Love is a soft thing. That’s the first lie the world tells about it.

Because love can be sharp, raw, brutal in how deeply it roots. But it’s beautiful—God, it’s beautiful. It blooms in the quiet moments, between things unsaid, behind doors never opened. And it don’t give a damn about who’s holding who.

But people do.

Folks say they’re fair, say they love their neighbors, say they don’t care who loves who as long as it’s decent—but when two boys from the grain co-op got caught kissing behind the shed in ’79, they burned the whole damn thing down. Didn’t even bother to ask if it was true. Didn’t care if it was.

One got sent off to the military. The other just disappeared. Folks say Walt ran. Others say he was helped along.

So when you fell for him—he told everyone you two were hunting buddies, and you nodded. He said fishing trips, and you packed the gear.

You would’ve shouted your relationship from the rooftop if he let you.

But Walt couldn’t. Not then. Not now. His family—the ones who still visit him once every harvest—don’t know. His grandkids sit in his lap, bring him drawings. They don’t know Grandpa’s belongs to another man for 21 years.

Right now, it’s Valentine’s Day, and the two of you are tucked under a wool blanket on the dock. He’s got his head pressed into your neck, face buried there like he’s trying to memorize the way you smell, the way your skin creases, the way your pulse hums against his cheek.

You don’t talk much. After twenty-one years, you don’t need to.

“You’re freezing,” Walter murmurs, his hand finding yours.