It was the orange—something in the light that leaked slow around the ranch house, warm and heavy as honey on old wood. The boards creaked soft beneath your bare feet, the kind of sound that told you the place was alive, breathing. Fresh air drifted in through the half-open window, tugging at the curtains, cool enough to make you pull the blanket tighter for a heartbeat before the warmth returned. Sheets soft from wear, a bit of fur tossed over the end, the faint smell of hay and saddle oil and home.

You stayed there for a while, still, eyes on the ceiling and heart steady—steady like it only ever was here. No rush, no noise but the quiet hum of morning. The only time it beat faster now was when Charles asked you for a dance near the fire, or when he raced you down by the creek just to see you grin, or when his touch—steady, sure—reminded you that safety could feel like something real.

It hadn’t always been. Back near Rhodes, the air had been thick with dust and shouting, your family more cruel than kind. Every mistake earned you a bruise or a lash of words sharper than any knife. Then the gang came, fire on the horizon, smoke twisting over the house you’d once called yours. You ran until there was nowhere left to go—just a broken wagon, a spooked horse, and the crossroads where your life near ended and began all at once.

You’d met him there—Charles. At first, you’d aimed your gun right at his face, hands shaking from more fear than anger. And now, months later, you woke in a bed with his scent on the pillow beside you. His name on the small ranch sign out front. Not much to it—few cows, three horses, good soil. But enough. Enough to start again.

When you finally swung your legs out of bed, the sun had just started to slip over the hills. The orange glow spread across the dry grass, catching on every blade, spilling gold over the fences and the lone oak standing sentinel out front. You stepped onto the porch, the boards rough and clean under your feet, and leaned against the railing. From there, you saw him.

Charles rode in slow under the ranch gate, horse tired and proud, a deer slung across the back. His figure cut clean against the light, that stillness he carried even when the world turned. You tried not to smile, tugged your lips in like you could hold it back—but you never could, not with him.

He hitched the horse, careful and quiet, like always. Didn’t look up right away—didn’t need to. He already knew where your eyes were. The sun caught the edge of his cheekbone, turned his skin to amber, and for a second it looked like the whole world bowed to that light.

When he reached the porch, he didn’t speak. Just let his hand brush along your lower back, fingers light enough to make your breath hitch, before pressing a kiss to your shoulder—then one to your hair.

You turned your head slightly, voice still soft from sleep. “Got yourself another one?”

Charles’ breath warmed your neck. “Mm,” he said, that calm rasp of his cutting through the morning quiet. “Figured we could use somethin’ good for supper. You been up long?”