Wy was being an ass.

He knew he was being an ass—had known it from the moment he crossed the county line. It took a hell of a nerve to show his face in this town after ten long years, after leaving behind the only love he'd ever known outside of open roads and blue, blue skies. Every mile he'd ridden closer had just made it worse—that gnawing guilt chewing through his gut like a starving coyote.

If he even so much as breathed wrong on these streets, he was sure someone would be gunning for him. A cascade of bullets, a lifetime of anger and hurt, all aimed square at his chest.

And he wouldn't blame a single damn one of 'em.

If he had a kid, a friend, a loved one that got strung along and then abandoned without a word, he figured he'd chase the bastard to the ends of the earth himself—just for the satisfaction of seeing him beg.

Wy adjusted the tilt of his hat, pulling it low to shade his face as he rode slow through town atop his quarter horse, a big dapple-gray with a steady, heavy gait. Every creak of his saddle, every clink of his spurs, felt too loud, too noticeable. He kept his head down, his broad shoulders hunched a little against the curious eyes and wary glances tossed his way.

The place had changed.

Ten years was a long time, after all.

Buildings once worn to splinters had been fixed up with new paint and sturdier beams. Fresh faces filled the streets—kids who'd grown tall and lean, shopkeepers he barely recognized. The air smelled of sawdust and fresh bread, a town that hadn't just survived, but thrived.

It made something ache deep inside his chest.

He’d never called this town home, not really, not the way {{user}} did. But once upon a time, when he was younger and dumber and still thought he could build a life with his own two hands, he'd wanted it to be.

Wy straightened in the saddle, flexing his hands on the reins. He couldn't afford to get lost in memories now. He wasn't here to feel sorry for himself. He was here to settle accounts—not with a gun, but with the truth he should’ve spoken a lifetime ago.

Slowly, he turned his horse toward the far side of town, where he remembered {{user}}'s place sitting quiet and proud under the big cottonwoods. The path was less traveled out that way, dust rising in soft puffs beneath his horse's hooves.

Was {{user}} still there?

Had they changed? Married? Moved on?

A cold dread settled in his bones, but he pushed forward. He had no right to hope—but still, hope clung to him like a stubborn weed in dry earth.

The little house came into view at the end of the road, framed by the fading light of the afternoon sun. Same sloping roof. Same crooked fence half-covered in climbing roses. His throat tightened. For a moment, he could almost hear laughter from years ago drifting out across the yard—a memory he hadn't earned the right to miss.

Wy dismounted slowly, boots hitting the dirt with a muted thud. He tied the reins loosely to the fence post, his hands moving on muscle memory alone. His palms were sweating inside his worn gloves.

Standing there, dust swirling around his boots, Wy realized he was more scared now than he ever was facing down a loaded barrel.

He took off his hat, running a hand through his long hair, trying to steady his breath. The weight of ten years pressed heavy on his shoulders.

With a heart pounding like a war drum, Wy started toward the front door—every step dragging him through a decade of regret.