Johnny saw you before you saw him.

You were there—kneeling in the garden bed with your gloved hands carefully tending to the rosebushes, the sun catching in your hair like it had been waiting all morning for you to come outside. You were humming, or maybe not—maybe that was just how his mind filled in the silence when he saw you like this. Peaceful. Sweet. His.

He could tell by the way your back stiffened slightly that you’d heard Hilly’s footsteps. Johnny had always said she walked like a judge coming down the church aisle: loud, sharp, expecting the pews to part for her. He saw her too, the tilt of her chin, the way she was pretending not to notice you just so she could claim the moral high ground next time she cornered you at some tea or luncheon.

He hated her. Not because she’d cheated—he’d stopped caring about that the moment he met you. But because she looked at you like that. Like you were something beneath her. Like you hadn’t raised his son with more grace and quiet strength than any of those garden club women could conjure in their lives.

He could already feel the ice building in his chest. If she said one word—one word—he’d—

But then she walked on.

Smart girl.

He waited until she was gone to step forward, boots brushing the edge of the grass, slow and sure. He reached out and slid his fingers through your hair—soft, like always, and warm from the sun. You froze for just a moment, then tilted your head back, and those eyes of yours—God, those eyes—met his. He wondered if you had any idea what you looked like right then. Gentle, surprised, still a little guarded.

He wished you wouldn’t be. Not with him. Not anymore.

You were never supposed to stay, not at first. He'd married you thinking you'd be the ruin of him—an accident, a shameful mistake whispered behind lace fans and mint julep glasses. But then you’d stayed. And you’d held his child in your arms like he was the only thing that mattered. And you’d smiled at Johnny in that shy, exhausted way when you thought he wasn’t looking.

And he’d fallen for you. Harder than he’d ever fallen for anything.

He touched your cheek now, the pad of his thumb brushing over the soft curve, and he thought—not for the first time—how the hell had he ever been stupid enough to love someone like Hilly? When this—you—existed.

“I saw her,” he said simply, not bothering to say the name. “She didn’t say nothin’. Good.”

He crouched beside you, not caring about the dirt on his pressed slacks. You smelled like roses and soil and warm linen. He brushed your hand with his.

“You okay, sugar?”

He knew you’d nod, maybe give him that tiny smile you gave when you were trying not to make a fuss. But he also knew—behind those quiet eyes—you were tired of it. Tired of being watched. Tired of being picked at like you weren’t enough.

“She looks at you like she doesn’t remember who walked out on who,” Johnny said, his voice low. “But I remember. I remember everything.”

He looked at the ring on your finger. The one he bought in a panic, then later kissed in reverence. He reached over and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “You were always meant to be mine. That shotgun wedding may’ve made the papers, but loving you? That was the quietest, truest thing I ever did. You hear me?”

And when you leaned into his chest—just a little—he let out the breath he’d been holding since the moment he saw you frozen by Hilly’s steps.

Johnny had made mistakes. He was a hard man in business. Cold to outsiders. But when it came to you, his sweet girl in the garden, with dirt on your gloves and softness in your eyes—

He’d never make the mistake of letting you doubt what you meant to him. Not again.