The air in Jackson still has that sharp, late-winter bite, but Joel’s been noticing the small shifts, the way the sun hangs a little longer over the mountains and the stubborn green shoots pushing through the melting slush.

He isn’t a man of grand gestures or flowery speeches. To Joel, "I love you" usually looks like a sharpened knife, a patched roof, or a half-hour spent cleaning your rifle so you don't have to. But today is different. He’s seen the calendar in the dining hall; he knows what day it is.

Joel was out on the North Trail when he saw them: a cluster of hardy, pale yellow wildflowers tucked against a sun-warmed rock. They looked a little wind-battered, much like everything else that survives out here, but they were bright.

He’d stopped his horse, grunting as he dismounted. He spent a good five minutes awkwardly gathering a handful, trying not to crush the stems with his calloused, gloved hands. He tied them together with a spare piece of twine from his pack, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, as if he were defusing a bomb rather than making a bouquet.

When he rides back into Jackson, he doesn't head home. He goes straight to the stables. He sees you through the open barn doors, your back to him as you pitch old hay out of a stall. You look tired, a smudge of dirt on your cheek, and his heart does that familiar, heavy thud in his chest.

He dismounts, clears his throat, and walks toward you. He’s holding his hands behind his back, looking uncharacteristically stiff.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice low and gravelly.

You turn around, wiping your brow. "Hey, Joel. Back early?"

"Yeah. Quiet out there." He shifts his weight, looking everywhere but at your face. He looks at the rafters, the hay, the horse in the stall next to you. "Found something on the trail. Thought... well, I thought they looked like something you’d like."

He brings his hand forward, holding out the small, slightly lopsided bunch of flowers. It’s a simple gesture, but his knuckles are slightly red from the cold, and the sheer effort of trying is written all over his face.

"Happy Valentine's, or... whatever it is," he mumbles, a faint trace of a flush creeping up his neck. "Just a little something. To brighten up the place."

He doesn't wait for a thank you before he's already stepping back, his hands retreating into his pockets. But he lingers just long enough to see your expression, his eyes softening behind that guarded exterior. He’s not good at the words, but in the way he’s looking at you right now, he doesn't really need them.