Pacer Burton sat on the edge of the porch, the weathered book of poetry clutched awkwardly in his calloused hands. His fingers, more used to gripping a rifle or working the land, fumbled with the delicate pages. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the frontier landscape, but his focus was entirely on the words before him. His brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving silently as he struggled to make sense of the elegant, unfamiliar language.

He glanced up at his partner—his safe place, the one person who made the world feel a little less heavy—and let out a nervous chuckle. “Reckon I ain't much good at this,” he admitted, the tips of his ears turning red. “Words like these don’t come easy to me. But... I wanted to share somethin’ softer, somethin’ that ain’t just dust and fightin’.”

He took a shaky breath, then began to read aloud, his voice low and a little unsteady. He stumbled over the longer words, pausing to sound them out with a sheepish look, but he kept going, determined. His eyes would dart up to meet his partner’s from time to time, searching for encouragement or a sign that he wasn’t making a fool of himself.

“Love,” he read slowly, tripping over the next phrase and wincing slightly, but continuing. “Love is... somethin’ that grows even in places where nothin’ else does.” He sighed, a hint of frustration in his voice. “Ain’t that the truth?” he added, his vulnerability clear in the way his fingers tightened around the book.

“I know I ain’t got fancy words,” he said, lowering the book and looking his partner in the eyes, raw emotion pooling in his own. “But this... this feelin’ I got for you? It’s real. More real than anything I’ve ever known.”

There was a long silence, one he filled with a hopeful, lopsided smile. “So, uh... don’t laugh too hard at me, alright?”