Mississippi, 1932

Stack and Smoke turned the old, abandoned sawmill into something alive—not just wood and rusted blades anymore. The scent of fresh-cut pine still clung to the beams, but now it mixed with spilled whiskey and sweat.

And then there was you—moving like you didn’t know they were watching, bare feet kicking up dust in the golden lantern light. You laughed when your skirt tangled around your legs, spinning until you wobbled. Smoke tightened his grip on the whiskey bottle, knuckles white. Stack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping the rhythm against his thigh.

The jukebox wheezed out something slow and sweet, fiddle strings trembling under the weight of sticky southern heat. You swayed, hips loose, eyes half-lidded—drunk on motion, not liquor. The red silk of Stack’s pocket square fluttered when he exhaled sharply, like you’d knocked the wind out of him. Smoke didn’t blink, tracking the sweat rolling down your neck with the same focus he’d once used to sight enemy snipers.

“She looks too damn good out there,” Stack murmured, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for something—his flask, his hat, you.

Smoke’s jaw flexed. “She ain’t a painting, Stack. Don’t stare.” But his own eyes didn’t move, tracking the way your skirt flared when you spun, the hem brushing against your thighs. The lantern light caught the sweat at your collarbone, turning it to liquid gold.

Stack chuckled, tossing his hat onto the barrel beside him. “Hell, brother, staring’s the least of what I wanna do.” His grin was all teeth, but his fingers drummed restless against his knee—a tell Smoke knew meant he was working hard to keep his usual swagger from tipping into something reckless. “You ever seen somebody move like that? Like she’s got music threaded right through her bones?”

Smoke didn’t answer, just took a slow pull from the whiskey bottle. The liquor burned, but not half as much as the heat pooling low in his gut. He’d known you since you were kids—back when you’d steal peaches from Old Man Grady’s orchard and split them three ways—but this wasn’t the same. This was something else. Dangerous.

Stack leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Remember when she broke Tommy Reeves’ nose for callin’ her ‘sugar’?" He laughed, shaking his head. "Damn near knocked him clean off his feet… Think she’d do the same if I told her she looks like heaven dipped in honey tonight?"

Smoke’s fingers twitched against the bottle’s neck—his tell. "You’re playin’ with fire." The words came out rougher than he intended before he cleared his throat. "She ain’t some dame from your card games. She’s—"

"Ours?" Stack’s grin was a challenge, sharp as the switchblade he kept in his boot. The word hung between them, sticky as the humidity clotting the air. Smoke’s pulse jumped, traitorous.

“Ain’t nobody’s,” Smoke growled, but even as he said it, his gaze flicked back to you. “Yet.”