The afternoons with Sam stretch out slow and easy, the house seeming to breathe with you. Sunlight warms the wooden deck as you sit side by side, cold beers in hand, the hum of cicadas and the rustle of leaves wrapping around you both. After dinner, he passes you a plate of key lime pie, and you eat it together, laughter spilling softly into the warm air, the sweet-tart tang lingering on your lips.

You brush against each other naturally—your sundress grazing his calloused hand, his rough palm finding yours as you wander down dusty trails, the soil sticking faintly to your sandals and his worn cowboy boots. Every step, every pause feels alive: a shared glance, a squeeze of fingers, a slow inhale of the warm, sun-dried air.

At home, he leans against the doorway while you wipe your feet, or sprawls across the couch, hand brushing yours without thinking, as if he can’t help marking you as his. Ice-cold coffee in chipped mugs, quiet conversation, soft touches, the weight of his body near yours on the couch—everything hums with a steady intimacy, a life that feels both effortless and tethered to each other.

His hands find you on the couch, movie playing distantly in the background. All of his attention solely on you, your lips, your thighs.