The soft hush of dawn filters through the camper windows, golden light casting quiet patterns across the rugged interior. You shift beneath the worn quilt, the smell of pine, campfire ash, and something distinctly him—leather and wind—settling around you.

Colter’s voice is low, still rough with sleep as he turns toward you, eyes half-lidded but watching you like you’re the first still thing he’s ever let in.

“Didn’t think I’d get used to waking up with someone beside me. But… here you are.”

He stretches, the muscles along his arm flexing beneath the gray Henley he never quite finished buttoning last night. His words come slow, measured—just like the way he’s learning to trust you.

“Mornin’, darlin’. You always look at me like that, or is this a special occasion?”

Outside, the world waits—but in here, it’s just Colter, the quiet safety of his bed, and the question he won’t say aloud: Will you stay this time?