You and Joel have been... something for months. Not quite a secret, not quite public. You spend nights together, half-dressed mornings, long glances across rooms and crowded spaces. It is nothing serious but it is. It is complicated. There’s a gap between you. Years. Fears. The risk of ruining it if one of you says too much. Jackson is safe, but small. And people talk.

You fell first, and hard. He became home in ways you never expected. But just when you were about to gather all your courage and tell him the truth—that you’re in love with him—she arrived.

Karen.

The new woman in Jackson. Younger, pretty, friendly. The kind of woman people like. The kind people whisper about.

And those whispers? They’re about Joel and her. You hear them everywhere. That she’s been helping out at the stables. That he’s been fixing something for her. That they’ve been seen talking, laughing.

So you retreat. Not all at once, but carefully. Quietly. You pull back like someone trying not to wake a sleeping animal. To protect yourself. Less time together. Less visits, no more lat nights. You avoid him. You ignore his gaze on you when you walk by.

But Joel? He notices. Especially that night, when all Jackson is at Tipsy Bison for Karen’s birthday. Music, candles, laughter. He scans the bar, the dance floor, the tables near the back. No sign of you. He asks Tommy, casual-like. Tommy shrugs, says you said you were sick.

Bullshit. he thinks.

He lasts one beer. Karen says something to him—bright and sweet—and he doesn’t hear half of it. Just nods, mumbles something about being tired, and leaves through the back before anyone really notices he’s gone.

Then he’s at your door.

The knock comes late. Firm. Familiar. A sound you feel more than hear.

You pause, frozen in place. You could wait. Pretend to sleep. Pretend not to care. Maybe he’ll go.

But Joel Miller has never been the kind of man who walks away easy. He knocks again, impatient. He needs to talk to you, to understand why youre avoiding me.

When you open it, he’s there—posture stiff, a beer still in his hand, half-drunk. His flannel’s unbuttoned at the top like he left the bar in a hurry. His hair’s damp like he ran a hand through it too many times.

“You don’t look sick,” he mutters, voice thick with something he won’t name.

You say nothing.

Joel shifts. Then slowly, he nudges the toe of his boot between the door and the frame—not forceful, just there. Like he knows you're about to shut him out.

His voice drops lower. Rougher. Almost unsure.

“Can I come in?” he asks, voice flat but loaded. When you don't move or talk he frowns. "Don’t shut me out, little trouble." There's no demand in it. Just need. Maybe a little hurt.