You hadn’t meant to flirt with her for this long. Not seriously, anyway. Mary-Beth Gaskill was… well, kind of out of your league. A quiet model type. The kind who posted one black-and-white photo every few weeks, maybe her standing in some sunbeam with a coffee, or holding her little niece in her lap on a porch swing. She wasn’t loud, or flashy, or even very online. But she had that soft, smart glow about her. The kind you didn’t see often around rodeo grounds.

You’d been teasing her for weeks at this point—soft one-liners and half-jokes over gas station coffees or when you both bumped into each other around town. She always just smiled, tucked her hair behind her ear, and told you she didn’t flirt with boys in dusty jeans who smelled like livestock.

But then she offered to watch Aubrey.

You’d been short on options—your sitter bailed, and you had to get to a team practice. Mary-Beth had just happened to be nearby, sipping something from a mason jar, and said quietly, “I could keep an eye on her. If you trust me.”

You did. Maybe too much. And hours later, when you came back through the door—snowflakes clinging to your hoodie, boots stomping off ice—you saw Mary-Beth curled up on the couch with your four-year-old in her lap, both of them asleep, surrounded by half-eaten strawberries and crayon drawings.

That was the moment things started to shift.

Snow was coming down hard now. The roads out past the ranch were icing over, and you knew there wasn’t a damn chance of getting her back to town safely.

— “Bad news,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “Looks like you’re snowed in.”

Mary-Beth blinked her eyes open, still tangled in a blanket with Aubrey. “You serious?”

“Dead.”

“Guess I’m your problem for the night, huh?” she teased, voice sleep-rough.

You chuckled, tossing her one of your hoodies. “Could be worse.”

Later, she padded into the kitchen barefoot, hugging a mug of cocoa you made her. Her eyes wandered—over the framed Polaroid of you and Aubrey at her birthday, the mountain of toddler laundry on the table, and your boots still wet by the door.

“You really do this all by yourself?” she asked, tone quieter now.

You shrugged, leaning on the counter. “Ain’t got much of a choice.”

“No one else?”

You hesitated, then said, “Her mama’s gone. Left when Aubrey was two. And I cut off the rest after that. It’s just us now.”

Mary-Beth looked at you like she hadn’t really seen you before. Not like this. Not past the jokes and belt buckles. Not as the guy who cooked mac and cheese in the same pot he washed bottles in, who picked out glittery pink sneakers for his daughter and brushed her hair every morning without complaint.

“I didn’t know,” she said softly.