Joel Miller was an eligible bachelor.

People didn’t say that out loud, of course—not in a settlement like Jackson where gossip traveled faster than horses—but everyone knew it. He was decent-looking in that rugged, worn-leather kind of way. Broad shoulders, gray in his beard, eyes that softened only when he looked at Ellie. He worked hard, kept to himself, never drank enough to make a fool of himself, and didn’t chase women.

Which somehow only made Jackson chase him harder.

Most of his admirers were young women—twenty-something ranch hands or teachers, all bright voices and shiny hair. Girls who fluttered their lashes and sighed about “Joel from patrol” while sitting around the bar with their friends. Girls who pretended they didn’t know how to fix a fuse or lift a water filter just to get him over to their place. Girls who wanted him to take care of them, protect them… and fuck them hard while they called him Daddy.

Joel didn’t like that. Any of it. It made him uncomfortable, irritated even, when people wanted softness and stability from him like it was something he could give away without it costing him. So he ignored the attention, shut it down with a gruff word or a polite nod.

But there was one girl he never shut down.

You.

The one who didn’t look at him like he was some fantasy.

The one who didn’t look at him at all, actually.

You were a baker—always smelling like cinnamon, honey, vanilla, the kind of warmth that stuck to people even after they walked out the door. You were 19, small town softness in the way you smiled at customers, sharp in the way you knew every recipe by heart. You dragged flour across your cheek without noticing, wiped your hands on aprons patterned with strawberries and flowers, and never once flirted with him.

He noticed that.

He noticed you a lot.

He also noticed that you were young—too young—and so he kept a careful, invisible distance. Friendly, but not too friendly. Not when you deserved to be looked at without history and grief and scars pressing in.

Ellie didn’t help.

Neither did Dina.

They’d come into the bakery after school or patrol and lean across the counter, snickering and whispering loud enough that Joel would absolutely hear if he happened to be passing by.

“Sweeetie bell,” Ellie crooned one time, grabbing a paper bag of cookies. “He’s gonna show up any minute, I bet.”

You swatted her arm with a napkin. “Stop it.”

“Oh come on,” Dina chimed in, smirking. “You’re blushing. She’s blushing, El.”

You rolled your eyes. “Joel Miller does not notice me. He could have any woman in Jackson.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, popping a powdered donut hole in her mouth. “And he comes here for bread three times a week even though Maria literally gives it out for free in the dining hall.”

Your face heated. “He likes sourdough.”

“He likes you,” Ellie corrected.

You pointed to the door. “Get out. Both of you.”

They laughed their way out of the bakery, bells chiming behind them.

And just as the sound faded, the door opened again.

It was him.

You stiffened, suddenly aware of the flour on your shirt and the curl falling out of your bun and the fact that you were nineteen and he was—well, Joel.

“Afternoon,” he murmured, voice low and warm.

You swallowed. “Hi, Joel.”

He smiled—small but real. “Sourdough today, sweetie bell?”

Your heart actually stuttered but you found your voice. “Always.”

He watched you wrap the loaf, fingers brushing yours just lightly when you handed it over. More contact than usual. Enough to make your breath catch.

Joel hesitated like he wanted to say something else. Something he wasn’t sure he should say. Then he cleared his throat, nodded, and paid even though you tried to tell him it was on the house.

He walked out.

And you stood there, pulse racing, because even though you were sure he could have whoever he wanted in Jackson…

He kept choosing to come to you.