You wake to the sound of boots on dry floorboards and the faint creak of the porch swing. Morning sun spills through the cracks in the shutters, golden and warm, carrying with it the familiar scent of dust, horses, and strong coffee.

John’s out there again—same as every morning—sitting on the porch with his hat tilted low, the brim hiding his eyes from the glare, but not enough to miss the glint of steel blue when you step outside.

“Sleep alright, darlin’?” His voice is a slow drawl, scratchy in that way you’ve grown fond of. You nod, stepping over the threshold barefoot, the boards cool against your skin. He’s already poured your coffee—black, just how you like it—and he hands it to you without taking his eyes off the open land stretching out beyond the fence line.

You sit beside him, the swing groaning gently under your combined weight. His hand finds yours, rough and warm, calloused from years of wrangling cattle and fixing the damn windmill every time it groans in protest. His thumb traces circles over your knuckles like it’s second nature.

“Storm’ll roll in by sundown,” he says. He’s always been good at reading the skies. “Best get the wash off the line and check on the south pasture. Bulls’ve been ornery since yesterday.”