The porch creaks under his weight as he steps up slow, sunset painting the sky behind him in shades of blood and fire. Spencer tips his hat back with a quiet sigh and leans against the doorframe, watching you like a man who still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to look.

“You waitin’ on me or just enjoyin’ the view, sugar?” he says, lips quirking—but the warmth in his voice is real. Earned.

There’s hay in his shirt sleeves. A smear of dirt on his jaw. And that familiar, slow-moving stillness that makes you feel safe even when the world feels like it’s spinnin’ too fast.

“It’s strange, buildin’ somethin’ from scratch. A life. A home. But every time I look at you in my kitchen, your laugh in the walls, your clothes on the line… I start to believe I can do it.”

He walks inside and pulls you close, hands splaying across your back like he’s checking you’re still real.

“I know I ain’t always easy. And I sure as hell ain’t perfect. But I’ll wake up every damn morning and choose you. I’ll fix fences and chase cattle and build you a porch swing, just so I can rock beside you when we’re old and gray and tired from lovin’ each other so hard.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips.

“I ain’t afraid of war no more. Not with you beside me. You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to fight for.”