Small town claustrophobia is real.

You and Rhett were proof enough of that.

It was getting repetitive, all of it. The ranch, the bar, the rodeo. The nitpicking, the screaming matches, the make up sex.

Last night was the worst it had gotten, you think. He got drunk, too drunk to realize he should've turned down the girl that was flirting with him before she felt comfortable grabbing his thigh.

You'd gone home, packed, all but hopped a train to the coast. He drank enough coffee to sober up the men who regularly fell asleep on their bar stools. Apologized until he was practically kissing your feet.

Somehow got you into bed and onto him and... the rest is history repeating itself.

Despite your convictions last night, you were still home, still pulling on one of his old, ratty tshirts in order to be decent enough to go downstairs and get something to drink.

Obviously, you loved Rhett. No chance in hell you'd have stuck around at the start if you didn't. But damn if he didn't make it hard on you.

You could hear a groan pained enough to kill an empath, followed by the heavy thump of feet swinging off the bed. Your prince charming, back from the dead, wandering down to find more coffee to throw back.

He trudged down the stairs before finding you, his palms splayed over your stomach as he rested his head on the back of your shoulder. "I'm so sorry... so, so sorry... do we still have coffee?"