Two weeks hadn’t been near enough to forget. Not the mountains, not the storm, not the way everything had gone quiet in that tent except for the wind and their breathing. It was supposed to be simple work — moving cattle up north for a few dollars’ pay and a little peace from the noise back home. You’d asked him along, said you could use another set of hands. He’d agreed without thinking much about it. Long trail, long days, cold nights. Nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times before.

But the weather turned mean halfway through. The kind of cold that bites through wool and bone. They’d pitched one tent under a ridge, ground too frozen to dig the stakes right, and by the time the rain came down sideways, they were both half-soaked and shivering. John remembered cursing under his breath, muttering about bad luck and worse timing, but then there was your voice — low, steady — telling him to get closer, that he was gonna freeze if he didn’t.

He didn’t know how it happened after that. Maybe the dark made it easier. Maybe the warmth did. One second he was trying to stop his hands from shaking; the next, he wasn’t cold anymore, wasn’t thinking straight at all. When morning came, the storm had passed, but the silence between them was thicker than fog.

He’d told himself it was a mistake — a weakness he’d bury like all the others. And when you both rode back down the mountain, he’d made sure to keep his eyes forward and his mouth shut. But he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. Couldn’t.

Now, standing outside your apartment, that damn shirt you’d lent him still folded in his hand, John felt every lie he’d told himself start to unravel. He’d gone home, done what a man was supposed to do — kissed his wife, tucked in his daughter, mended fences, fixed what broke. But something inside him was off-balance, like the world tilted every time he thought of you.

Mary had noticed. She wasn’t blind. The sharpness in her tone had cut deeper than he cared to admit. He’d told her he was going into town for supplies. Truth was, he’d just run out of excuses.

The building loomed quiet when he tied his horse outside. No wind this time. No rain. Just the low hum of streetlights and the steady thump of his heartbeat in his throat. He walked up the steps slow, boots heavy against the wood. For a long moment, he just stood there — thumb brushing the edge of that old shirt like it might burn him.

Then he knocked. Once, twice, three times.

When the door opened, light poured over him, soft and pale. You stood there — same eyes, same look that’d haunted him for fourteen sleepless nights. His chest felt too tight to breathe right.

He tried to speak, but the words stuck. Finally, he lifted the folded shirt, his voice rough as gravel. “Got somethin’ of yours,” he muttered, eyes flicking away. “Figured I’d best return it… before I thought up any more reasons not to.”