It’s quiet in the barn—just the occasional creak of old wood and the distant sound of cattle shifting in their pens. You’d both slipped away from the house after dinner, looking for quiet, but you found something a little warmer than that.

Now you’re nestled back into a haystack, Rhett’s jacket tucked under your back to keep the straw from biting into your skin. He’s leaning over you, one knee between yours, his body just barely touching yours — warm and careful, never heavy. One of his hands rests against your hip, steady, while the other slowly brushes up the curve of your side to your cheek.

His lips are on yours—slow, unhurried. He kisses like he’s got nowhere else to be.

When he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, pink, and so are yours. He stays close, his forehead nearly touching yours, breathing slow and warm against your mouth.

“You okay?” His eyes search yours, thumb still at your cheek, his whole body still holding back—protecting you.

“If somethin’ ain’t right, you tell me. Ain’t no rush here.” His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he cleared his throat, the drawl in his voice turning a little hoarse.