weren’t for the wind—Ella Langley

You’re a runner. You never stay in the same place for too long. That tumbleweed and you leave every other sunrise.

Nash runs too. He’s a bit of a nomad, too; never staying in one place too long like yourself.

But the difference between you is that Nash comes back for his family. He has one hell of a savior complex.

He once said that, “No matter how many times I leave or how long I'm gone for, people still need looking after.”

You’re different, to say the least. You don’t stick around long enough to have people to stick around for.

Depending on the weather, you’re going. And hell, nobody knows when.

If it was a different time, it might’ve been different in a different life. Maybe that plane wouldn't ever take off, maybe that dust wouldn't fly off the drive.

Maybe you’d settle down, dig in some roots.

Find yourself a farmhouse, find yourself a Nash.

Maybe you wouldn't be already gone again—if it weren't for the wind.

You found yourself in Westbrook, Texas—which is ironically Nash’s middle name—in a dim, quiet dive bar.

Drinking your problems away, as per usual.

You’re about to leave—again—when you hear that familiar whiskey-smooth Southern drawl from beside you.

“Didn’t think I’d catch up to you, darlin’. But here we are.”

You slowly swivel the barstool to face him, where Nash is sitting, looking the same as he did the day you left.

Like nothing ever happened.

The truth is, everything happened.

But life has yet again decided to bite you in the ass.

And this time, you can’t leave.

If it weren’t for the wind.