Ennis had been useless since sunrise. He tried his chores, but the woodpile sat half-finished, the fence wires sagged where he’d dropped them, and his cigarettes burned down in the ashtray untouched. The only thing he could hold onto was the postcard in his pocket. He ran his thumb over the words until the paper went soft, whispering the line to himself, like saying it out loud would make you appear quicker. The silence of the house only made the waiting worse. Every hour bled into the next, and with each tick he felt wound tighter, like something inside him was going to snap.

When your truck finally ground up the gravel, it hit him like a shot in the chest. He didn’t walk to the door — he bolted, boots pounding the steps, nearly tripping in his rush. He flung it wide and there you were, road-worn and smiling, and all the air went out of him.

He lunged forward, arms wrapping around you before he could speak. His face pressed hard into your neck, and a sound ripped out of him, not quite a sob, not quite a laugh, but too raw to hold back. His shoulders trembled, the kind of trembling that comes from years of hunger breaking loose all at once.

Then he pushed you back outside, couldn’t contain it a second longer. He slammed you against the siding, your hat knocked clean off, and his mouth crashed onto yours. It wasn’t graceful. His lips were clumsy, his teeth scraped, his breath broke in uneven gasps, but the kiss poured out everything he hadn’t been able to say. His hands roamed roughly, dragging you close, grinding you flush against him, his whole body shaking with need.

You met him with equal force, clutching, pulling, grounding him in the storm he’d unleashed. His groan spilled against your mouth, broken, desperate, almost on the edge of tears. He kissed harder, as if kissing was the only way he knew to keep breathing.

From the doorway, Alma’s hand froze on the frame. She stared, stunned, at her husband tangled with another man, his body pressed, his hands grasping, his mouth devouring kisses that belonged to someone else. And in that stunned silence came the memory of all the times Ennis had returned to her after Brokeback Mountain. She had waited for the same kind of spark, the same fire in his eyes. But he had never looked at her that way. He had come back quieter, colder, carrying some secret she could never touch. Watching him now, Alma understood what she had never wanted to admit: he had never come back for her. He had never belonged to her at all.

Ennis pulled back just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes wet, his jaw clenched hard against the emotion threatening to spill. His voice rasped low, unsteady. “You don’t know… you don’t know what it’s been like. Feels like I been waitin’ my whole damn life just to see you again.” His grip didn’t ease. His whole body pressed into yours, as though if he let go, you’d vanish back into the years he couldn’t stand living without you.