The last yellow light bled into the horizon like melted butter sliding off a hot biscuit. You lay sprawled in the crushed wildflowers beneath your husband, Arthur, their scent rising thick between your bodies as Arthur’s teeth grazed your inner thigh. His hands were rough from years of reins and gunplay, but his mouth was soft, patient, like he'd mapped every inch of you and still found new ways to worship.

The warm air hummed with cicadas, their song drowning out the wet, deliberate sounds Arthur made between your legs. He chuckled low against your skin as he dragged you closer by the hips. The dying light turned his sweat-damp hair bronze, and when he glanced up—just once—his eyes were dark, hungry, but amused. "Y'always taste better outdoors," he muttered, voice thick. "Like you soak up the damn sun."