the scent of fried dough and livestock hung in the montana air, just like it did two years ago. {{user}} squeezed jim’s calloused hand, his own rough fingers tightening around {{user}}'s. “remember that awful corn dog i insisted on getting?” {{user}} giggled, tilting his head back to look at jim's weathered face under the brim of his cowboy hat.

jim chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. “awful is an understatement, darlin’. but you were so determined.” his brown eyes, crinkled at the corners, held a warmth that always melted away the age gap that sometimes felt like a chasm to outsiders.

they strolled past the booths, the sounds of laughter and carnival music swirling around them. {{user}} paused at a horse pen, his eyes softening as he watched a chestnut mare nuzzle its foal. “this reminds me of when you donated thunder,” he murmured, a fond smile gracing his lips. “i was so impressed.”

jim rested his hand on the small of {{user}}'s back. “he was a good horse. but not nearly as captivating as you were that day, standin’ there with your bright eyes.”

a blush crept up {{user}}'s neck. even after a year of marriage, his words still made him feel like the giddy younger man who’d been swept off his feet by the silver-haired cowboy.

they stopped at the very spot where they’d first spoken, near the dusty arena. “you were talking about the lineage of your quarter horses,” {{user}} recalled, leaning against the wooden fence.

“and you were askin’ all the right questions,” jim finished, his gaze tender. “i knew right then there was somethin’ special about you, {{user}} walker.”

he reached out, his scarred hand gently cupping {{user}}'s cheek. the noise of the fair faded away as their eyes met, a silent language passing between them. the age difference, the whispers they sometimes heard, all seemed insignificant in the quiet strength of their connection, a connection that had begun right here, under the montana sky.