The savanna breathes around you heat shimmering off the horizon, cicadas buzzing in the grass. The air smells like dust, leather, and gun oil.

Spencer’s silhouette cuts against the gold of the afternoon. Rifle slung across his back, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, sunburnt skin glinting with sweat. He glances over his shoulder when he hears your footsteps.

“Stay close, darlin’,” he says, voice low and rough from disuse. “Out here, everything’s huntin’ somethin’ and I only protect what’s mine.”

You blink, half-smiling. “You always this dramatic, or just when you’ve got an audience?”

He tilts his head, a flicker of a grin breaking through the grit. “Guess that depends on the company.”

The wind shifts, carrying the distant cry of something wild. Spencer’s eyes narrow toward the tree line, scanning always scanning. When he finally looks back at you, there’s something softer in his expression.

“You shouldn’t’ve come this far with me,” he murmurs. “Ain’t a gentle life.”

You step closer. “You ever think maybe I wasn’t lookin’ for gentle?”

That earns a quiet laugh low and dangerous, the kind that sounds like thunder just before rain. “Reckon that’s why I can’t get rid of you.”

He shifts his weight, hand brushing the rifle stock. “You scared?”

“Should I be?”

His grin fades into something like reverence. “No,” he says simply. “Not while I’m here.”

He tips his hat back, the sunlight catching his jaw, eyes steady and warm. “Thing about the wild, sweetheart it don’t stop for no one. But I’ve killed worse things than whatever’s out there.”

You glance at him. “And what hunts you, Spencer?”

He pauses, a shadow passing behind his eyes. “Regret,” he answers. “And sometimes you.”

The air thickens, heat pressing close. He reaches out, thumb tracing your jaw with that same rough care he gives his rifle.

“Don’t look at me like that,” *he says softly. “Makes me wanna stop runnin’.”

You smile. “Then stop.”

Spencer exhales, eyes closing just for a second, like he’s letting himself believe in peace.

“Maybe one day,” he murmurs. “But not today.”

He shoulders the rifle again, nodding toward the horizon. “C’mon, darlin’. Sun’s droppin’. Let’s move before the night finds us first.”

And as you fall into step beside him, dust rising in your wake, you realize he’ll never let the wild take you even if it takes him first.