The rooster wakes me at 5:47 the morning after our first date.
For once, I do not threaten him.
Last night, Callum kissed me beside the river and stopped because he wanted tomorrow too. The first kiss in the barn opened the door. The date made me believe we might know how to walk through it without losin’ ourselves.
Today, every room in the house feels expectant.
I make coffee. Change shirts twice. Change back to the first one because this is a ranch, not a hostage negotiation, and I refuse to let a gray T-shirt defeat me.
At 6:58, Callum’s truck comes down the road.
Two minutes early.
Of course.
He gets out carryin’ a paper bag from Magnolia’s. His hat is pulled low, but not low enough to hide the fact that he looks as nervous as I feel.
“I brought biscuits,” he says.
“Bribery before seven in the mornin’. Bold strategy.”
“Is it workin’?”
“Come inside and find out.”
We sit across from each other at the kitchen table. The biscuits steam between us. Neither of us reaches for one.
“We should talk,” we say at the same time.
I point at him. “You first.”
“Coward.”
“Absolutely.”
His mouth lifts, then settles.
“Yesterday wasn’t a mistake,” he says.
The knot under my ribs loosens.
“Good. Because I was gonna be real offended if you repaired my fence for a month just to make one poor decision in a hayloft.”
“It wasn’t poor.”
“The kiss or the decision?”
“Either one.”
I look down at my coffee so he will not see how much that answer matters.
He reaches across the table, palm up. He does not take my hand. He offers his.
I put mine in it.
“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he says. “Not the kissin’. The part where tomorrow matters.”
“Tomorrow matters to me too. That’s why I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t need perfect, Callum. I need honest. No secrets because you think I can’t handle ’em. No disappearin’ because somethin’ gets hard. No decidin’ for me.”
“No more of that.”
“And this cannot be casual.”
His thumb moves once across my knuckles.
“I don’t know how to be casual about you.”
The words land quietly. That makes them stronger.
I take a breath. “I think I’m fallin’ in love with you.”
His eyes close for half a second.
When they open, all the careful distance is gone.
“I’m already there,” he says. “I just didn’t know how to say it without makin’ it sound smaller than it is.”
The room goes very still.
Outside, a cow complains. Junior answers from the chicken coop because nobody has ever explained species boundaries to him.
I laugh, and the fear cracks open with it.
Callum stands, still holding my hand, and pulls me gently to my feet. We end up in the living room without quite deciding to go there. Morning light falls across the old couch. He doesn’t let go of my hand.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, quiet and certain.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—” My voice catches. “I’ve got stretch marks and my hair’s a mess and I haven’t shaved my legs in four days because I’ve been movin’ cattle and—”
He kisses me.
Mid-sentence. Mid-spiral. Just presses his mouth to mine and stops the words before they can do any more damage.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“You are beautiful,” he says. “Every inch. Every mark. Every part. And I will fight anyone who says otherwise, includin’ you.”
My eyes burn.
“Don’t make me cry right now.”
“Too late?”
“Probably.”
He smiles—a real one—and kisses me again. Softer this time. Then deeper. His hands stay at my waist and the back of my neck. Careful. Present. One of my hands slides up into his hair. We keep kissing until we’re both a little breathless and the morning light has moved across the floor.
No rush. No further. Just this.
We stay on the couch for a while. Kissing. Talking in pieces. His fingers tracing slow circles on the back of my hand. My head eventually ending up on his shoulder.
Later, we’re on the porch with fresh coffee and the kind of dazed, happy, slightly terrified expression that people wear when they’ve finally said the true thing out loud.
“So,” I say.
“So,” he says.
“We’re… together? Is that what this is?”
“Yeah.” He looks at me, steady. “That’s what this is. If you want it to be.”
“I do.” I swallow. “I just want to be clear. Because the last relationship I was in ended with the man tellin’ me he needed ‘space to explore other connections’ while eatin’ my risotto.”
Callum’s jaw tightens. “If I ever meet that man—”
“You’ll do nothin’. Because he’s not worth it.”
“He hurt you.”
“He did. And I survived. And now I’m here. With you. On a porch in Texas. And I’m happier than I’ve been in years.”
He looks at me. The warmth in his eyes is enough to heat the whole porch.
“I’m happy too,” he says quietly. “I don’t say that much. I don’t feel that much. But with you—”
“You feel it.”
“I feel it.”
I lean into him. His arm comes around my shoulder. Casual. Easy. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“We should probably keep this quiet,” I say. “For now.”
“Why?”
“Because this town knows everything. Earlene will have it announced at Hank’s by noon. Darla will plan the weddin’ by dinnertime. And Mabel Crutcher will have opinions.”
“Mabel Crutcher has opinions about everything.”
“Exactly. I’d like to have at least one day where this is just ours before it becomes everybody’s.”
He considers this. “Fair enough.”
“Thank you.”
“But I’m tellin’ Darla.”
“Why?”
“Because Darla’s my friend too. And she’s been tellin’ me to ‘get off my ass and talk to that girl’ since week two.”
“She did not.”
“She did. She brought me a piece of pie and said, ‘Callum, honey, if you don’t tell Harlow how you feel, I’m gonna do it for you, and trust me, you don’t want that.’”
I laugh. A real, full, belly laugh that echoes across the pasture and makes the cattle look up.
“Fine,” I say. “You can tell Darla.”
“Thank you.”
“But nobody else.”
“Agreed.”
We shake on it. Formal. Businesslike. Except our hands linger and his thumb traces a circle on my palm and my breath catches and we end up kissin’ again on the porch swing, with the dogs at our feet and the windmill turnin’ and the Texas sun climbin’ higher in a sky so blue it hurts to look at.
This is what happiness feels like, I think.
This is what it feels like to stop runnin’.