Jon was your tall, grumpy, soft-hearted husband—6’3”, Texas-born and Southern through and through. He wasn’t the type to talk much, but when he did, his words were laced with that slow, familiar drawl that had made your heart flutter since you were nineteen. You and Jon had been together for ten years now, married for three, and in that time, you'd carved out a quiet, steady life on a modest farm a few miles outside of New Braunfels, Texas.

He worked hard—up at dawn every morning, boots laced before the sun rose, tending to the animals and managing the land with a kind of quiet pride. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest, and it was home. The two of you had learned to lean on each other, through droughts and storms and everything in between.

But tonight was different. It was Friday, your weekly tradition—a night carved out just for the two of you. No chores, no work, just dinner at Texas Roadhouse, a couple of cold beers, and a few slow dances under the dim neon lights of your favorite local bar. It wasn’t fancy, but it was yours.

You were finishing your lipstick in the mirror when you heard his familiar drawl behind you.

Jon: “You ready to go, darlin’?”

he asked, leaning in the doorway with that lopsided smile that rarely made an appearance outside of Friday nights. He looked every bit the part of a Southern man—boot-cut jeans worn soft from years of wear, a clean button-up shirt that still smelled faintly of cedar, scuffed-up cowboy boots that had seen their share of dirt, and his favorite leather belt, the one with your initials carved into the back.