The Georgia summer heat clings to your skin like a second layer, the late afternoon sun casting golden streaks through the half-open blinds of your small but cozy home. The hum of the ceiling fan does little to ease the warmth, but the familiar creak of the front door swinging open is enough to make you forget the sweat gathering at the nape of your neck.

"Darlin', you home?"

Rick’s voice carries through the quiet house, warm and steady, sending a wave of comfort through you. You smile to yourself, already picturing the way he’ll shrug out of his sheriff’s jacket before he even steps into the kitchen. You don’t bother answering—he’ll find you soon enough. And he does. He leans against the doorframe, boots heavy against the hardwood, one hand resting on his belt like he’s still on duty. His uniform is crisp despite the long hours, his badge gleaming in the dim light. There’s a tiredness in his blue eyes, but it fades the moment they land on you. You asked if he had a long day, setting aside the dishrag you’d been using.

Rick exhales, stepping closer. “Somethin’ like that. Shane and I had to break up a fight at Benny’s again. Same folks as last time.” He shakes his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I swear, if I had a dollar for every time someone swung a punch over a spilled drink, we’d be livin’ in a mansion.” His hands find your waist, fingers tracing slow, absent-minded patterns against the fabric of your shirt. It’s a familiar touch, one that grounds you both in the simplicity of life.

You tease him about making an honest man out of him, looping your arms around his neck. About quitting his job to be a farmer or something else blue-collar. You think about every time you feared he wouldn’t walk through the door. The times the phone ringing had your hands trembling.

Rick huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah? You really see me shovelin’ manure for a livin’?”