. Jack sat in the middle, a natural talker if there ever was one, arms occasionally bumping Tyler’s or brushing Ennis’s as he leaned in to make some point or other. Tyler didn’t mind having Jack there, hell, if Jack hadn’t parked himself in the middle, Tyler probably would’ve crawled right out of his own skin sitting next to Ennis, but that didn’t mean he was exactly comfortable either. 

Tyler sat on the far right, scrunched up near the door, his back so straight it could’ve passed inspection in boot camp. His shoulders were drawn in tight like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. His knees were pressed together, shoes planted square on the floor like he was afraid to scuff anything. His entire body screamed, Don’t notice me. Don’t talk to me. Just let me pretend I’m not here.

He had his Walkman clutched in both hands, resting on his thighs like it was some kind of lifeline. It was the nicest thing he owned, a WM-51 model in matte black, the kind with retractable headphones that clicked into place just so. He’d scrimped and saved for it, back when he was still working in Amarillo. Now it went with him everywhere. A small piece of order in the mess that had become his life.

Before they’d left the ranch, he’d rifled through the shoebox of tapes he kept tucked at the back of his dresser drawer, looking for something that would last the full trip. He’d landed on Master of Puppets without much hesitation. Eight songs, fifty-four minutes. Enough time to get through the drive into Lakewood without having to talk more than he could handle. He hit play just as they turned onto the road leading away from the ranch and the opening riff of “Battery” filled his ears. It wasn’t loud enough to drown everything out completely, he didn’t want to be rude, God forbid, but just enough to dull the edges of his anxiety. 

Jack and Ennis were talking about something up front. Ranch stuff, maybe. Or boots. Or winter weather. Tyler caught only fragments, Jack’s amused drawl, Ennis’s grunts of agreement or disagreement. He tried not to let it show that he was watching. Tried not to smile, even when Jack cracked some joke that made Ennis huff through his nose like it was the funniest damn thing he’d heard all week. Tyler dropped his eyes and fidgeted with the volume wheel on his Walkman, pretending to be very focused on the barely-there hum of Metallica in his ears.

Jack’s voice came back to him suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts, “You doin’ alright over there, Ty?”

Tyler startled like someone had dumped ice water down the back of his shirt. He yanked one earbud off, twisting slightly in his seat to glance Jack’s way, eyes a little too wide, “Huh? Oh—yeah. I’m good.” His words came out higher than he meant, like he’d just been caught doing something wrong. He forced a smile, “Just listenin’ to music.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, but not unkindly. There was a familiar softness in his eyes, that same amused, knowing sort of look he always had, like he could read Tyler’s whole goddamn mind and was choosing not to say anything about it just yet, “You sure? Ain’t gettin’ carsick or nothin’, are you?”

Tyler shook his head so fast his hair bounced under his hat, “No, sir. I’m good. Just…” He hesitated, searching for a neutral excuse that wouldn’t make him sound pathetic, “Y’know. Malls.” He gave a shrug that wasn’t quite a shrug, more like a nervous twitch. “Ain’t real used to ‘em.”

Jack’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile too wide, “Well, they ain’t so bad. We’re just goin’ in for a few things. Won’t take long.”

“Ain’t steppin’ foot in no JCPenney’s again,” Ennis said flatly, like it was a matter of personal principle.

“Don’t worry,” Jack said dryly, “I wouldn’t trust you to pick out socks, let alone anything important.”

The conversation had finally started to lull, and Tyler had been hoping, praying, even, that it might hold until they hit the interstate. Once they were cruising at seventy, with the wind roaring past the windows and Jack turned halfway toward Ennis to gripe about traffic or roadwork or some idiot who didn’t know how to merge, maybe then Tyler could breathe. Maybe they’d leave him alone long enough for his heart rate to settle below “startled rabbit.” 

But if there was one thing Tyler had learned in life, it was that hoping never changed much of anything.

“What’re you listenin’ to?” Jack asked, nodding toward the Walkman still clutched in Tyler’s lap.

Tyler looked up, startled, only to find Jack watching him with that same good-natured curiosity he always wore. Not mocking, not pushy, just interested. Coming from the same place as Ennis had the first time he'd asked. Still, Tyler’s shoulders tightened instinctively, like he'd been asked something deeply personal and now had to decide whether to lie about it. 

He knew it was stupid, knew, but the question landed wrong anyway, like the kind of thing his father used to say just to bait him into admitting something he could be punished for. What’re you listenin’ to, boy? That devil music again?  Wade never asked to know, he asked to shame. To catch Tyler in the act of being soft, being strange, being… himself. And every time he’d dared to try and explain, to talk about the guitar riffs or the lyrics or why it made him feel less alone, he’d been shut down, talked over, humiliated. Now, even years later, the question still felt like a trap.

“Uh…” Tyler hesitated. His tongue felt too thick, his mouth too dry. He could tell Jack wasn’t teasing, not the way folks used to when they’d catch him listening to his “satanic noise,”. But still, the question made his skin crawl. Not because he didn’t want to share, but because he didn’t want to be seen.

Jack waited, though. Just waited. No shake of the head. No slanted look like he was already deciding how weird this kid was. No pressure. No expectations. Just… interest. It was worse, in a way. Kindness always was. It meant Tyler had to choose whether or not to trust it.

“Metallica,” Tyler said at last, “Master of Puppets.” He didn’t look up. Didn’t dare. The name felt too loud in his mouth, like it might echo off the windshield and make everyone in the truck stare. No one laughed, but he could feel Jack’s attention shift, feel it land on him like sunlight through a window. Then, after a short moment, he added, “Third track. ‘The Thing That Should Not Be.’”

Jack didn’t laugh. Didn’t wrinkle his nose or make a face. He just made a thoughtful sound, low in his throat, and nodded like he was turning the name over in his head, “That one of those real heavy bands?”

Tyler nodded again, slower this time, “Yeah. It’s… thrash metal. Real fast, loud. They started in L.A., but moved up to San Francisco pretty early on. Bay Area’s kinda the hub for that whole scene, Exodus, Testament, Death Angel, that crowd. But Metallica’s the one everybody knows. This record’s their third. Dropped last March. People say it’s their best. Like, legendary already.”

Tyler winced internally at the way he sounded. It was like he was reciting a fact sheet or trying to pass a test. He hated that part of himself, the way he got when he was passionate, clipped and defensive, like he was always waiting to be told it didn’t matter. But Jack still wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t pulling back. If anything, his body language said go on.

So Tyler did.

Tyler's voice picked up speed, barely outpacing the thoughts tripping over each other in his head. He couldn’t stop it now, not once the wheel had started turning, “The track I’m on, it’s different from the others. Slower. Heavier. Kinda swampy-sounding. It’s tuned down, drop D, I think, so it’s got this low, growling tone. And the lyrics, they’re all real gothic and creepy. It’s based on H.P. Lovecraft stories. You ever read those?” He glanced up once, quick, almost nervous, just long enough to see if Jack was still listening.

Jack blinked, brow furrowed with curiosity,  “Can’t say I have,” he said slowly, like he was trying to place the name. 

“Lovecraft was an old horror writer.” Tyler said, words stumbling out on a tide of nerves, “Wrote all these stories about creatures from other dimensions, things the human brain ain’t built to understand. Cosmic stuff. This song’s about one of ‘em, like a giant sea monster that lives in the ocean, waitin’ to wake up and ruin everything.”

Jack snorted, amused, and shook his head,  “Well, hell. I thought you were gonna say it was about, I dunno… killin’ your folks or shootin’ heroin. That’s what the news always says when they talk about these kinds’a bands. Like they’re corruptin’ the youth or whatever.”

Tyler’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, “They get that wrong a lot. I mean, yeah, some of it’s like that. But Metallica’s smarter than people give ’em credit for. The title track, Master of Puppets, that one’s about addiction. But it’s written from the drug’s point of view. Real manipulative lyrics. Like, how it owns you, how it takes over your whole damn life and makes you think it’s your choice.  It’s… it’s genius, honestly.” He hesitated, then kept going, unsure why he felt safe enough to, “The record before this, Ride the Lightning, there’s a track called For Whom the Bell Tolls. That one’s based on the Hemingway novel. Spanish Civil War. It’s about soldiers dyin’ without knowin’ why.”

Jack turned his head just enough to glance at Tyler,  his expression caught somewhere between impressed and amused, “Didn’t know metal bands were readin’ Hemingway.”

Tyler shrugged, tugging at the cuff of his flannel, “Not all of ‘em. But Metallica’s different. They’re smart. There’s real thought in what they’re doin’. Every song’s got layers. Meanin’. Even when it’s loud as hell.”

There was a pause. Tyler knew he was rambling. Could feel it in the way his throat started tightening, in the way his words were starting to come out faster, less filtered. His cheeks were warm, and he had that same old urge to clamp his mouth shut before someone decided he’d said too much.

He ducked his head, shoulders curling in slightly, voice more cautious now, like he was afraid any louder might tip the balance and ruin it, “I know I sound like a damn encyclopedia,” he said, each word stiff, “Get carried away sometimes. Always have. I know most folks don’t give a shit about any of this. I just.. it makes me feel a little less crazy. Like someone out there gets it. I dunno. I know it’s dumb.”

But Jack didn’t laugh. Didn’t shift in his seat or glance at Ennis like Christ, this kid’s a lot. He didn’t wave Tyler off or tell him to quit being dramatic. He just nodded, “Don’t sound dumb to me.”

“Metallica’s not even my favorite band,” he admitted, eyes still on his lap like he couldn’t quite believe he was saying it out loud.

Jack glanced over, just a flick of his eyes beneath the brim of his hat, head tilting slightly like he hadn’t expected that, “No?”

“Judas Priest is. They’ve been around longer. British band. More melodic. Rob Halford, he’s the singer, he’s got this crazy range. Five octaves, I think. He can hit these high notes that make your hair stand on end. Most folks only know the leather and the studs, but the guy’s a genius. One of the best vocalists out there, I reckon.”

Jack made a soft, interested sound, a little hum of acknowledgment. “Huh,” he said. Not dismissive. Not filler. Just that, huh. Like he was genuinely considering it.

“They put out an album last year,” Tyler added, his voice warming up now that the door was open, “Turbo. People tore it apart. Said it was too commercial. Too many synths. But I think it kicks ass. It’s got this emotional edge to it, like they were really tryin’ somethin’ new instead of just churnin’ out the same riffs over and over. “

Jack nodded,  not with that half-hearted kind of agreement people gave when they were only pretending to listen. He looked like he was actually following along, tucking each bit of information somewhere behind his eyes, “Never really got into all that myself,” he said, shifting the hand resting on his cane.

“But Bobby listens to some of it, I think. Had a tape once… uh… Motley somethin’-or-other?” He gave a short, dry laugh, tipping his head slightly like he could still picture it, “Cover had a fella with hair out to here” he gestured with his hand, indicating something outrageously poofy, “and more eyeliner than his mama ever wore to church.”

Tyler snorted before he could stop himself, bubbling up quick and breathless. He glanced sideways at Jack, and for the first time since getting in the truck, there was something lighter behind his eyes, “Mötley Crüe,” he said, smiling now, “They’re glam metal. Whole different scene from the stuff I listen to.”

He sat forward slightly, like the conversation was a campfire he wanted to warm his hands near, “Glam’s all big hair, tight pants, flashy lights. Songs about girls and parties and fast cars. Real showy. Ain’t all bad, some of it’s fun if you’re in the right mood, but they’re not exactly known for their… lyrical insight.” He smirked faintly,  “Lot of image. Not much under the hood.”

Jack chuckled, like he hadn’t expected to be enjoying this conversation as much as he was, “Glam and thrash,” he repeated, testing the words like he was setting them side by side on a shelf,  “Didn’t realize there were types. Thought metal was just… metal.” He shifted in his seat, careful with his bad leg, and gave Tyler a sidelong look, one brow raised, “You got all these subtypes memorized or somethin’? You sound like you’re givin’ a damn college lecture.”

Tyler flushed, the pink creeping up his neck again, but he nodded, “Kinda. S’what I’m into.” He shrugged one shoulder, “I read a lot. Got a couple old Kerrang! issues, some tape zines I found at record stores back in Texas. It’s like this whole tree, y’know? Sabbath started the roots, back in the ’70s, real slow, bluesy, heavy stuff. Priest took that sound, stripped the blues out, made it more precise. Motörhead bridged punk and metal, Lemmy’s bass playing changed everything. And then Metallica, Slayer, Megadeth… they kicked the door open. That’s where thrash really took off.”

“And this one we’re talkin’ about, it’s Master of Puppets, right?” Jack asked. “Not Puppet Master or whatever?”

Tyler looked up and nodded, a little smile escaping before he could stop it. “Master of Puppets,” he said, emphasizing it with mock seriousness,  “Big difference.”

Jack grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners, “Well, hell. You oughta write a book or somethin’. Metal for Dumbasses. I’d read it.”

Tyler rolled his eyes, but the smile didn’t leave his face,“You’d be the target audience, old man.”

Jack chuckled, leaning back like he’d won that round, “Touché.”

The conversation went well, but Tyler was about ready to crawl into the goddamn floorboard and stay there when Ennis guided the truck onto I-70, the tires humming over the merge from Evergreen Parkway like they were crossing into another world. Every few seconds, Jack would glance his way from where he sat in the middle, and Tyler burned under it. Not just from the attention, not just from the quiet kindness of it, but from the view out the windshield. Because Jesus Christ, he’d never seen anything like it.

The land stretched wide in all directions, whitewashed under an early snow that clung to the hillsides. Pines rose from the earth, dark against the frost, their branches dusted with snow. And beyond all that, behind the trees and the lines of the hills, rose the Rockies. Their peaks jagged as broken glass, dusted in pale snow that shimmered in the light, framed by a sky so blue it looked painted. Tyler couldn’t stop looking. Every turn in the highway offered a new angle, a new mountain, a fresh jolt to the chest like he wasn’t supposed to see something so big. 

He’d grown up with a horizon you could see forever. Long stretches of nothing. Dusty fields and crumbling fences and roads that cracked under the sun. The only hills he’d known were slow rises in the land, not even enough to call a slope. The tallest thing in Anson was the grain elevator, and it never made him feel small. Not like this. This was something else. He felt like a bug on the windshield, like the truck might disappear and the mountains wouldn’t even notice.

And the snow, fuck, the snow. It wasn’t the gross kind, the sludge and slop you got when the roads froze over back home and the whole town shut down like it was the apocalypse. Not that half-ass dusting that came through West Texas every other winter if you were lucky. This was real snow. Piled high on rooftops. Nestled into tree limbs. Clinging to the roadside fences like cotton. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw snow that didn’t turn to mud by noon. Sure as hell not in October. Maybe one year in elementary school, some freak cold snap that brought a few inches, but it melted fast and never stuck around long enough for anything but wet socks and half-melted snowballs. This was different. This stayed. This blanketed whole towns. 

His breath fogged the passenger window when he leaned closer, trying to act casual about it, but he knew he was giving himself away. He caught his reflection in the glass, wide eyes, pink cheeks, the barest twitch of his lips as he tried not to smile like a dumbass. He hated how much it showed, like he was a kid on a field trip, gawking at things other folks took for granted.

It made him feel even more like a stray, picked up, dusted off, tossed into the backseat of someone else’s life and told to act like he belonged. He caught himself wondering what it was like for Jack and Ennis to live here year-round, to wake up every morning and see that view out their kitchen window. Would it still feel like magic after a year? After ten? He didn’t think it would ever wear off.

Chapter Text

Tyler was pretty sure his mouth had been hanging open the entire ride down from the mountains, and he only managed to shut it when the truck rolled onto 6th Avenue, leaving the snow-covered wilderness behind in favor of something closer to civilization. The smooth rumble of the tires changed pitch as they hit the flatter stretch of highway, and the pines that had once stood along the roadside were replaced with traffic lights, strip malls, and rows of low-slung office buildings. There were more cars now, sedans and minivans and dented pickups crowding the lanes, and with them came the slow crawl of city traffic.

Lakewood wasn’t even Denver proper, and still, it felt enormous. The roads were wider, the signs bigger, the sheer number of people overwhelming. Fast food joints with glowing neon signs passed by on either side, along with gas stations, storage units, and clusters of chain restaurants. A bank with mirrored windows caught the sunlight and nearly blinded him, and just beyond that, a huge red-and-white sign blinked the words Used Cars in bold block letters.

He kept his hands clasped together in his lap, trying to play it cool, but his foot wouldn’t stop bouncing. This wasn’t the part of Colorado he’d fantasized about. This wasn’t the postcard version with the snow and the unending blue sky. This was loud. Busy. Unfamiliar in a way that made the back of his neck prickle. He didn’t even know how to read some of the street signs fast enough, and every time they passed a major intersection, he swore he could feel his own ignorance glowing like a neon “out-of-towner” badge on his forehead.

They weren’t even five minutes into 6th when Ennis leaned forward over the wheel, squinting at the signs like they might rearrange themselves if he glared hard enough. One hand stayed loose on the wheel while the other gestured vaguely ahead, a jerk of his chin toward the rows of green overhead signs looming in the distance.

“Now where in the hell am I gettin’ off at?” he muttered, the words flat and dry, like they’d worn grooves in his mouth from years of similar situations. It wasn’t even annoyance, not exactly. Just the kind of stubborn resistance that came from a man who’d spent most of his life in places where directions meant “turn at the cottonwood tree” or “keep goin’ ‘til the fence ends,” not navigating exits in a crowded Denver suburb.

Tyler tried not to laugh, but the way Ennis said it, with that mix of weary suspicion and mild contempt, hit something in him that was dangerously close to funny. He bit the inside of his cheek and turned toward the window, hiding the grin that threatened to break across his face. He risked a quick glance sideways and saw Jack fighting the same battle, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was working real hard not to say something that’d make Ennis even more irritable.

Jack leaned forward in the seat between them, bracing one hand against the dash and using the other to adjust his hat, tipping it down to block the glare bouncing off the hood. He squinted at the road ahead, mouth pulling sideways as he searched the signs, “Should be 121,” he said after a second, “South Wadsworth. S’coming up in about half a mile.” He pointed with two fingers toward the cluster of green signage overhead, one arm stretched past Ennis’s line of sight like he was drawing a map in the air.

Ennis gave a grunt of acknowledgement but didn’t change lanes yet. He kept driving straight, squinting at the heavy traffic crowding the off-ramp ahead like he didn’t fully trust the directions, even if they were coming from Jack, “And I go all the way down ‘til Alameda, right? You said that?” he asked, eyes flicking over to Jack again like he was double-checking a math problem.

Jack nodded, one hand draped loosely over his thigh, the other still shielding his eyes from the glare bouncing off a passing semi’s trailer, “Yeah. Stay on Wadsworth ‘til you see Alameda. Should be a few lights down. If you see Mississippi, you went too far.” He paused, then added with a crooked grin, “Again.”

Tyler bit down on the inside of his cheek again, this time for real. The way Ennis's expression didn’t even flinch, just stayed locked on the road, deadpan as ever, was almost funnier than if he'd snapped. His silence had weight to it, like he was thinking real hard about not turning the truck around and heading straight back to Evergreen just out of spite.

Outside, the city continued to unfold, low buildings stacked shoulder to shoulder, the occasional liquor store or pawn shop sandwiched between more storefronts. Billboards lined the sides of the highway, flashing ads for insurance lawyers, heating services, local diners with breakfast specials that probably ended hours ago. Tyler could see the big green 121 sign looming just ahead now, the word Wadsworth stretched across it in blocky white letters, and felt the truck’s rhythm shift slightly as Ennis eased off the gas. The off-ramp was packed, a steady stream of cars feeding into the lane, and for a moment it looked like they might miss it altogether. But Ennis timed it just right, flicked the signal, and merged with the same precision he applied to loading hay or backing up a trailer.

Jack didn’t say a word, didn’t have to. Just tipped his head toward Tyler with a sideways glance, eyebrows raised, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smartass comment. That was all it took. Tyler clamped a hand over his mouth but couldn’t stop the giggle that slipped out, soft and startled, like it had caught him off guard. He looked down at his lap, cheeks pink, trying to swallow it back before it turned into something worse. God, he didn’t giggle. Not like that. But the look Jack gave him was too much, and the warm buzz of it stayed low in his stomach, humming like static under his skin.

The truck rolled on in silence for another minute or two, the tires drumming steady over the pavement. Outside, the sprawl of Lakewood had thickened into a mess of parking lots, box stores, and chain restaurants, all stitched together by a maze of stoplights and frontage roads. Sunlight bounced off car hoods and glass storefronts, the brightness sharp after the softer light up in the hills.

Jack straightened a little in his seat, squinting ahead. Then, like he’d been waiting for his cue, he pointed through the windshield at the massive beige building rising in the distance, surrounded by a sea of cars and big-lettered signage.

“This one. Right here,” he said, jabbing a thumb toward the windshield, “You’d have to be blind to miss it. Big-ass mall right there past the lights.” He leaned just slightly toward the dashboard, like the visual proof added weight to his words, “But hell, wouldn’t be the first time you blew past a turn, would it, cowboy?”

Ennis didn’t say anything at first. Just flicked his eyes toward Jack with the kind of look that might’ve carried heat if not for the faint tug of a smile he was trying, and failing, to suppress. His jaw flexed like he was chewing on a comeback, but it never made it out of his mouth. Instead, he exhaled a small huff through his nose and reached up to adjust the brim of his hat, clearly pretending he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

“Keep talkin’, Jack,” he said, “See where it gets you.”

Jack let out a soft chuckle as Ennis guided the truck into the turn lane, easing them toward the chaos of the mall parking lot like a man approaching a battlefield. The lot was damn near full, rows of cars packed in tight. It was busier than either of them had expected, though in hindsight, they probably should’ve known better. Halloween decorations were already out in full force, plastic skeletons hung from lamp posts, inflatable pumpkins bobbed in the breeze, and a giant Santa banner had been strung halfway across the mall entrance like they’d just skipped straight to December.

“Jesus,” Jack muttered, half-laughing under his breath as he peered through the windshield, “Place looks like a damn ant hill.”

Ennis didn’t answer, just grunted, his jaw ticking as he threaded the truck between rows of vehicles, eyes scanning for an open spot. He didn’t care for crowds. Never had. Places like this, with their noise and fluorescent lights and people moving in every direction like no one knew where they were going, it made his skin crawl. They passed the front of the mall slowly, tires crunching over gravel and loose bits of asphalt where the pavement had cracked. The place looked different from the last time they’d come, new paint slapped over the old façade, and a second story added on, like they thought piling more people on top of each other would somehow help the crowding. Ennis frowned at it, like the whole building had grown without permission.

Jack shifted slightly in the middle seat, his knee knocking gently against Ennis’,“They added all that since last time,” he said, gesturing toward the upper level with a tilt of his chin, “Bet it’s even more of a pain in the ass now.”

“Mm,” Ennis replied, tight-lipped, clearly unimpressed.

Ennis gripped the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles taut and white against the leather-wrapped rim as he eased the truck through the labyrinth of a parking lot that felt more like a battlefield than a shopping center. The mall parking lot was a mess, people crossing wherever they damn well pleased, and minivans swinging wide into spots like they owned the asphalt. Every turn of the wheel was calculated, controlled in a way that had less to do with the traffic and more to do with Jack. Because Jack’s knees were acting up again, had been ever since they got out of bed that morning. 

Jack hadn’t complained, he never did. But Ennis noticed. Noticed the way his movements were slower this morning, how he lingered a little longer at the edge of the porch before heading out, stretching his legs like he was trying to bargain with them. Noticed how his hands braced just a little harder when climbing into the truck, how he didn’t swing his left leg up quite as quick as usual. That was all Ennis needed to see to know he wasn’t parking out in Timbuktu. He wasn’t saying it out loud, Jack didn’t like a fuss, and Ennis wasn’t one to make it anyway, but he was damn well gonna get close enough to keep Jack from having to limp across two football fields of pavement. 

Tyler tried not to fidget, but his eyes were wide and twitchy, bouncing from one window display to the next, like he didn’t know where to look first. And maybe he didn’t. The place was overwhelming, two stories tall now, and every inch of it packed with shoppers and noise. There were more people in that one lot than Tyler was used to seeing in his whole town. He didn’t say anything, but the way he kept adjusting his jacket sleeves and shifting his legs gave him away. He looked small in the seat. A little dazed. Like someone had plucked him out of Anson and dropped him on Mars.

Ennis suddenly muttered under his breath, “Goddamn,” his voice low and annoyed but relieved all the same. A pair of red brake lights flickered three rows ahead as a tan Oldsmobile backed out slowly, easing its way into the river of slow-rolling cars. Ennis angled the truck sharp, cutting across the aisle without hesitation, snatching the spot before someone else could think about it.

“’Bout time,” he muttered, not expecting a response. 

Jack gave a breathy laugh, and relaxed back against the seat. He hadn’t said much during the whole parking lot ordeal, letting Ennis do his thing, but now that the engine was quiet and the noise outside felt like it belonged to someone else’s life, he reached over and rested his hand on Ennis’s thigh, the weight of it light but grounding. His thumb made a small pass across the denim, just once. A silent thanks.

Ennis didn’t look over, didn’t say a word, but his shoulders softened. He gave a short nod and reached down to twist the key, killing the ignition. The sudden quiet inside the truck left only the distant clatter of carts and the occasional honk bleeding in from the outside world.

Jack gave a low whistle as he turned his head, scanning the crowd flowing toward the main entrance, “Jesus,” He muttered, mouth twisting into a frown, “Looks like they’re handin’ out rations for the end times. That, or every last one of these folks suddenly got bored of their own lives and decided to go spend money they don’t got.”

Ennis let out a grunt, somewhere between agreement and complaint, “Ain’t gonna keep you out too long,” he said, the words coming out gruff but with the quiet edge of reassurance. He glanced over at Jack, then out the window again, “We’re goin’ in, gettin’ what we came for, and we’re gettin’ gone.

Jack grinned, lifting an eyebrow, “God forbid we linger. Might catch a case of conversation and civility.” He grunted as he shifted in his seat, twisting sideways to brace a hand on the back of the bench seat, “Alright, c’mon, Ty. Be a gentleman, huh? Let me out before my knees seize up for good. Cane’s under the seat somewhere, think you can wrestle it free?”

Tyler startled a little at being addressed, like he’d forgotten he was even there, “Yessir.” he mumbled, already ducking down. He fumbled beneath the seat, fingers brushing over gum wrappers, a faded road atlas, and a thermos that looked like it hadn’t been touched since July. The cane was wedged just behind the floor mat, caught on something sticky. He wrestled it free, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it forward with both hands, careful not to knock it against the dashboard.

Jack took it with a grunt of appreciation, his fingers curling around the worn wood with the ease of habit, “Thanks, bud,” He held it loosely, letting it rest against the dash for now as he adjusted his jacket again. “Alright. Out, the both of you. Don’t make me be the only one with manners today. Buncha unsocial bastards, lettin’ me do all the talkin’.”

There was a faint smile on Tyler’s face before he could stop it, and Ennis just rolled his eyes like he’d heard the same joke a hundred times and still wasn’t sick of it. He reached for the handle and pushed the door open, the creak of it cutting across the hum of passing cars. Tyler leaned forward and popped the glovebox, slipping his Walkman inside and snapping it shut before following suit, pushing the passenger door open and stepping out into the lot. The pavement was cold under his feet, and the noise hit him all at once, voices, laughter, car doors slamming. He paused, just for a second, long enough to glance at Jack easing out of the truck with care, cane tapping the pavement. Ennis was already out and rounding the front, gaze sweeping the lot, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other adjusting his hat like the sun was something he could wrestle with.

Tyler closed the truck door with the kind of carefulness that didn’t come from courtesy, but from habit, like the wrong kind of slam might draw too many eyes, invite the wrong kind of attention. His fingers hesitated on the handle a moment too long, cold metal biting at his skin, before he finally let it go. The clunk of it sealing shut was barely audible beneath the constant churn of the mall parking lot, shopping carts dragging over ice-bitten pavement, engines idling, the occasional slam of a distant door, all of it wrapped in that hollow winter quiet that made even the busiest places feel strangely far away. 

The sky overhead stretched pale and sunless, the kind of flat gray that made the whole world feel like it was holding its breath. Wind cut through the rows of parked cars, stirring up loose wrappers and sending old receipts fluttering like stripped leaves. Tyler hunched slightly into himself, pulling his flannel tighter around his ribs. It didn’t do much. The cold had already found its way under every layer he had on, and now it was just settling in.

Ahead of him, Jack and Ennis moved in tandem, boots crunching over the crusted snow that lined the walkways. Jack walked with a slight lean, his cane tapping rhythmically with each step, and Ennis kept a quiet eye on him, close, but not hovering. They spoke in low voices, the kind of idle murmuring that filled space without requiring answers, Jack’s drawl soft with sarcasm and Ennis grumbling in return like he didn’t mind a damn word of it. Tyler didn’t feel left out of it exactly, just… separate. Floating behind them like a loose thread that hadn’t quite been pulled into the stitching yet.

He dragged his gaze down to his feet as he followed, already regretting his choice in shoes. He’d thrown on his beat-up Converse that morning without thinking, too keyed up about the trip to notice how cold it was going to get. The thin canvas offered nothing against the damp or the cold, and now his socks were soaked through from the half-frozen slush pooling in the low dips of the lot. He felt underdressed, out of place, not in the practical sense, but the kind that settled in your stomach and curled up there, making everything feel just a little wrong, like he’d taken off part of himself and left it back at the ranch without thinking. He kicked at a chunk of ice with the side of his foot, just to hear the crack. Just to feel the jolt. Anything to interrupt the rising chorus in his brain.

Still, he had his hat on. His Resistol. That helped. The weight of it on his head, the shade it cast over his eyes even on a cloudy day, it gave him something. A piece of structure he could rely on, hold to like a railing in a stairwell when everything else tipped sideways. And the belt buckle, he’d swapped the usual one out that morning, the smaller oval with the neat engraving of his grandfather’s initials, and replaced it with the one that had the Marlboro Man mid-rear in a bronc saddle. That one had been Raymond’s too. It dug into his belly a little when he sat wrong, but Tyler liked that. Liked the weight of it. Liked feeling it press into him like proof that it was real. That there was something of Raymond still wrapped around his waist.

But no matter how much of Raymond he wore, hat, buckle, even the flannel that had once belonged to him, he still felt fake. Like a kid in costume. A cartoon of a cowboy, all the wrong details in all the wrong places. The Converse ruined it. No matter how he walked, there was no sound to his step, no firm heelfall. His jeans bunched weird without the shaft of boots to catch them, and the cuffs dragged behind him.  Nothing about him looked the way it should. He felt like an outline of something he couldn’t fill in.

You look like a goddamn joke, son.

Wade’s voice, dragging through his brain with the same scorn it always carried.

All hat, no cattle. Ain’t foolin’ nobody. You think that buckle makes you a man? You think wearin’ a dead man’s hat turns you into somethin’ worth respect? Look at you. Drippin’ like a wet dog. That ain’t cowboy. That’s pathetic.

He kept walking, step after step, trying to ignore it, but the words buried deep. They always did. His fingers twitched at his side before curling into fists and tucking up under his arms, like he could physically hold himself together if he just squeezed hard enough.

Think Jack or Ennis see you as one of ‘em? Think they don’t catch you countin’ your steps like a fuckin’ lunatic? Think that hat covers up the fact you ain’t nothin’ but a scared little boy tryin’ to play cowboy with the grown men?

His hand drifted to the buckle, thumb rubbing the bronc’s flank like it could conjure something steadier than the words in his head. Raymond’s voice tried to surface, soft and distant, you’re alright, son, just breathe now, you’re alright, but it was like trying to hear a lullaby over a fire alarm. Wade was always louder.

You ain’t tough. You ain’t nothin’. Just a goddamn pansy playin’ make-believe in his granddaddy’s shadow. They oughta beat the snot out of you for even tryin’. Sick little queer. Always were. Always will be. Hell, boy, even your walk gives you away. You ain’t foolin’ nobody.

His shoe caught the edge of a patch of ice, and his foot slipped out from under him. Not enough to send him down, but enough to make him jolt forward, arms swinging, weight shifting wildly as he struggled to stay upright. His heart kicked against his ribs like it wanted out. He caught himself, barely, but he had to stop. Had to stand still a moment, hunch forward with one hand braced against his knee and the other rising to dig into the bridge of his nose, hard enough to leave angry half-moons in his skin. Fingertips clawed deep into the pressure point between his brows. It hurt, but it helped. A little. Pain had always been easier to manage than shame.

He dragged in a breath through his teeth. Counted it out. In, two, three, four. Hold. Out, two, three, four. Again. And again. He had to hold on to something, had to ride the wave and hope like hell it didn’t drag him under.

When he finally looked up, blinking hard against the sting behind his eyes, he found Jack had slowed. Not all the way. Just enough. His head was turned slightly, peeking from beneath the curve of his hat brim, gaze soft but alert. There wasn’t judgment in his face, not even confusion, just a flicker of concern that made Tyler want to crawl out of his own skin, “You good back there?” Jack asked softly, like he didn’t want to startle him but wasn’t gonna pretend he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t stop walking, just gave Tyler the option. An open door.

Tyler nodded too fast, automatic and clumsy. The kind of nod that came with every I’m fine he’d ever told with his teeth clenched, “Yeah,” he rasped, voice breaking on the first syllable, too thin to be anything but a lie. “M’fine. Just—ice.”

Jack gave the smallest of nods and turned back ahead. Didn’t press. Didn’t ask. Just kept walking like it wasn’t a big deal.

The walk kicked up more than just nerves, it pulled up memories, the kind that came uninvited, wrapped in thick fog and childhood embarrassment. He’d walked like this once before, a lot of times really, trailing behind Raymond through crowded fairgrounds or church parking lots or the long, too-bright aisles of the feed store. He used to clutch the sleeve of his grandfather’s shirt in both hands, half-hiding behind him when they ran into people, sheltered from the world by the sheer presence of the man he trusted most. Raymond never minded. He’d rest a callused hand on Tyler’s head or his shoulder, thumb brushing his neck like a silent assurance that he was safe. That he didn’t have to talk if he didn’t want to. That he didn’t have to smile just because someone told him to.

But those church ladies never let up. He could still hear them, voices syrupy and high, like they thought talking to a child meant talking like they were dumb.

“Aw, Sheriff, is that your grandson?” they’d coo, bending low to look at him like he was some kind of show pony, “Well ain’t he just the spittin’ image of you. Look at those big ol’ eyes. He’s a shy one, isn’t he?”

Tyler hated it. Hated being looked at like he was a puppy shivering on a porch. Hated the way they’d crouch to his level and still manage to talk like he wasn’t there.

Raymond would smile politely, nod like it didn’t bother him, but Tyler always felt the way his fingers stiffened where they rested on his shoulder. Felt the shift in his stance, subtle but firm, like he was drawing a boundary without ever saying a word. Tyler could still feel the imprint of that hand, broad, warm, steady. He missed it more than he knew how to name. Tyler had felt safe back then, or at least safer than he felt now. Like the world couldn’t get him so long as he stayed tucked behind his grandfather’s frame.

Tyler stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets and lowered his eyes again. The urge to latch onto someone’s sleeve was ridiculous, childish, but still there. A reflex left over from a time when everything felt too loud and too bright and too crowded. He didn’t know what made it worse now, being older, being alone, or knowing he had no right to reach for anyone like that anymore.

The moment they passed through the automatic doors, the whoosh of warm air hit Tyler like a sudden wall, followed by the sensory onslaught of the mall itself, bright overhead lights buzzing faintly, polished tile gleaming underfoot, and people. So many people. Swarming through the wide concourses like schools of fish, arms full of bags, children darting through legs, teenagers clustered in little knots of laughter, couples strolling hand-in-hand, and salespeople weaving in and out with clipboard smiles. It was too loud, too bright, too much. The ceiling stretched up far too high, echoing every sound back down like it was bouncing inside his skull.

Tyler stopped dead just past the entrance, stuttering on the smooth tile, and instinctively dropped a hand to the big oval of his belt buckle. The worn brass edges bit gently into his fingertips as he traced them, over and over, outlining the image of the Marlboro Man mid-bronc, the little imperfections that made it Raymond’s. The texture grounded him, or at least tried to. One thumb press, two. One thumb press, two. Count the ridges. Count your steps. Count anything.

His thoughts were starting to unspool, pulled thin like thread unraveling from the hem of a shirt. He tried to count tiles, ceiling panels, anything, but the numbers slipped away before he could catch them. It felt like his brain was retreating a few inches behind his eyes, trying to get away from the panic before it bloomed, and stomach was knotted so tight he felt like he might throw up if someone so much as looked at him wrong. He didn’t want Jack or Ennis to see. Couldn’t handle the idea of their eyes finding him now, of Jack’s soft worry or Ennis’s quiet frown. He already felt too aware of himself and his place. He didn’t want their kindness right now. Didn’t want the softness of it. It only made the ache worse.

Christ, he missed Raymond.

It was like something in him was screaming for it, every muscle in his back straining for that hand that used to settle right between his shoulders, the one touch in the world that ever made him feel anchored. The ache wasn’t just emotional. it lived in his body. In between his ribs, in the prickling heat behind his eyes, in the way his throat burned like he'd swallowed a hot coal. All of him was crying out for the one person who’d ever really known how to bring him back from the edge. He didn’t need fixing. He didn’t want fixing. He just wanted to feel that hand again. He wanted to feel the weight of it between his shoulder blades, firm enough to remind him he wasn’t floating away, gentle enough to never press him down. Just there. A quiet promise of, I see you. You’re alright.

Tyler could still remember the exact way Raymond used to touch his back, thumb moving in slow, rhythmic strokes along the line of his spine like he was rubbing the fear away. No words at first. Just presence. And when he did speak, it was never loud. Just that low, patient murmur that Tyler had once believed could chase off the dark, “Easy now,” he’d say, brushing curls from Tyler’s damp forehead after another nightmare, “You’re safe, son. Just a dream.”

And God, Tyler had needed that. Again and again and again.

There had been so many nights. Too many to count. Nights when Tyler couldn’t close his eyes without Clay’s face crawling into the corners of the dark. When the images wouldn’t stop replaying, hands that weren’t supposed to touch, words that weren’t supposed to be whispered, fear that settled into the marrow of his bones so early he didn’t know life without it. And then the dream would twist, and Wade’s voice would come in behind it, and Tyler would wake up choking on air, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, T-shirt stuck to his back, the sheets tangled like ropes around his legs. He’d gasp for breath like he was drowning in his own bed.

And somehow, Raymond always knew. Whether it was the floor creaking under Tyler’s bare feet or the click of the bathroom door or maybe just something in the silence itself, Raymond would show up. He’d sit down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and reach out like he had all the time in the world. Big, rough hands brushing through sweat-damp curls, knuckles bumping Tyler’s cheek as he murmured, “Easy now, son. You’re safe. It’s just a dream.”

He never shamed him. Never rolled his eyes. Never told him to be a man. Raymond just stayed. He stayed when Tyler couldn’t breathe. Stayed when he couldn’t talk. Stayed when all he could do was curl in on himself and sob like a child too old to be comforted like one. It always helped. Maybe not forever, maybe not enough to keep the bad dreams from coming back, but enough. Enough for Tyler to lie back down. Enough for him to believe, even for a minute, that someone out there had him wrapped up tight in the kind of love that didn’t ask for anything in return.

Raymond had always been enough.

And he would’ve come here, even though he’d have hated it. Tyler could picture it clear as day, the sour look he’d have made when they pulled up to the mall, that little huff through his nose, the muttered “what the hell kinda place is this?” But he would’ve come inside anyway, just for Tyler. Would’ve grumbled under his breath the whole way, probably bitched about how no one wore boots and how the whole place smelled like nail polish and burnt pretzels, but he would’ve walked right alongside him all the same. Kept a hand on his back like he always did. He would’ve noticed Tyler freezing up by the entrance. Would’ve leaned in close and murmured, “Don’t worry. We’ll be outta here soon. Just keep walkin’, I got you.” And Tyler would've believed him.

Because Raymond didn’t make promises he didn’t mean.

He showed up to every parent night when Wade forgot or claimed to be too tired. Sat through those long, boring assemblies in folding chairs that squeaked under him. Early-morning ag competitions and long-ass drives to FFA meets in towns that barely had more than a gas station and a feed store. He’d stand at the back of the room in his sheriff’s uniform, hat in hand, and he’d be there. Raymond wasn’t a man of many words, but every word he had given Tyler was worth more than all the hollow praise in the world.

And now he was gone. Just gone.

Buried in the cemetery behind the old Baptist church back in Anson, beneath a headstone that read Raymond Charles Montgomery, 1918–1985. Loving Grandfather. Faithful Servant. But it didn’t feel like enough. Didn’t feel like that tiny patch of grass and stone could possibly hold a man that large. A man who’d once felt like Tyler’s entire world.

Jack and Ennis came to a stop near the faded mall directory, one of those old backlit maps with a plastic front and bubbled decals, half the bulbs flickering, corners yellowed and curling with age, as if the whole thing had given up trying to keep up with the changing times. Most of the store names were rubbed near-invisible from a decade’s worth of kids jabbing greasy fingers at the You Are Here star. 

Jack leaned in first, squinting, pointing something out to Ennis with a low chuckle. Ennis stood beside him, one hand rested heavy on the curve of his belt, thumb hooked just above the brass buckle. With the other, he reached up and nudged his hat lower on his brow, a subtle tell that he was already getting irritated, or maybe overwhelmed himself, though he'd never say as much, “All these damn stores,” he muttered under his breath. “How the hell’re you supposed to find anything?”

Tyler hovered a good few feet back, one shoulder pressed to the cold cinderblock wall just beside the map kiosk, the rough texture grounding in a way the polished floor and overhead glare weren’t. He rocked slowly on his heels, trying to look casual, like he wasn’t actively fighting the urge to bolt. The sounds around him felt distorted, like someone had stuffed cotton in his ears and turned up the static. He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t breathe right.

His eyes follow the colorful signs or advertisements promising blowout sales and new arrivals. They went to the exits. Every single one. The big glass double doors they’d entered through. The fire doors tucked beside the stairwells. Even the elevator at the far end of the corridor,  each one offering a maybe. An out. A way to vanish before anything went too far.

He didn’t belong here. That truth rang so loud in his head it might as well have been shouted through a megaphone. He shouldn’t be here. He could still turn around. He could disappear before they spent a single cent on him. Before any of it could stick. Because they were going to buy him things. They’d said so. Whatever he needed. The generosity was unbearable.

He didn’t want their money. Didn’t want their pity. Didn’t want the look that came after, the one he’d seen on church ladies’ faces when he was younger, their voices syrupy-sweet, hands hovering just shy of his shoulder like they didn’t want to touch him too long. Poor thing. Look how quiet he is. Lucky they took him in. He didn’t want to be the project.

And worse still, he needed the things they were offering. His boots were worn down to nothing. His flannel shirts stretched thin at the elbows. He didn’t even have a proper winter coat. Just the hand-me-down Carhartt with busted seams and stuffing poking out from the lining. He knew what they saw when they looked at him. Knew they weren’t wrong. But accepting help felt like peeling back his skin and letting someone see all the places he’d failed to protect himself.

Letting them buy him clothes was like admitting that Wade never had. That his family had seen his needs and chosen not to meet them. That the only people who ever gave a damn were strangers. That they thought he was worth it. Every time he imagined their hands holding something out to him, cash, a receipt, a bag with jeans that didn’t chafe or shirts that didn’t itch, his brain scrambled to find the trap. The catch. The price he’d have to pay later. He wasn’t used to people giving without expecting something back. Without wanting a favor. Or silence. Or his obedience. Or his body.

He wanted to believe in them. Wanted to believe that they meant what they said. That they weren’t gonna use it against him later. That they saw him as more than a mouth to feed and a problem to solve. That they wanted him around. But wanting to believe and knowing how to believe were two very different things. And he wasn’t sure, in that moment, which part of him would win.

Before he could retreat any further into the spiraling loop in his own head, Jack was motioning him over, giving a little wave that felt more like a summons than a suggestion. Tyler hesitated, but something about the way Jack tilted his head coaxed him into motion. He stepped forward slowly, still half-shielded under the curve of his hat, heart hammering, and for a fleeting second, the absurd thought crossed his mind that this felt like he was being invited into a secret meeting. The ridiculousness of it tugged the corners of his mouth upward just the faintest bit, a flicker of humor that barely breached the surface, but it was enough to pull him, momentarily, out of the quicksand of panic.

Jack didn’t say anything else until Tyler was close enough to hear him without raising his voice. He didn’t make a show of anything. Just looked at him steady, like he always did, then nodded once and got to the point.

“Alright, bud,” Jack said, tone as casual as if they were standing in the barn, “We ain’t gonna get your boots here. This place don’t got nothin’ worth wearin’, not for work anyway. We’ll head to PMM later, find you a real pair you can break in. But for now…” He trailed off as he turned slightly, reaching back with one hand to tug his wallet from the pocket of his jeans. The leather was worn, scuffed along the seams from years of use, and Tyler’s breath caught as he watched Jack flip it open with practiced fingers. 

He could hear the soft leather creak, could see the way Jack pinched into the little fold where bills were tucked, and before Tyler had even figured out how to respond, Jack was holding out a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

The moment Tyler saw it, his whole body went stiff. No. No, no, no. That wasn’t for him. That couldn’t be for him. That was still more money than Tyler had touched in weeks. Maybe months. And Jack was holding it out to him, just holding it there, like it belonged to Tyler now.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He didn’t even realize he was shaking his head until he heard himself speak, “I—I can’t take that,” he said, eyes flicking between the money and Jack’s face, desperate to find the catch, “That’s too much.”

Jack didn’t budge. Didn’t look insulted or surprised. Just kept holding the bill out, like he knew exactly how this was gonna go, “It ain’t too much,” he said, calm as ever. “It’s what you need.”

Tyler felt his throat tighten. The panic was climbing up again, fast and sharp, like water rising too quick in a flooded ditch. His heart pounded loud in his ears. He could feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck, knew his cheeks were probably going red from the heat of it. It felt like every person in that damn mall had stopped to watch. 

“I don’t need—” Tyler started, voice cracking, but Jack cut him off with a soft look and a small shake of his head.

“You do,” he said,  “You just don’t wanna. That’s different.”

Tyler’s mouth opened and closed. He didn’t know how to argue with that. Didn’t know how to say this feels like stealing without sounding ungrateful. Didn’t know how to say no one’s ever done this for me without falling apart.

“You go on and find you some new shirts or somethin’,” Jack continued, gentler now, “Whatever you need, Tyler. Ain’t gotta be fancy. Ain’t gotta explain it to us, neither. Just.. go get somethin’ that feels like yours.”

Tyler wanted to protest. Wanted to say no, I’m fine, even though he wasn’t. Wanted to shove his hands in his pockets and pretend like this whole thing wasn’t making his chest feel too tight to breathe. But Jack wasn’t done.

“Me and Ennis,” he added, jerking his chin toward where Ennis still stood nearby, quiet but clearly tuned in, “We ain’t gonna trail you ‘round the place like a couple’a hawks. You ain’t gotta stick with us the whole time. You’re not twelve. We trust you.”

That word hit hard. Trust. It echoed in Tyler’s ears like a dropped coin in an empty room.

Tyler flushed. His skin felt too tight for his body, “I don’t want your money,” he muttered, voice nearly lost under the noise of the mall, “Don’t want you thinkin’ I’m… like I’m expectin’ anything. I ain’t. This ain’t right.”

“It is,” Jack said simply,  “It’s right ‘cause I say it is. And it ain’t about what you think you deserve, Tyler. It’s about what you need.” The quiet sincerity in Jack’s voice struck deeper than any shouting ever could. He nodded toward the hundred again. “You take it. You pick out what you need. We’ll meet you back here in an hour,” Jack added, glancing at Ennis for confirmation, “Take your time. Don’t rush. Just… get what you need.”

Tyler felt the sting behind his eyes before he could stop it. His throat clenched tight around the lump rising there, and shame washed over him. Crying, he was gonna cry, right there in the middle of the goddamn mall, in front of Jack and Ennis like some kid who didn’t know how to hold it together. And fuck, that was the worst part. The feeling of being small. The way it lodged itself in his chest like a hook and tugged him back to every time he'd ever felt like this before, cornered by kindness he didn’t know how to handle.

He looked to Ennis like maybe he’d put a stop to it. Like maybe this was some kind of test and Jack had pushed it too far, and Ennis would step in with a muttered that’s enough. But Ennis didn’t move. He didn’t narrow his eyes, didn’t scoff, didn’t let out one of those tired exhales that Wade used to do when Tyler got too quiet or emotional or god forbid looked like he was about to cry. He didn’t look disappointed or annoyed or impatient. He just met Tyler’s gaze and gave him a small, firm nod. Simple. Uncomplicated. Go on, kid. It’s okay.

Tyler’s hand moved before his mind caught up, a slow reach like he was approaching a snake instead of a folded bill. Every nerve screamed at him not to take it, not to let this become real, but his fingers closed around the hundred anyway, trembling just enough to make the motion feel unsteady. He half expected Jack to pull it back at the last second. To change his mind. But the bill stayed in his hand, smooth and weightless but somehow heavier than anything he’d carried in a long damn while.

He stood frozen for a moment, staring down at it like it might disappear if he blinked. Then, almost robotically, he reached for his wallet, his own ratty little thing with a broken snap and edges that were starting to fray from use. He opened it with care, like any sudden movement might set off some hidden alarm, and tucked the bill inside with exaggerated precision. Checked that it was flat. Checked again. And then once more, just to be sure, then he slipped the wallet into his back pocket.

“I…” Tyler started, then cleared his throat. His voice wobbled on the first syllable, and that sent another wave of humiliation crawling up the back of his neck, “Uhm… Thank you. It’s been a real long time since someone’s done somethin’ like this for me, and I—” He blinked hard, fast, trying to clear the wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes, “I dunno what to say.

Jack gave him a look that was all warmth, none of the pity Tyler had been bracing for. Just that easy, familiar steadiness that always seemed to carry a smile under the surface, even when he wasn’t actually smiling. He shifted his weight and cocked his head, voice light when he answered.

“Ain’t gotta say nothin’, Ty,” Jack said, tone drifting toward playful, “But if you’re plannin’ on standin’ here flappin’ your gums the whole damn hour, you’re gonna miss out on all the good sales.”

Tyler reached up with shaky fingers to tilt the brim of his hat in a nervous little gesture of acknowledgement, and nodded once at the both of them, “I’ll meet y’all back here,” he said, voice steadier now, if still quiet. 

Jack and Ennis watched him quietly as he went, and Jack didn’t need to look at Ennis to know what he’d see. That expression, unreadable to anyone else, was one Jack had come to recognize over the years. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t obvious. Just a soft lift at the corner of Ennis’s mouth, the faintest curve that most folks wouldn’t even notice. But Jack did.

He’d seen it before, when Ennis laid eyes on Junior after months apart, pride flickering behind the guard he always kept up. When they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, Ennis pretending to read the paper, but stealing glances like he couldn’t help himself. When he reached for Jack in the dark, callused fingers brushing over his ribs like a habit he hadn’t learned how to break. It was the look of quiet, unspoken fondness. The kind of affection Ennis Del Mar didn’t know how to name out loud.

Jack turned his head just slightly, stealing a sideways glance at him without making a thing of it. Ennis’s gaze hadn’t wavered, still fixed on the stretch of mall Tyler had disappeared into. The boy had only been with them a few weeks, but Jack could already see the shape of it forming. The same kind of quiet protectiveness Ennis had once reserved for his own blood. And for Jack. He wouldn’t admit it. Probably never would. 

But Jack knew better than to wait for words from a man like that. Ennis didn’t speak his care. He showed it, in the way he paid attention, the way he stood like a guard at Tyler’s back, ready to step in if things got rough. He showed it in that little smile, the one he didn’t even realize was there.

Jack shifted again, adjusting his weight with a subtle wince, the rubber tip of his cane skimming the tiled floor as he braced himself. His bad leg had been bothering him since they left the ranch, a dull throb that started in his calf and climbed steadily into his knee like a fuse catching. The mall was too damn bright, too loud, and far too full of people, and Jack knew damn well he couldn’t stand in one spot too long without his body reminding him just how much he wasn’t twenty anymore.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down the front of his jacket. The ache wasn’t unbearable, not yet, but it was enough to make him lean heavier on the cane than he liked to admit. He gave his leg a careful stretch, then glanced sidelong at Ennis, who was still watching the crowd where Tyler had disappeared.

“Y’know,” Jack said after a minute, “I think we’re doin’ alright.”

Ennis didn’t answer at first, just turned his head a little, the brim of his hat dipping low as he squinted at Jack like he was checking for sarcasm. When he didn’t find any, his brows lifted just a fraction, “At what?” Ennis asked, deadpan.

Jack shrugged, careful to keep the motion smooth, easy. He didn’t want to jostle anything and start limping worse than he already was, “All of it,” he said. “The ranch. Tyler. You and me, settlin’ into this life.”

For a moment, Ennis didn’t answer. Just stood there with that far-off look he got sometimes, like he was weighing the whole world in his head before deciding if it was worth speaking  on. His jaw worked once, slow, and then he nodded, “Yeah,” he said. “Reckon we are.”

It was quiet. Just two words, but Jack heard everything inside them, the years, the fights, the long silences that used to stretch too wide between them, and the soft domestic rhythm they’d settled into now, years late but better than never. Ennis wasn’t the type to lay things out in speeches. Never had been. But Jack didn’t need a speech. He knew the man too well by now. That nod, that quiet agreement, it meant everything.

A grin crept up on Jack before he could stop it. He bumped his shoulder lightly against Ennis’, “Don’t get all sentimental on me, cowboy. You’re gonna start cryin’ in the middle of the damn mall.”

Ennis snorted, a dry huff through his nose, “Ain’t the one always makin’ declarations in public.”

“That weren’t a declaration,” Jack said, nudging him again, “That was an observation. Completely different.”

“Uh-huh.”

They started walking, slow-paced to match Jack’s limp, the cane tapping rhythmically against the floor as they moved together through the crowd. Jack let his hand brush against Ennis’s for just a second, but Ennis didn’t pull away. He never did anymore.

After a moment, Jack muttered, “You think there’s a store in here where I can sit my ass down and eat a pretzel the size of my head?”

Ennis gave a faint smile, “There’s a food court.”

Jack perked up, “They got them cinnamon things?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Hell yeah. C’mon, cowboy. We’re gettin’ one each.”

Ennis sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “You buyin’?”

Jack grinned. “After all that emotional labor I just did? You’re damn right I ain’t.”

Ennis just shook his head, muttering something under his breath about drama queens, but when Jack turned his head, he caught the look again, that same quiet smile, tugging at the edge of Ennis’s face like it’d snuck past his defenses. They walked on, side by side, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s presence. And for all the noise, all the fluorescent chaos around them, it felt a little like peace.

Chapter Text

Tyler stared down at the bags scattered across the blanket, plastic and paper shopping bags crinkled when he shifted his weight. He didn’t move to unpack anything. Just looked. The sight alone was still a strange one. Not the bags, not the stuff inside them, but the context. His bed. His room. His space. It wasn’t a loan or a guest arrangement anymore, not some temporary cot tucked in a barn loft or a couch he was allowed to crash on until someone got tired of him. This was his. The thought sat heavy and light at the same time, like it didn’t know which way to fall. But it was settling more now than it had in those first few days

Eventually, he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled one of the bags into his lap. A black tee was folded near the top, the metallic lettering of Judas Priest gleaming above the Turbo cover art. The handgrip, the motorized pink streaks. He smoothed a hand over the fabric, the image bright against his calloused palm. Beneath it was another one, Megadeth, white block lettering across a background of stark black. Vic Rattlehead grinned up at him from the chest.

They’d stopped at Wax Trax Records after lunch, off 13th Avenue. He lost track of time in there, combing through crates like he’d been doing it his whole life, fingers dancing past tape cases, flipping faster the longer he looked. By the time they left, his bag was heavier by three cassettes: Abigail by King Diamond, The Legacy by Testament, and The Ultra-Violence by Death Angel. He’d had to stop himself from putting them into his Walkman right then and there on the sidewalk. The temptation had crawled up the back of his spine all through lunch. He’d been buzzing so hard in the truck ride home that he could feel Jack and Ennis exchanging looks. They hadn’t said anything, but he caught Jack smirking when Tyler couldn’t keep his knee from bouncing.

Still, none of that had made him half as nervous as stepping into PMM Western Wear.

The moment they walked through the glass doors off Colfax, the sharp scent of leather and boot oil hit him like a wall. Rows and rows of cowboy boots lined the walls, gleaming under the harsh overhead lights, brands he’d never heard of, price tags that made his stomach twist. Tyler had stuck close to the back, gravitating toward the shelf with the familiar Justin logo. They were what he’d always worn, when he could afford decent boots at all.

But Jack, naturally, had other ideas.

“Try these,” he’d said, pulling down a pair from a higher shelf and holding them out. The leather was two-toned, dark chocolate brown on the vamp, black on the shaft, with cream stitching curling up and around the collar. Dan Posts. Tyler had hesitated.

“Look real nice,” Jack added, “Try ’em. Ain’t gonna hurt.”

Tyler had sat down on the bench, hands clammy, and tugged off his converse. He tried not to flinch when the new pair slid on smoother than anything he’d worn before. The leather hugged his foot snug, not tight, the square toe giving just enough room. He stood up, took a few steps on the polished floor. 

He looked up and caught Jack watching him, arms folded across his chest.

“Good fit?” Jack asked.

Tyler nodded, still half in disbelief.

“Well, hell,” Jack said with a grin, “Then we’ll take ’em.”

Tyler opened his mouth to protest, he didn’t need boots that nice, didn’t deserve boots that nice, but Jack was already turning toward the counter, fishing for his wallet.

Back at home, Tyler’s eyes drifted toward the cardboard box resting at the foot of his bed, the Dan Post logo stamped across the top. The boots inside were stiff as hell, still factory fresh, untouched by sweat or time. Breaking them in was going to be a nightmare. He already missed the give of his old Justins, worn soft at the heel, the way the leather had molded to his steps over the years. He could feel the blisters already just thinking about it.

With a sigh, he glanced across the room. His duffel bag was still sitting where he’d left it nearly a month ago, perched on top of the desk. He hadn’t unpacked it. Just kept rifling through it when he needed something, living out of it like he might have to pick up and leave again at any moment. He’d been at the ranch for damn near a month, and he still hadn’t committed to staying long enough to empty the thing.

The only thing he’d bothered to unpack were his cassettes, and even those were unceremoniously crammed into the top drawer of the dresser, a loose pile of plastic cases with no rhyme or reason. Every morning, he rifled through them like he was at a swap meet, looking for whatever felt right to blast through his Walkman while mucking out stalls. It wasn’t that he meant to keep living out of a bag. It just… didn’t feel real yet. Like he’d jinx something if he pretended this was permanent.

Still. Maybe it was time.

He pushed off the mattress with both hands and walked over to the desk, grabbing the duffel by its straps. He hauled it over to the bed and let it drop beside the box with a heavy thump. The zipper on the main compartment was half-stuck, but after a few tugs it gave way, the teeth peeling apart with a loud zzrrrip.

He crouched over the bag and started pulling through it. A few shirts. A bundle of socks. Flannels. A cracked cassette case. Then, suddenly, something his fingertips recognized before his mind caught up, a familiar spine, soft from wear, the corner curled from always being jammed in too tight.

Tyler froze. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

It was his sketchpad.

He pulled it out, careful not to bend the pages more than they already were. The cover was black and scuffed, the edges softened from years of handling. He ran his thumb along the edge like he was checking to make sure it was still real. He hadn’t drawn much, not since leaving Texas. 

He set it aside, then reached back into the duffel with more purpose now, digging until his fingers closed around a rubber-banded bundle of pencils. Some were worn down to the nub, others still had bits of tape wrapped around them where he’d tried to stretch their life. He pulled those out too, dropping them beside the sketchpad. 

Tyler carried both the sketchpad and the bundle of pencils over to the desk, cradling them against his chest like they might fall apart if he didn’t hold them right. He pulled the chair out, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor. It was an old chair, but it didn’t wobble when he sank into it. He ran a hand over the edge of the desk, then over the cover of the sketchpad. His fingers hesitated near the top corner, tracing the frayed edge where the binding had started to come undone. For a second, it felt like muscle memory would take over, like maybe if he just started sketching, he’d find his way back into it.

He flipped the cover open. The first few pages were filled already, smudged graphite, a series of half-finished figures and landscapes. His strokes from those days had been quick, anxious. The kind of drawing you do when you only have a few minutes before someone comes looking. He turned past them, stopping on a blank page. The clean expanse of paper stared back at him, almost too white. He pulled one of the pencils free from the rubber band and rolled it between his fingers.

Knock knock.

He flinched.

Because the part of him that still lived in that house in Anson hadn’t caught up to the present yet. The part of him that remembered what knocks had meant there.

They meant Wade had come home drunk and mean. They meant the door would swing open no matter how fast he scrambled out of bed, no matter how small he tried to make himself in the corner. It meant a storm was already on its way, loud, clumsy hands, glassy eyes, that belt already unbuckled. It meant Tyler scrambling to sit up in bed, heart thudding so loud in his ears he could barely hear the words as they were spit at him, Useless. Faggot. No-good waste of space. They meant knowing he was gonna get hit no matter what he said, so he’d better just make it quick. Better to nod, better to say yes sir, better to not cry, better to not beg, because that only made it worse.

Sometimes the knock hadn’t been a warning at all, just a signal. Just Clay’s way of telling him he was coming in, whether Tyler wanted it or not. And the sound of it, soft like that, always gentle, that had been the worst part. Because it made Tyler hope, for half a second, that it was someone else. Something else.

That’s what knocks had meant. That’s what his body remembered, even now.

But this wasn’t there.

This was the ranch. His room. His door. And on the other side of it, not a monster. Not a drunk. Not a man who could hurt him and get away with it.

Just Ennis.

Tyler closed his eyes and exhaled, tried to unclench his jaw. It wasn’t immediate. The fear still lingered, stubborn and rooted deep. But the silence that followed the knock helped, no yelling, no footsteps pacing outside, no door flung open without permission.

Just quiet.

Then Ennis’ voice came, “Dinner’s on. If you want it.”

Not a demand. Not Get your ass out here. Not You make me wait, I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about.

He closed his eyes, swallowing around the tight knot in his throat. It didn’t disappear, but it didn’t choke him this time either, “Yes, sir,” he said, the first time soft, automatic. Then again, louder, so Ennis would hear him through the wood, “Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”

Tyler moved down the staircase, one hand ghosting along the rail, the other curled at his side. He didn’t need to count anymore. He already knew there were fifteen steps from the second floor landing to the hardwood below. He’d counted them every day since he arrived. But something about the rhythm of it, the repetition, made things feel steady. Safe. Like no matter what else changed around him, the stairs would always stay the same.

When he reached the bottom, the warm scent of dinner wrapped around him like a blanket. His stomach gave a twist of recognition before he even saw the food. He followed the smell into the kitchen, fingers flexing once at his sides before he tucked them into his pockets, trying not to fidget. The table was already set. Three places, like always. Jack and Ennis were already seated, bowls in front of them, steam rising in spirals from the broth inside. But it was the bowl at his place that made Tyler pause.

Chicken and dumplings. He hadn’t had it since his grandma died.

His chest tightened, and he blinked like that might clear the memory that rushed in uninvited, his grandmother’s tiny kitchen in Anson, worn counters and humming appliances, the squeak of her spoon in the pot, her hand on the back of his head when he bent over the bowl. He hadn’t had it since she passed. Not once. 

He didn’t realize how long he’d been standing there until Jack looked up from his bowl, spoon pausing halfway to his mouth.

“Well,” Jack said around a mouthful, “Don’t just stand there starin’. It ain’t poisoned.”

That startled a faint smile out of Tyler. He ducked his head and moved toward his chair, sliding into it. The bowl was hot under his fingertips. Real. Present.

Jack tilted his head, spoon pointing toward the food, “You like chicken and dumplin’s?”

Tyler looked down into the bowl for a second, watching the dumplings bob in the thick broth, “Yes, sir,” he said, “’S my favorite. Used to have it all the time, back when—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to, “Ain’t had it in a long time.”

Jack’s brow arched, like that surprised him. Not in a bad way, more like he hadn’t expected something so simple to line up so perfectly. He smiled, and Tyler caught it out of the corner of his eye, “Well, I’ll be damned,” Jack said, reaching for the pepper shaker, “Look at that. Told you he had taste.”

Ennis, who had been focused on tearing a biscuit in half, glanced up and made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, “Mine too,” he said after a moment. “Don’t make it much, takes damn near half the day.”

He paused, then looked at Tyler, meeting his eyes without hesitation.

“But if it’s your favorite,” he said, “I’ll make it more.”

Tyler’s face went a little pink, the kind of warmth that crept in slow, catching at the tops of his ears. He looked back down at the bowl again like it might swallow him whole. His voice was quieter this time, but not unsure, “I, uh… really appreciate that,” he said. “Means a lot, sir.”

Ennis just gave a soft grunt of acknowledgement and turned his focus back to his bowl, like it wasn’t a big thing he’d just said, like it wasn’t rearranging the way Tyler thought about being wanted.

The conversation settled after that, the room dipping into a comfortable quiet. The only sounds were the soft scrape of spoons against bowls and the faint murmur of the television in the living room, droning on about a cold front moving in from the mountains. Jack made a comment under his breath about it snowing all damn week, and Ennis responded with a grunt that Tyler was learning meant agreement.

When they’d all cleared their bowls, Tyler stood without being asked, gathering them up, Jack’s, then Ennis’, then his own. The ceramic clinked as he stacked them in his arms. He set the bowls down on the counter with a soft clink, adjusted the faucet, and turned on the hot water. The pipes groaned a little before the stream rushed out, steam billowing up fast. The window above the sink clouded over in seconds, a veil spreading across the glass. He wiped it away with the edge of his sleeve, fingertips brushing condensation, and leaned in to get a better look at the world outside.

The backyard had been swallowed by snow.

It blanketed everything, fences, tree limbs, the little path that curved around the side of the house. The back porch light spilled across the fresh white, casting a soft golden wash over it, like someone had tipped a lamp over the edge of the sky. Pawprints crisscrossed through it, meandering trails that looped around the shed. The prints looked delicate, drawn into the powder like a fingertip through flour. No wind had come to fill them in yet. 

Behind him, Jack shifted in his chair with a loud groan, the wood creaking under him as he leaned back to get a better look at the TV across the room.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing the side of his leg, “This snow’s got my goddamn hip actin’ up. It’s like I got a weathervane in my damn bones.” He grunted again and shot a glance toward Tyler, raising an eyebrow, “You better get ready to shovel that driveway tomorrow, Ty. That mess ain’t goin’ nowhere by itself.”

Tyler chuckled as he reached for the first bowl and started rinsing it clean, “Don’t reckon I know how to do that,” he said, half-joking, half-honest, “Hell, bein’ from Texas and all, I don’t rightly remember the last time I even saw snow that stuck.”

Jack barked a laugh, shaking his head like the memory had just slapped him upside the head, “Shit, I know that’s right. I remember the first time it snowed after I moved down there? Felt like the damn rapture.” He jabbed a thumb toward the window, “Went outside thinkin’ it’d stick, melted before it even hit the ground. I was lookin’ around like, Where the hell’s the rest of it?”

Tyler hummed, rinsing the bowl and setting it aside to dry, “Back home, folks lose their minds soon as a flurry hits. School gets called off before the snow even sticks. Everybody drivin’ five miles an hour like it’s the end times.”

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head at the memory as he rinsed the next bowl clean. Steam fogged the window again, blurring the world beyond until it was just shapes of white and shadow. He wiped at the glass with his sleeve, smearing a clear patch so he could keep watching the pawprints crisscrossing the yard.

“I’ll help you with the shovelin’.” Ennis said, “It ain’t hard. Just like muckin’ stalls without the smell.”

Tyler blinked and turned his head, surprised by the offer. Not because Ennis wasn’t the type to help, but because it hadn’t even crossed Tyler’s mind that he wouldn’t be doing it alone. For so long, work like that had just been his to handle. You didn’t ask for help. You just did it. You endured.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide for a moment before they crinkled with something warmer. A soft laugh escaped him, “Well, shit,” he murmured, mouth tugging into a grin, “Without the smell? That’s practically a vacation.”

Ennis gave a slight nod, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might’ve almost smiled, “We’ll knock it out before chores in the mornin’. You get a rhythm goin’, don’t take long.”

Tyler turned fully now, leaning his hip against the counter, eyes still tracing Ennis’ face like he was trying to make sure this wasn’t some kind of test, “I appreciate that,” he said, quieter now, “Ain’t never shoveled snow before. Figure it’s about time I learn.

“Won’t be nothin’ to it,” Ennis replied. “We’ll start on the porch, clear a path out to the barn, then the drive. Easier to keep up if you don’t let it pack down.”

Jack gave a low chuckle, “Careful, Ennis. You’re gonna spoil him. Boy’ll think shovelin’ snow’s easy work.”

Tyler ducked his head and smiled, that familiar flush rising to his cheeks. He turned back to the sink, rinsing the last of the spoons with the ease of someone who liked having a job to do, something with an endpoint, “I doubt I’ll think that when my hands go numb,” he said, shaking the excess water off his fingers before reaching for the towel, “but at least it ain’t manure.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ennis said, his voice faintly amused.

Tyler let the last spoon clink into the rack and wiped his hands dry on the dish towel, then hesitated, his fingers curling into the soft fabric. For a moment, he stood still, his heartbeat thudding a little too loud in his ears, his breath catching just enough to make him pause. He turned, a quiet shuffle of socked feet on hardwood, and faced the table where Jack and Ennis still sat. 

His fingers fidgeted at the hem of his flannel. He twisted the fabric once, then let go, then did it again. His throat felt dry all of a sudden, tongue sticking a little to the roof of his mouth. He cleared it and shifted his weight, eyes darting toward the window. He didn’t want to interrupt. Didn’t want to sound stupid either. But the words pressed forward before he could tuck them back.

“Would it, uh…” he began, but his voice caught, and he winced. Tried again, “Would it be alright if I—if I went outside? Just for a little while.

As soon as the words landed, he regretted them. Too polite. Too damn careful. The phrasing made his stomach twist. He sounded like he was ten years old again, asking Wade if it was okay to go out in the yard, asking even when he knew the answer might be a backhand or a bitter, You think I give a shit what you do? He didn’t hear anything at first, no yes, no no, no what the hell for, and that silence stretched long enough to stir something old in his chest. That instinct to shrink down, to apologize before he got yelled at, to say never mind and disappear.

Jack and Ennis both looked up from the table, and for a second Tyler thought maybe he’d overstepped. Maybe asking was the wrong move. But then Jack tilted his head and shot Ennis a look across the table, something wordless passing between them, one of those silent exchanges Tyler still couldn’t read just yet. Ennis gave the faintest nod in return, something more a shrug than a real answer, but there wasn’t any disapproval in it.

Jack was the first to speak. He leaned back a little more in his chair, one hand still wrapped around the base of his mug, the other drumming against the tabletop. That slow grin crept across his face, the kind Tyler was only just starting to recognize, the one that meant he’d said or done something that struck Jack as sweet, or maybe just a little funny in a good way, “Well, Ty,” Jack said, drawing the syllables out like he was still half amused, “if you’re dead set on freezin’ your balls off, I sure as hell ain’t gonna stop you.”

There was a chuckle tucked into the tail end of his voice, and Tyler felt it settle something in his chest. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and ducked his head, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a reluctant smile.

“I’m gonna grab my boots and my coat,” he said, almost sheepish, not quite able to meet either of their eyes for long

He turned toward the stairs, already moving before he finished the sentence. His steps picked up a little by the time he hit the landing, the sudden flutter of energy curling through his chest like something fizzy and new. He hadn’t planned on going out, hadn’t even known he could go out, but now that the option had been granted without hesitation, he felt lighter. Eager.

Five minutes later, bundled up and feeling taller than usual, Tyler made his way back down the stairs. The Carhartt was warm against the cold air that leaked in through the edges of the doorframe, and the boots thunked against the wood with each step. He paused in front of the door, gloved hand already on the knob, when Jack’s voice called after him from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Jack said, lifting his chin, “if you’re headin’ out there, take Hammy and Meatball too. Let ’em stretch their legs a little before bed.”

Tyler glanced back over his shoulder, caught the way Jack nodded toward the living room where both dogs were now standing alert, tails wagging, eyes already fixed on the door like they understood every word.

“They’ll keep you company,” Jack added with a smirk, “Or tackle you into a snowbank. Either way, you’ll be entertained.”

Tyler laughed under his breath, a quiet huff that came more from surprise than anything, “Yes, sir,” he said, and turned the knob.

The front door gave one final creak before shutting hard, the heavy wood thudding into the frame. It echoed through the kitchen, rattling the windowpanes in their frames and causing a few snowflakes to shake loose from the trim outside. Jack and Ennis both stilled, listening as Tyler’s boots crunched off into the snow, the excited yelps of the dogs following close behind.

There was a moment of silence before Jack snorted through his nose, then let out a sudden laugh, shaking his shoulders as he leaned back in his chair, “Goddamn,” he wheezed between chuckles, grinning toward the closed door, “He really does love slammin’ doors, don’t he? Makes a whole damn event outta leavin’ a room.”

Ennis shook his head, but there was a trace of amusement in the way his mouth pulled tight at the corners. He didn’t smile, not quite, but his eyes had that familiar spark, the one Jack always recognized as affection disguised as annoyance, “Hell, Jack,” Ennis muttered, shifting forward in his chair with a soft grunt, “Don’t get me started.”

His tone was dry with disapproval, but not real irritation. More like he was already tired just imagining the next time Tyler would let the door fly shut without a second thought. It was the same voice he used when the barn lights got left on overnight or when Jack forgot to rinse his coffee cup. The voice of a man who’d picked his battles long ago and knew exactly which ones he’d already lost.

Jack cackled harder at that, tilting his head back and letting the laughter roll out free. But even as the amusement kept him going, his body betrayed him. That telltale ache had been coiling low in his hip since the sun went down, but he’d ignored it the way he always did, gritted his teeth and rode it out, hoping the heat from the kitchen or the distraction of good company would keep it at bay. It didn’t. Now, the pain surged down the length of his leg, wrapping itself around the joint. His smile faltered, just for a second, not enough to kill the mood, but enough that Ennis, if he was watching, would notice.

Jack exhaled through his nose and braced his hand against the table, fingers curling around the edge. He shifted his weight forward, trying to push himself up out of the chair with the kind of nonchalance that might fool someone who hadn’t been around long. But his leg wouldn’t straighten all the way. A hiss of air escaped between his teeth, and his free hand reached behind him, groping for something to grab that wasn’t there.

Ennis’ chair scraped against the floor with a sudden screech as he shot upright, “Whoa, darlin’,” he barked, already halfway around the table before Jack could get upright, “What the hell’re you doin’? You wait, I’ll get it.”

Jack blinked, startled by the speed of it, but didn’t fight him. He let Ennis catch him under the elbow, let the hand at his back steady him with practiced ease. The two of them had done this dance more times than they could count, Ennis always trying to pretend he wasn’t worried, Jack always trying to pretend he wasn’t hurting. Neither one of them particularly good at the pretending part anymore.

“Jesus, Ennis. Settle down, Nurse Ratched,” he grumbled, though there was no real fight in it, “I’m fine. Just needed a minute.”

“Fine, huh,” Ennis said, barely giving the words space, “Then what’s all this leanin’ for?”

Jack didn’t answer, just grunted and shifted his weight again, bad idea. The grimace that followed said everything.

“Yeah,” Ennis muttered, “Fine my ass.”

Jack half-laughed through his teeth, “Hell, cowboy, you oughta charge by the hour. You’re gettin’ good at this.”

Ennis stepped closer, letting Jack’s weight settle against his side without complaint, one hand going to the small of Jack’s back to steady him, “Where the hell’s your cane?” he muttered, glancing around like it might’ve grown legs and wandered off.

Jack tilted his head toward the entryway, guilt flickering across his face, “Think I left it by the front door when we came in.”

Ennis turned his head, giving Jack a look that could’ve curdled milk, “You think?”

Jack gave a sheepish shrug, “Didn’t figure I’d need it just to sit down and eat supper.”

Ennis stared at him, jaw tight, “And how’d you plan on gettin’ back up, genius?”

Jack’s grin came back, small but devilish, “Figured if I hollered loud enough, you’d come carry me like always.”

Ennis sighed, slow and long through his nose, his whole body seeming to deflate with it. “You’re a pain in my goddamn ass,” he muttered, though his grip never faltered. Instead, he began guiding Jack around the edge of the table, walking slow, adjusting his pace to Jack’s half-shuffle. His hand remained firm against Jack’s back, the heel of it pressing in just above his hip like he knew exactly where the pain was seated. And he did. Of course he did. Jack’s gait was uneven, but steady enough with the added support. His breath hitched every couple of steps, and he kept his eyes forward, focused on the nearest chair like it was the promised land.

When they finally reached it, Ennis eased him down with quiet precision. He crouched, one hand braced on the seat, the other still ghosting over Jack’s back as he lowered him with more care than his grumbling tone would have suggested.

“Next time you forget that damn cane,” he muttered, crouching to check Jack’s posture, “I’m leavin’ you stuck like a turtle on its back.”

Jack grinned despite himself, the pain still etched into the corners of his eyes but softening a little now that he was off the leg again, “Sure you will,” he drawled, eyes flicking toward Ennis, “You’d miss me too much.”

Ennis didn’t rise to the bait. He just looked at Jack for a long moment, then adjusted the back of the chair with a grunt. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary, brushing against Jack’s shoulder before he turned toward the entryway.

“I’ll go grab it,” he said, already moving, “And next time, you bring it with you. Ain’t no damn excuse.”

Jack watched him go, that crooked smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hip throbbed, yeah, but it didn’t feel quite so unbearable now, “Bossy old bastard,” Jack muttered under his breath, leaning back with a satisfied groan.

Ennis crossed the length of the entryway in a few steady strides, the worn boards creaking beneath his feet. The cane leaned against the wall by the coat rack, half-shadowed beneath Jack’s black Stetson and the layer of winter jackets hanging above it. He reached for it without rushing, fingers closing around the smooth curve of the handle, then paused for a second to look it over.

It was simple, unpolished, a little rough in places where the grain had splintered, but sturdy. He remembered the afternoon he’d put it together in the barn, hunched over an old workbench with more frustration than skill, sanding down the handle until his fingers cramped, using tools that were meant for fence repair, not furniture. He wasn’t a craftsman. Never had been. But he knew Jack hated that plastic fold-out cane, the one that clacked and squeaked and made him look like he belonged in a hospital bed instead of a ranch. Jack had snarled at it every time he used it, when he used it, and usually just left it behind on purpose, pride getting the better of him every damn time.

Ennis hadn’t argued with him over it. Just waited until Jack was tucked in bed one day and disappeared into the barn with a mind to fix what he could. It was stubborn love, the only kind Ennis knew how to give.

The wood was maple, pale and dense, the handle had been shaped to curve just so, not perfectly, but enough to fit Jack’s hand without digging into his palm. The base had a rubber tip stolen off an old shovel, just enough to keep it from slipping in the snow. It wasn’t pretty. But it was his. And Jack, against all odds, had taken to it. 

Still called it stupid. Still claimed he forgot it by accident. But Ennis knew better.

He turned the cane over in his hands once, checking for splinters, making sure the rubber tip hadn’t worn through. Then, satisfied, he headed back toward the kitchen. Jack was still slouched in the chair near the table, one leg stretched out awkward, the other bent stiff beneath him. His jaw was set against the pain, though he was trying not to show it. Typical. Ennis didn’t say anything at first. He just walked over and held the cane out in front of him, offering it up without ceremony.

“Here you go, darlin’,” he said, the endearment rolling off his tongue without a second thought. 

Jack didn’t reach for it right away. He looked up at Ennis first, his eyes narrowed, calculating. Like he was weighing his options, whether to make a joke, deflect, toss out some smart-ass comment about being fine without it. For a second, it looked like he might. But then the fight drained out of his shoulders, and he just reached up, slow and steady, and took the cane from Ennis’ hand. His fingers curled around the handle with a kind of reluctance, like he didn’t want to admit how much he needed it, or how good it felt to have it placed there. His grip tightened before relaxing, thumb brushing across the worn groove near the top, the one that had molded over time to the shape of his hand.

“Don’t forget it next time,” Ennis said, folding his arms over his chest, trying to keep his tone light, even as he watched Jack for any sign of another wince, “I ain’t always gonna play fetch for you.”

Jack huffed a laugh through his nose, leaning the cane against his thigh, “You say that every time.”

“And one of these days I might mean it,” Ennis replied, not quite smiling, but something close lingered in his eyes.

Jack gripped the cane with both hands and planted it on the floor with a soft thunk. He leaned forward, gritting his teeth against the jolt of pain that shot down his hip and into his knee. His jaw tensed hard enough to make his cheek twitch, “Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, voice tight, breath shallow. Still, he pushed up from the chair, fighting gravity with stubborn pride. It wasn’t graceful. His legs shook under him, and he teetered a little too far to the left before finding his balance again.

Ennis was already beside him by the time his boots hit the floor. He didn’t say a word about the wobble, just stepped in close, slipped a hand under Jack’s arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. His touch was firm, grounding, anchored Jack without making a show of it.

“C’mon,” Ennis muttered, adjusting his grip as he guided Jack toward the hallway, “Let’s get you in bed. I’ll find that heatin’ pad, get it warmed up for you.”

Jack’s jaw clenched tighter, and he shook his head almost immediately, digging his heels in like a mule with a mind of its own, “Uh uh,” he muttered, breathless, “Ain’t ready for bed.”

Ennis furrowed his brow, confused. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m goin’ outside. Wanna see the snow before it gets too dark,” Jack said, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. 

Ennis blinked at him like he’d just announced he was going bull riding again, “Outside,” he echoed, deadpan.

Jack nodded once, firm. His knuckles had gone pale from how hard he was squeezing the cane, and he’d already started to angle himself toward the door, like sheer force of will might be enough to drag him there.

“Jesus Christ, Jack,” Ennis muttered, eyes rolling to the ceiling, “You’re actin’ like Tyler now. What, you forget you’ve seen snow before, darlin’?”

Jack shot him a look so sharp, so deadpan and pointed, it could’ve sliced through drywall. It was that same look Ennis had seen a hundred times over the years, the one that said Don’t argue with me on this, Ennis Del Mar. Don’t even try.

Ennis groaned under his breath, shook his head, and shifted his stance like he was preparing to lose the argument. Again.

“Alright,” he said, grumbling under his breath, “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“Only fair,” Jack said as he limped forward, “You’ve been a pain in mine for twenty-somethin’ years.”

Ennis followed after him, still close in case the next step gave out, watching the way Jack’s gait pulled just a little worse today than yesterday. It made something twist up in his chest, but he kept it off his face.

“Will you at least sit down and lemme put your boots on?” Ennis asked, voice edging into stern now, a note of warning beneath the softness. “I don’t need you fallin’ over yourself tryin’ to do it.”

Then he gave Jack a look, the mirror image of the one he’d just been on the receiving end of. Less dramatic, maybe, but just as pointed. The kind of look that said You will sit your ass down, Jack Twist, or so help me I’ll put you there.

Jack paused mid-step, eyed the bench near the coat rack like it had betrayed him somehow. He let out a low breath, muttered, “Fine,” like it pained him more than the bad leg ever could, and sank down slow, cane still in hand. 

Ennis crouched in front of him, reaching for the boots without another word, his fingers working with the kind of tenderness that didn’t need explanation. 

Jack didn’t fight him. Didn’t grumble about how he could manage just fine on his own, even though the urge sparked for a second like it always did. It was instinct, foolish, prideful instinct, but he swallowed it down. Because no matter how much his body stiffened with the shame of needing help, there was another part of him, older, maybe wiser, that still marveled every time Ennis did something like this. That part remembered a thousand lonely nights spent wanting exactly this and never thinking he’d get it. That part had learned not to waste the good things when they came.

He watched Ennis work, the way his calloused hands, so capable, so used to fixing fences and saddling horses, were now tugging on a pair of boots for his sake. It undid him a little, that quiet care. It was never loud, never wrapped in sweet words or soft touches, not Ennis. But it was there, always, in the way he showed up.

He felt the smile before he realized it was there. Subtle, half-lidded, more in his eyes than his mouth. Just a soft curl of affection, of contentment, blooming under the surface.

Ennis looked up and caught him mid-smile, his hands still busy tugging at the second boot. He blinked once, puzzled, and furrowed his brow like the sight of Jack smiling made him suspicious, “The hell’re you smilin’ at?” he muttered, not sharp, just flat-out confused, like Jack had slipped a joke past him and he was trying to puzzle it out.

Jack leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loose over his chest, that half-smile still dancing on his face like a secret he wasn’t ready to give up. “Nothin’,” he said, drawling it out slow. “Just watchin’ my grumpy old man play nursemaid.”

Ennis grunted. He finished working the second boot into place, giving it a firm tug before sitting back on his heels. His hand stayed braced against Jack’s shin for a beat too long, like he didn’t want to give up the contact just yet, then he pushed himself upright with a groan and a muttered, “Ain’t no goddamn nursemaid. You want a sponge bath, you’re gonna have to pay extra.”

Jack let out a low chuckle, tipped his head back against the wood paneling and let it rest there, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling, “Damn shame,” he said, eyes twinkling, “I was fixin’ to give you a tip.”

Ennis paused, halfway turned toward the door, and shot him a glance over one shoulder. It was the kind of look that’d seen a thousand miles, part suspicion, part fondness, and just a flicker of the man who used to blush every time Jack so much as looked at him too long, “I reckon I don’t wanna know what kinda tip you’re talkin’ about,” 

Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked younger for a second, boyish, bright-eyed, like the years had rolled off him just enough to let that old spark show through, “Pretty sure you already do, cowboy.”

Ennis made a noise in the back of his throat that might’ve been a scoff if it weren’t so damn colored with embarrassment. He rolled his eyes, turned the rest of the way toward the door, and grabbed his coat like it had insulted him, “D’you wanna see your damn snow or not?” he asked, the exasperation in his voice doing a poor job of covering the flush climbing up his neck.

Jack grinned wider, biting back the laugh that wanted to follow. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he said, dragging himself upright with a faint grunt, one hand bracing against the bench as he stood. His hip twinged, but he ignored it, too wrapped up in the warmth blooming in his chest. “Hold your damn horses, Ennis.”

Jack shifted his weight to his cane and reached up with his free hand, fingers brushing against the hooks until they found his coat. The denim was cold from sitting near the door, stiff around the shoulders. He slipped one arm in, paused, then transferred the cane to the other hand so he could work his way into the second sleeve. It took a little more time than it used to. Everything did.

Ennis pretended to fuss with the zipper on his jacket, but his eyes kept tracking sideways. Watching. His gaze flicked over every movement Jack made, cataloguing each hitch, each pause, the slight falter in the way he shifted his weight. He didn’t offer help, not unless Jack asked, but his whole body readied like he might step in if things went south. Like he’d already braced for the moment he’d need to catch him.

Jack noticed. Of course he did. He always did.

“Doin’ just fine, Ennis,” he murmured, not a jab, not a protest. Just reassurance. The kind meant to soothe the worry without challenging it.

Ennis didn’t answer right away. He stepped back, opened the door, and let the cold roll in like a wave, dry, and bright with snowlight. He gave a little nod toward the porch steps, then looked back over his shoulder.

“You fall on your ass out there, don’t expect me to come haulin’ you back up,” he said, eyes narrowed, though the corner of his mouth twitched like it was fighting a smile.

Jack smirked, adjusting the collar of his coat as he moved forward with a careful gait. “Then I’ll just lay there and make a snow angel. Might be the most peace I get all day.”

Outside, the porch was dusted with fresh powder, just enough to be slick. Each tree stood outlined in silver, rimmed in ice that caught what little light the sky offered. A hush had settled over the ranch, not quite night, not quite day, the kind of twilight that painted everything soft at the edges.

Jack and Ennis stepped out onto the porch, boots crunching against the slick wood. Jack braced a hand on the railing as he moved, fingers curling into the cold with a familiarity that didn’t quite register anymore. The view was wide from here, open pasture stretching down to the barn and up to the far hills, all of it blanketed in a thin shimmer. And right in the middle of it, disturbing the peaceful quiet like a one-man stampede, was Tyler.

He was flailing his way across the yard, trying like hell to stay upright. His boots kept slipping in the snow, too fast on the icy patches and too heavy on the loose powder. Arms out, legs awkward, he looked like he couldn’t decide whether he was walking, running, or falling in slow motion.

Jack barked a laugh before he could stop himself, “Well, shit,” he muttered, leaning on the railing with more amusement than concern. “Look at that fool.”

Ennis shifted beside him, squinting out at the spectacle. Tyler had just tried to pivot, too fast, and immediately went down hard on his ass, a puff of snow rising around him. One of the dogs let out a sharp bark and bounded over to investigate, tail wagging like it thought the whole thing was a game.

Jack snorted, one hand coming up to rub at the corner of his mouth, amusement curling there whether he meant it to or not. “Looks like a damn baby deer tryin’ to walk for the first time. Legs too long, ain’t got a clue what to do with ‘em.”

Ennis let out a grunt, though the corners of his eyes crinkled, his own kind of laugh held tight behind his ribs. “Ain’t never seen anyone try so hard to fall on every square inch of the yard.”

Jack chuckled, the sound soft and fond, watching Tyler push himself back up with gloved hands and square his shoulders like he hadn’t just eaten shit in front of the whole damn ranch. The kid took a few more awkward steps and promptly tripped again, this time thanks to one of the dogs darting between his legs.

“He’s persistent,” Jack added, voice low and warmed by something more than the porch light. “I’ll give him that.”

“Persistent,” Ennis echoed, then shook his head with a huff. “Or just dumb enough not to quit.”

“That too,” Jack said, grinning now. He leaned in a little closer, shoulder brushing Ennis’ just slightly, like it happened by accident. “Ain’t that why we hired him?”

Ennis tilted his head, side-eying him without turning, “We? Far as I recall, bringin’ that boy home was your bright idea.”

Jack feigned offense, hand over his heart. “You ain’t happy about it, cowboy?”

Ennis didn’t answer right away. He looked back out over the yard. Tyler was still down, lying flat in the snow now, one arm flung out and the other shielding his face as the dogs licked at him. But he was laughing. His shoulders shook with it. The kind of laugh that came from someplace deep, the kind that couldn’t be faked. For a second, Ennis saw something familiar in it. Something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

He let out a quiet exhale, the sound barely audible, “Ain’t unhappy,” he said, almost to himself, “That’s all I got to say about it.”

Chapter Text

Each step Tyler took crunched beneath his boots with a satisfying weight, leaving clear impressions in the powder, one long trail carving through the yard. Behind him, Meatball and Hamburger Helper bounded through the drifts, kicking up flurries of white in their wake. 

Tyler couldn’t help but laugh. The dogs were nipping at his heels like he was livestock in need of corralling, darting in and out with precision, their little bodies half-submerged in the snowbanks. Every time he tried to change direction, they flanked him with renewed purpose, yipping as if to scold him. He tried to outrun them, jogging a few clumsy paces toward the fence, but it was hopeless, they were faster, smarter, and far more coordinated.

“Alright, alright, cut it out,” Tyler wheezed, laughter catching somewhere between a breathless gasp and a protest as Meatball barreled into the back of his knee with all the subtlety of a charging bull. His wet snout jammed right into the fold behind his leg made him stumble, and he reached out to steady himself. But the dogs didn’t give a damn, two red streaks of mischief weaving circles around his legs, barking and nipping like he was the last calf to be wrangled on branding day.

“Quit!” he tried again, half-scolding, half-laughing, spinning in a clumsy circle to swat at their darting shapes. His palm caught the edge of a flapping ear, maybe a tail, but that was the extent of his victory. He barely had time to right himself before one heel clipped a hidden ridge of snow, and gravity did the rest.

The ground rushed up faster than expected. He went down hard, arms flailing once before he landed flat on his back with a bone-jarring thud. A grunt burst out of him on impact, followed by a high-pitched yelp as icy flakes worked their way down the gap between his coat collar and neck, slithering against bare skin.

“Shit—! Cold, cold, fuck—!”

The curse dissolved into a wheeze of laughter, eyes squinting up at the blinding sky, limbs splayed like he was making an accidental snow angel. His breath steamed out in gusts, his chest heaving as the cold soaked through the denim and flannel, numbing him quickly.

And that’s when the dogs struck.

Not with gentleness. Not even curiosity. They descended with the unhinged delight of two fur-covered demons, tails wagging, tongues lapping wherever they could reach. Meatball clambered onto Tyler’s ribs, planted both front paws on his chest like he’d scaled a mountain, while Hamburger Helper dove for his face with a low growl that sounded like pure joy.

“Alright! Jesus—hey, hey—I give up!”  he gasped through helpless laughter,  “You got me! I surrender!”

But the dogs didn’t stop. If anything, his laughter only spurred them harder, snouts burrowing under his arms, noses rooting in the folds of his jacket like he might be hiding treats, tongues dragging across his jaw and neck while his boots kicked at the sky. The cold was everywhere, in his hair, on his face, soaked into the seat of his jeans, but he couldn’t stop laughing. Not the fake kind he gave people to get them to move along. Not the clipped, polite kind he used when he didn’t know what else to say. This was real. Full-body laughter that left his chest heaving and his eyes stinging.

And then, just for a moment, it wasn’t 1987 anymore.

The ranch faded around him. The snow beneath his back stopped stinging. The weight of the dogs melted into something older. The world folded in on itself, time unspooling like a reel of film catching on a frame it wasn’t supposed to. Just for a moment, he wasn’t eighteen. 

He was ten again, and back in the pasture behind Raymond and Loretta’s house in Anson. The world had felt impossibly big back then, all open sky and cotton fields stretching toward the edges of the earth, the kind of space that made a boy feel like he could run forever. And he had, he and Elijah both, laughing so hard their sides ached, boots slipping on the frozen ground as they chased each other in circles. Clumps of snow flew between them like grenades, some packed hard, some just handfuls of powder flung for the hell of it. It didn’t matter who started it. Didn’t matter who won. The game was the point.

And God, Eli had been loud that day. That particular kind of loud that meant he was coming in for blood, whooping, hollering, voice cracking as he took off in a dead sprint behind Tyler.

“Ty, I swear to God—!” Eli had shouted, before tackling him into the snow like a linebacker. They’d both gone down hard, Tyler landing with a grunt, half the air knocked from his lungs and snow flying up around them in a blur of white and limbs. Eli had straddled him, knees pressing into Tyler’s ribs like he was staking a claim, face lit up with triumph and mischief.

“You said I couldn’t do it,” he’d crowed, face flushed, voice high with glee, “Guess what, dumbass?”

And then the snow came, icy, ruthless, shoveled down the back of Tyler’s flannel shirt. He’d screamed, hips jerking up off the ground as the cold bled through every layer, stiffening his spine, curling him inward.

“Eli!” he hollered, twisting beneath him like a hooked fish, “That’s not fair!”

But Eli was already howling, laughing so hard he tipped forward and nearly face-planted in the snow himself, wheezing and slapping at his knee.

And he wasn’t done.

“Oh, you thought that was it?” Eli taunted, snorting through laughter,  “I ain’t close to done, little brother.”

The bastard had grabbed another handful of snow and jammed it straight down Tyler’s jeans, right past the waistband, “That’s what you get,” he’d hollered, “That’s what you get for talkin’ shit!”

Tyler had kicked and twisted and screamed like he was being murdered, boots flailing, face red from cold and fury both, but even then, even then, he couldn’t stop laughing. Not when Eli was above him howling like a lunatic, and not when he heard the unmistakable sound of their grandfather’s laugh carrying from the porch.

Raymond had been standing there with a chipped mug of coffee in one hand and the other braced against his hip, watching it all unfold like it was the best show he’d seen in years. And when Tyler shrieked again, scrambling to throw Eli off, Raymond had lost it, laughter bursting out of him so loud and sudden it startled every crow out of the big pecan tree near the chicken coop. They’d risen in a black wave, cawing and flapping, circling above the field. 

“Goddamn boys,” Raymond had muttered between wheezes, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, “Ain’t right, either of ya. Hell of a pair.”

And Loretta had been standing at the screen door, dish towel thrown over one shoulder, watching it all unfold with that soft kind of exasperation she reserved for the men in her life. She’d called out after them, voice half-stern and half-laughing, “Don’t you dare bring them wet boots inside!”  But she’d said it with a smile. Always with a smile. Even when she was trying to sound mad.  She’d be the one to towel them off later anyway.

“She’s talkin’ to you,” Eli had whispered with mock seriousness.

“Nuh-uh,” Tyler had whispered back, “She meant you.” 

Eli snorted, then collapsed on top of him, the weight of him heavy and warm and familiar.

And just like that, it was over.

Tyler blinked, and the world came back in pieces. The sting of snow against the back of his neck. The distant sound of dogs panting. A crow calling somewhere off in the trees. The sun higher now, casting a cold glare through the bare pines.

The ranch. The mountain air. The present.

It was 1987 again.

But he could still hear Eli’s voice in his head, a little too loud, always. He could hear Raymond’s laugh. Loretta’s fussing. 

It was all gone.

But for a few seconds, it wasn’t. For a few seconds, it was like he’d never left. Like they were all still there, right where he’d left them.

Tyler closed his eyes and held onto that for as long as he could.

Jack and Ennis stood side by side on the porch, the snow creaking faintly beneath their boots, breath clouding in the crisp air. The boards under their feet groaned every so often with the cold, but neither of them moved, just leaned against the railing, their eyes fixed on the pasture below.

Below, Tyler was a blur of motion, gangly limbs, clumsy boots, wild hair still damp from where the snow had melted into it. He’d just hauled himself back up to his feet, swiping at his flannel with gloved hands, leaving little trails of snow clinging to the fabric. His cheeks were flushed bright with cold, eyes glassy with light and something softer, laughter, maybe. Or relief. Maybe both. He crouched down again and scooped a double handful of snow, packing it between his palms with more enthusiasm than finesse. His brows knitted in concentration, lips curled into a grin that was too wide to hide, too real to fake. Not the stiff, guarded expression they’d come to expect from him. Not the wary half-smile he gave when someone offered kindness he didn’t yet know how to trust. This was different. Unburdened. A kid’s grin. For once, he didn’t look like someone waiting for the door to slam shut behind him.

Meatball lunged for him. Tyler laughed and launched a snowball straight over the dog’s head, deliberately missing, just to rile him up. The dogs took off in a flurry of red fur and flying snow. He gave chase without thinking, boots slipping a little on the ice-crusted ground, arms flailing out like a scarecrow in a windstorm.

“He’s gonna fall again,” Jack muttered, not without fondness. His lips twitched, eyes following Tyler’s stumble-and-run path as the boy nearly tripped over his own feet and kept going.

“He’ll be fine,” Ennis said 

Jack’s mouth tugged upward at the corners. He watched as Tyler skidded to a stop, breathless, and knelt again to reload. That boy had looked half-starved when they first brought him here, shoulders drawn in, eyes skittish, always watching the exits. But now? Now he looked like a kid. Just a damn kid. A little clumsy, a little too skinny, but happy. Young. Like someone had finally hit pause on the part of his life that made him grow up too fast.

Jack exhaled a soft chuckle and leaned heavier into the railing, fingers tightening around his cane. He tapped it against the porch rail once, thunk thunk, like punctuation, “If I didn’t need this damn thing,” he muttered, half to himself, “I’d be down there whippin’ his skinny ass into next week.”

Ennis didn’t respond at first. He shifted his weight, boots creaking on the old boards, and glanced sideways. That grudging smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was the expression he wore when something had gotten under his skin in spite of himself. The look he gave when he cared and didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Guess that makes it my job, huh.”

Jack turned his head, one eyebrow arching, skeptical and amused in equal measure, “You?”

But Ennis was already moving. He stepped down off the porch before Jack could get another word in, like he’d made up his mind an hour ago and was just now getting around to it.

“You stay here,” Ennis said, tossing the words over his shoulder with a glance that made it sound more like an order than a suggestion.

Jack blinked, squinting into the sunlight, “The hell else am I gonna do?” he shot back, eyebrows raised, “Cartwheel down the stairs?”

Ennis didn’t miss a beat, “Exactly,” he said, his voice almost lost in the crunch of snow underfoot, “Stay put.”

Jack rolled his eyes and leaned back against the porch post, shifting his weight to favor his good side. His breath came slower now, visible in the sunlight, and for a while, he just watched. Watched Ennis' back as he made his way into the yard, boots pressing clean tracks into the snow. Watched the way Tyler darted through the pasture with those dogs at his heels, alive and completely unaware of the ambush heading his way. There was something soft in the way Jack looked at them, one chasing, the other closing in slow and steady like he had nowhere better to be and all the time in the world to get there. 

“Go get him, cowboy,” Jack murmured, more to himself than anyone else, the smile finally winning, “Let’s see if he can take it.”

Ennis paused near the edge of the barn, the wind tugging at the hem of his coat. The snow drifted deep along the siding, banked up where the roof had let it pile. His boots sank in with a soft crunch, the surface crust giving way beneath his weight. He stood there a moment, watching the field, breath misting in the morning air. His eyes tracked Tyler as the boy stumbled through the snow with the dogs snapping at his heels, all three of them panting like they’d been at it for hours. The cold settled into his knees as he stooped, hands plunging into the packed powder. He scooped up a generous handful and began shaping it with practiced, methodical pressure, packing it tight between his palms until it was firm and dense and perfectly round.

It’d been a long time since he’d done this.

Not since Junior and Jenny were still little, back in Riverton, before everything started unraveling. Before Alma stopped looking him in the eye. Before the long, hollow drives out to nowhere for work. He remembered the slap of wet snow in the narrow alley behind the laundromat, the way the girls’ shrieks bounced off brick walls. He’d always kept score quietly, never said much, never smiled too wide, but he remembered every hit, every squeal, every time one of his girls got the better of him. Back then, it had been easier to pretend he could give them everything they needed. Back then, it had almost felt like enough. Their laughter had echoed loud, rebounding off the close walls like it was too much to contain. It had been one of the few times Ennis had known what it felt like to give them something good, even if only for an afternoon. Even if it melted by morning.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. Not until today. Not until he heard that same laugh bubbling out of Tyler. 

Now he stood alone in the snow, older, stiffer, and he was watching a different kind of kid, one he hadn’t raised, hadn’t even known a month ago, but who, somehow, was starting to matter in ways that didn’t make sense. A boy who looked more like family than Ennis had any right to claim. And didn’t that thought settle strange in his gut.

He stood, the motion pulling a few pops from his spine. His hand went back like instinct, body remembering the motion before his mind caught up. And then, without warning, he let the snowball fly.

The snowball cut a clean arc through the air and hit Tyler square on the left shoulder with a muted whap, breaking apart in a soft burst of powder that sprayed across his flannel and neck. Tyler yelped, stumbling sideways in genuine surprise, arms flailing for balance.

“What the—?” His voice cracked on the word, eyes wide as he whipped around. One hand was already reaching out, half-formed snowball forgotten, mouth parting to deliver what was probably a string of profanity, and then he saw who it was.

Ennis stood about twenty feet off, boots planted in the snow, shoulders loose beneath his coat, one hand hanging low from the follow-through of the throw. There was a slow, unmistakable shift in his face, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, that rare, weathered not-quite-smile that passed for mischief in Ennis Del Mar’s world. If you blinked, you’d miss it. But Tyler didn’t.

Tyler blinked like he couldn’t believe it. His breath hitched, a confused laugh barely escaping his throat. “Did you just—” he sputtered, eyes still wide, “—did you just throw a snowball at me?”

Ennis arched an eyebrow, like he couldn’t believe the question needed asking, “What’s it look like?”

Tyler’s face contorted, like every emotion he’d ever had was trying to climb out at once. Offended. Bewildered. Just short of delighted. He looked down at the mess of snow smeared across his shoulder, then back up at Ennis like he wasn’t quite sure how the world had shifted under his feet so suddenly.

“You serious right now?”

Ennis shrugged, “You looked like you needed a challenge.”

“Oh, you’re dead,” Tyler called, crouching down fast, scooping snow like it was the only thing keeping him alive, “You’re so dead.”

Ennis shifted his weight, bracing like a man preparing for impact, “You better make it count, son.”

As soon as the word left his mouth, Ennis winced. Just slightly. A muscle tensed along his jaw, the realization hitting a split second too late. Son. It’d slipped out too easy, too natural. He hadn’t meant it, not out loud, and damn sure not in a way he was ready to talk about. He didn’t even know if Tyler had heard it, but the boy gave no sign. His head was down, brow furrowed in intense concentration as he molded snow between his palms like he was shaping it from stone.

Maybe he hadn’t heard it.

Maybe he had, and didn’t know what to make of it.

Or maybe he’d just tucked it away somewhere, like Ennis himself had done too many times to count.

Ennis didn’t get the chance to linger on the thought.

The snowball came flying fast and smacked him square in the chest with enough force to make him stagger back a step, boots crunching deep into the snow. He let out a grunt, startled more than anything, and looked down to see the white mark blooming across his coat like a badge of war.

Tyler whooped like he’d just landed a punch in a bar fight, “Ha!” he shouted, “Bullseye! Didn’t even flinch, huh?” He was already backing up across the yard, half-running, half-stumbling through the uneven snowdrifts, boots kicking up little sprays of white as he went. He looked like a deer in retreat, fast, nimble, laughing his fool head off the whole way. His cheeks were red, curls bouncing with every step, and his grin stretched damn near ear to ear.

Ennis couldn’t help it. His lip twitched again.

“Pretty sure that was luck.” he called, raising his voice just enough to carry across the field.

Tyler wheeled around, still moving backward, one hand already digging in the snow for another throw,“Luck?” he echoed, eyes wide in mock outrage, “You wish it was luck. That was technique. That was precision. That was—”

Whatever he was about to say got cut short when his boot caught the edge of a buried patch of ice, and gravity did the rest.

With a startled yelp and a flailing of arms, Tyler’s legs shot out from under him, and he crashed hard into the snow with a heavy oomph, disappearing into a puff of white. His limbs sprawled out, one arm still holding tight to a half-formed snowball, the other flung over his face like he was shielding himself from further humiliation.

From the porch, Jack barked out a laugh that nearly doubled him over. It was the kind of full-bodied, wheezing laugh that came up from the gut, the kind that didn’t happen enough anymore. He clutched the railing with one hand, cane wobbling in the other, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the force of it.

Tyler groaned, “I’m fine!” he called quickly, lifting one hand in the air, “Shut up, I’m fine!”

Ennis just shook his head, already bending to scoop up his next shot.

“Technique, huh,” he muttered to himself, “We’ll see about that.”

Ennis weighed the snowball like it mattered. His hands turned it slow, pressing the edges down firm with the flat of his thumb, checking the weight in his palm. It was good, dense, heavy without being too wet, packed tight enough to hold together in the air but not hard enough to bruise. His boots dug into the drift, snow crunching and giving just enough to anchor his stance. His shoulders settled back into place, spine braced with the slow patience of a man who didn’t rush, not for anything, not for anyone. He squinted across the yard, breath fogging steady in front of him, watching Tyler with a quiet stillness. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes followed every movement, each shift in posture, every slip and stumble, like a hawk waiting for its chance.

Tyler, for his part, was cursing under his breath as he tried to shake snow out of the collar of his coat, twisting this way and that while patting at the back of his jeans. His hair was sticking up in all directions, damp and curling at the edges, his face pink with cold and flushed with effort. He was still muttering when he glanced up, and saw Ennis.

Tyler froze like a deer that’d just heard a twig snap.

“Oh, shit,” he breathed, the words more instinct than speech. His eyes went wide, body locked mid-movement.

Ennis didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink.

He just let it fly.

It was a clean throw.  The snowball cut through the air with a sound like a slap and smacked Tyler square in the side, just above the hip. Tyler jolted sideways with a strangled grunt, twisting in place like he’d been shot, the force of it turning him half-around. He nearly lost his footing all over again and staggered back a step, holding his side like he was about to drop.

“Goddamn!” he yelled, half-laughing already, even as he winced, “Okay, okay! What the hell was that?!”

Ennis was already lowering his arm, settling back into a more relaxed stance. His jaw was clenched against the cold, but there was a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth, the kind that didn’t show unless you were really looking. His eyes narrowed, not unkind but sharp, like he was taking measure of a thing and finding it funny despite himself, “You said ‘precision,’” he called, “Figured I’d show you what that actually looks like.”

Tyler wheezed a laugh and staggered back a few steps, nearly falling over again as he tried to straighten up. He pressed one gloved hand to his ribs like he was checking for real damage, “Jesus Christ, Mister Del Mar,” he groaned, clutching his side with theatrical flair, “I think you just ruptured my goddamn spleen!”

Ennis didn’t so much as blink, “You’re still talkin’. Sounds like I missed.”

“You shoulda warned me!” Tyler protested, eyes wide and mock-offended.

“I did. You saw me.”

“That ain’t a warning! That’s—”

“—plenty of notice if you’re payin’ attention.”

Jack’s voice rang out from the porch again, still winded from laughter, “Y’all are real sweet out here tryin’ to kill each other,” he called, “Want me to call the ambulance now or after the next one?”

Tyler had to brace both hands on his knees just to stay upright, still doubled over from laughing too hard. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, every breath pulled sharp through the cold. Snow clung to his sleeves and melted against his flushed neck, a smear of wet running from his jawline down to the collar of his coat. His cheeks were pink, and the tips of his ears looked raw from the wind, but none of it seemed to register.

He stood up slow, like he had to work for it, dragging his gloved hand across his face to wipe away the ice melting in his lashes. There was a brightness in his eyes that hadn’t been there all week, something fierce and wild and alive catching fire behind them. He pointed a shaky, snow-dampened glove toward Ennis like he was calling him out in a boxing ring, “Tell ’em to bring a stretcher,” he said between breaths, half-laughing, half-serious, “’Cause he’s about to go down.”

Ennis, who hadn’t moved more than a few inches, cocked an eyebrow like he was being asked to take part in something ridiculous. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his coat, but one eyebrow lifted slowly, unimpressed, “That so?”

Tyler didn’t hesitate, “Oh, yeah.” He crouched down into the snow, moving fast, fingers digging in both hands at once. His gloves were already soaked through from the earlier barrage, and his fingers had to be going numb, but he didn’t give a damn. He packed the snow tight between his palms, eyes narrowed in concentration, “Reckon I’m about to wipe that smug look off your face, Mister Del Mar.” 

Ennis took a single step forward, boots crunching deep into the crusted snowpack. The weight of him shifted like a bull taking its stance, calm and sure-footed. His breath curled in the freezing air, a slow exhale through his nose that looked more like a warning than anything else, “You talk a whole lotta game for somebody just got dropped like a sack of feed.”

Tyler grinned, crooked and bright, eyes gleaming. There was something feral about it, something boyish and reckless all at once. He looked younger than he had any right to, like the years of hard living had rolled off his back just for this one stupid moment in the snow, “I’m adaptin’,” he fired back. “Fast learner, me.”

Before either of them could throw, the dogs tore back onto the scene like hell on four legs, yapping and bounding in loops through the snow, tails high and eyes wild with excitement. One of them, Hammy, most likely, sprinted between Ennis' legs with reckless momentum, almost taking him out at the knees. Ennis muttered something under his breath and staggered to the side, catching himself before he went down, boots skidding against the packed snow.

Tyler took the opportunity.

He let the snowball fly with a full-body twist, putting everything he had into it. It soared clean through the air, aimed square at Ennis' head.

Ennis ducked.

The snowball missed him by a mile, whistling past his ear and detonating against the barn wall behind him in a wet burst that sent flakes spraying in every direction. The dogs scattered at the sound, yipping like they'd just witnessed a crime.

Tyler froze, eyes huge, mouth falling open, “Shit!” he shouted, clapping a hand over his mouth as if that might help. His other hand hovered mid-air, fingers splayed, eyes jumping from Ennis to the barn and back again, “You weren’t supposed to move!”

“Supposed to just stand there and let you wallop me?” Ennis called, rising to his full height with a slow shake of his head, “Ain’t that dumb.”

“Woulda made us even!” Tyler shouted, stumbling backward a few steps in mock offense, arms out like he was pleading his case in front of a jury.

“We ain’t keepin’ score.”

“Oh, I am,” Tyler snapped back, grinning so hard his dimples were showing. His voice bounced like it couldn’t sit still, already breathless from the next round, “And you’re losin’.”

Meatball came barreling toward Tyler again, a blur of muddy paws and too much enthusiasm. The dog zigzagged across the yard with all the grace of a bowling ball on ice, yapping like it was his life’s calling to herd Tyler into another humiliating fall. Hamburger Helper wasn’t far behind, tongue out and eyes bright, chasing nothing in particular except the thrill of the moment.

“God damn it,” Tyler muttered, trying to sidestep, only for his heel to catch on a packed chunk of snow. His arms flailed for balance, too late. With a graceless thud and a half-gasped yelp, he went down again, flat on his back, legs splayed, snow puffing up around him like he’d landed in a sack of flour. 

Tyler blinked up at the sky, chest heaving, breath fogging up in thick clouds. His cheeks were bright red, whether from cold or embarrassment he couldn’t say, and the snow was creeping under his collar again. He didn’t move when he heard the crunch of Ennis' boots approach, didn’t even flinch, just laid there and sighed, like this was his life now.

“I ain’t even surprised no more,” Ennis said. His tone was flat, but there was something beneath it, quiet fondness, maybe, or some exhausted version of patience. He looked down at Tyler like he was assessing a particularly persistent fence post that kept getting knocked over, “You gettin’ real comfortable down there or what?”

Tyler groaned and tossed one arm over his eyes, “I’m tryin’, alright? They ain’t givin’ me a fair fight.” His voice cracked halfway between a whine and a plea,“They’re tag-teamin’ me like I’m livestock.”

Meatball barked once, a short triumphant yap that seemed to prove Tyler’s point.

Ennis gave a noncommittal grunt, somewhere between agreement and amusement, though his mouth twitched with what might’ve been the beginnings of a smile.

Without a word, he crouched down and scooped up a double handful of powder. Tyler heard the rustle, he knew that sound, and peeked up just in time to see Ennis pack the snow between his palms, shaping it into something ominously round.

“Wait—wait, don’t—” Tyler scrambled halfway upright, but Ennis had already moved.

He didn’t finish the sentence. Ennis leaned forward and planted the snowball firmly atop Tyler’s head, pressing it down with gentle force until the flakes crumbled apart and slid down the sides of his face. Cold slipped under his collar, melting instantly against overheated skin, and Tyler shrieked like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water down his back.

“Shit— Ennis! Fuck—that’s freezin’!” Tyler writhed, kicking wildly, trying to bat Ennis' arm away, “What the hell!”

“Thought it might knock some sense into you,” Ennis said, the edges of his mouth tugging up just enough to suggest he might actually be enjoying this.

“You’re gonna knock me straight into an early grave,” Tyler muttered, pawing at the snow still lodged under his collar, “Coulda just offered a hand like a normal person.”

Ennis shrugged, “Didn’t seem like you wanted one. Seemed like you were makin’ snow angels.”

“I was recovering,” Tyler argued, swatting the remaining snow out of his sleeves, “In the process of gettin’ up, thank you very much.”

“That what that was? ’Cause it looked a whole lot like poutin’ to me.”

Tyler glared up at Ennis, lips curled into a defiant scowl, breath puffing hard out of his nose. His pride stung more than his tailbone, his ego as bruised as his backside. But it didn’t hold. Not under the weight of Ennis' impassive look and the chill still creeping down the back of his shirt. Not when Meatball barked victoriously in the distance like he’d won some kind of war.

The corners of Tyler’s mouth twitched against his will.

He tried to fight it, he did. But the absurdity of it all, the snow down his collar, the dogs treating him like a stray calf, Ennis pressing a snowball to his skull like it was a damn baptism, broke through his defenses. A laugh burst out of him, ungraceful and gasping, and once it started, it wouldn’t stop. His shoulders shook beneath his coat, breath hitching as he tipped his head back and gave in, more from surprise than anything else.

Ennis didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there in his usual half-slouch, arms crossed against the cold, watching like he wasn’t about to admit he found it funny too. After a second, he sighed, and extended a hand.

Tyler took it. No hesitation. The grumbling that followed was mostly for show. He let Ennis pull him up with one strong tug, boots slipping a little before finding purchase. The warmth of that hand lingered even after he let go.

Ennis dusted a bit of snow off his sleeve, “Your hat’s over yonder,” he said, nodding with his chin toward the drift behind them.

Tyler turned to see it nestled in a drift a few feet away. He retrieved it with a dramatic sigh, slapped the snow off the brim, and shoved it back on his head with no small amount of exaggerated suffering.

From the porch came Jack’s voice, loud and clear and thoroughly enjoying himself, “That’s four times now, ain’t it?”

“Three and a half!” Tyler shouted back, indignant, spinning toward the sound like a scolded schoolboy, “Was barely even down that last time!”

“Sure looked like four!”

“I swear to God,” Tyler called, squinting against the pale light, “You’re next, Mister Twist. Don’t think I won’t drag you down here if you don’t quit laughin’.”

Jack’s answer was another chuckle, already turning to head inside, the porch door creaking behind him.

Ennis was already heading back toward the porch, shoulders hunched against the cold, boots cutting a path through the snow. Each step he took pressed down deep into the powder, leaving wide, clean tracks behind him. Tyler stared at them for a moment, then shifted his weight and fell into line, planting his own boots into the prints Ennis had left. Easier that way. Easier to follow the path already made, even if it meant walking a little crooked to match the stride. He brushed more snow off his jacket, still soaked through, still chilled to the bone, but even as he shivered, a grin tugged at his mouth and wouldn’t let go.

His cheeks were red and windburned, ears aching from the cold, but the warmth hadn’t left him since Ennis hauled him up out of the snow. Not the warmth of his hand exactly, though that lingered too, but the warmth of being seen, of not being scolded or snapped at for being clumsy, just ribbed a little and helped up without a word. It stirred something in Tyler he couldn’t quite name. He walked a little taller for it, even with snow dripping down the back of his collar.

He caught up to Ennis just as Hammy bounded past again, barking once like he hadn’t caused enough trouble already. Tyler side-stepped him, stumbling a little but catching himself.

Ennis didn’t stop walking, but he cast a slow look sideways, the faintest hint of a smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth, “You stay upright this time?”

Tyler snorted, “No promises.”

Ennis didn’t reply, not with words anyway. But his hand lifted, and landed lightly between Tyler’s shoulder blades. Just a brief touch, warm even through the layers, fingers spread wide like he was making sure Tyler wouldn’t go tumbling again. He left it there a moment too long, though neither of them acknowledged it. Tyler just breathed in once, deeper than before, chest expanding beneath his coat.

Tyler didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just let it sit there for the few seconds Ennis let it linger, and then it was gone again, hand retreating as the porch came into view. Snow was piled along the edges of the steps, soft and untouched in places where the dogs hadn’t trampled it. The boards creaked beneath Ennis' weight as he stepped up onto them, the sound familiar and solid, like the ranch itself exhaling.

Tyler’s breath fogged the air in front of him as he stepped into the quiet space Ennis had left behind, and for the first time since he’d fallen flat on his back earlier that afternoon, he didn’t mind the cold one bit. Not with his heart thudding warm beneath his ribs. Not with laughter still lingering in the yard behind them.

The cold wasn’t so bad anymore.