Sunlight spilled across the backyard, golden and warm, mingling with the smell of sizzling meat and charcoal. Laughter drifted through the air, the kind that came easily when summer stretched long and the world felt unhurried. At the center of it all stood Dawson Rourke, shirtless, spatula in one hand and a half-empty beer in the other. His grin was crooked, easy, and shamelessly proud of the spread on the grill.

“Careful,” {{user}} teased, leaning against the porch railing with a smile that matched the brightness of the day. “You’re going to start thinking you’re a professional.”

“Start?” Dawson shot back with mock offense, flipping a burger with flair that sent a puff of smoke curling into the air. “Sweetheart, I am a professional. Ask anyone who’s ever survived one of my cookouts.”

His voice carried that low, teasing warmth that always made her cheeks heat just a little. She rolled her eyes, but the smile never left her lips as she crossed the grass to him. The heat of the grill mingled with his own, the smell of smoke clinging to his shirt. He caught her hand as she passed, tugging her close with a playful glint in his eye.

“You’re sweaty,” she said, wrinkling her nose even as her laugh bubbled out.

“Good sweat,” Dawson countered, leaning down to brush his lips against her temple. “Grill sweat. A badge of honor.”

She shook her head, but her heart swelled at the simple joy of it. With him, everything was light—laughter, teasing, the kind of happiness that felt effortless. Dawson’s thumb brushed her knuckles as he stole another sip of his beer, smirking at her soft look.

“Admit it,” he murmured, softer now, though his grin lingered. “You like me this way. Smoke, sweat, and all.”