The morning sun spilled over the rolling hills, bathing the Feld estate in a golden warmth. You sat on the back porch of the cottage, the stone still cool beneath your thighs as you tied a small bouquet of wildflowers—lavender, foxglove, and Queen Anne’s lace—together with a bit of twine. A quiet smile graced your lips as you hummed to yourself, bare feet tucked under your skirt, curls bouncing with each gentle nod of your head.

Inside, heavy boots thudded across the wooden floorboards. Paddy was home from an early morning hunt. You could hear the sound of his shotgun being unloaded, the familiar scrape of steel and the low murmur of him speaking to the dogs as he let them out into the yard.

Then he appeared—towering in the doorway, hair a little disheveled from the wind, cheeks ruddy with exertion. He looked like something out of a poem: all brawn and strength wrapped up in his waxed jacket and muddy trousers, the sleeves of his shirt pushed to the elbows, veins dancing under sun-warmed skin.

But your eyes didn’t linger on his handsome face. They went straight to his wrist.

That worn, faded piece of embroidery thread—red and blue, braided haphazardly—still clung to him like a sacred thing. The childish friendship bracelet you gave him in Year 5.

He caught your gaze and grinned, wicked and knowing. “Still staring at it, are you?” he said, crossing the porch and crouching beside you. He caught your chin between his fingers, lifting your face to his. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

You giggled, cheeks warming. “I just can’t believe you still wear it.”

Paddy scoffed gently, then lifted his wrist between you both. “This?” he said, voice lowering, suddenly reverent. “You gave me this on the day a lad twice my size pushed you in the mud. Said it would keep me brave and remind me we were always friends—always together. You remember?”

You nodded slowly, heart soft in your chest.

He looked down at it, thumb brushing over the frayed threads. “I swore that day I’d never take it off. Didn’t matter how grown up I got, or how daft it looked. This”—his eyes flicked up to yours, blazing with sincerity—“this is a promise. You gave me your heart long before you ever knew what that meant.”

Your breath caught.

He stood up then, towering over you with all the weight of his love, his protection, his devotion pressing down like the summer heat. “People laugh,” he said, voice hardening with that familiar, fierce edge. “Call me a brute in the village, say I’m too rough, too intense. But this bit of thread?” He held his wrist up again. “This is the softest thing I own. And I wear it ‘cause it came from the softest girl in the world.”

Your doe-like hazel eyes shimmered. You rose slowly, standing on your tiptoes to kiss the inside of his wrist, right over the bracelet. “You’re not too intense,” you whispered. “You’re mine. All of you. And I love every inch of you—even the growly parts.”

He laughed—a deep, bark of a sound that made your heart leap—and crushed you to his chest, large hands spanning your back, possessive and warm. “You’ll never be rid of me, sweetheart,” he muttered into your hair. “That bracelet was your mistake, you know. Gave me the excuse to keep you forever.”

“And I’m glad I did,” you whispered, wrapping your arms tight around his waist, your ear against his heartbeat.

The bracelet, frayed and sun-bleached, held fast against the pulse of a man who would kill for you, die for you, and above all—love you until his last breath.