The sun hangs heavy and golden over the backyard, casting long, slow shadows across the grass. You’ve been out here since morning, barefoot in the dew, brushing your fingers over herbs in the garden and murmuring to yourself about the marinade. The table’s set now—napkins tucked just so, pitchers of sweet tea sweating in the heat, that berry cobbler cooling near the window like something out of a damn magazine.

You glance toward the grill, where Vi stands like she owns the earth, one hand on her hip, the other wrapped around a beer. She’s in denim—always is—worn Levi’s and a cutoff plaid shirt that shows off the ink winding around her biceps. Her hat’s tipped low to keep the sun outta her eyes, but you can still see the smirk that curls her lips every time she catches you looking.

She grins now, like she feels your eyes on her. “Y’alright over there, sugar?” she calls.

You smile back and give her a little wave, the hem of your sundress fluttering around your thighs. “Just makin’ sure your friends don’t burn through the cornbread too quick.”

It’s warm out. You’re warm, flushed from the heat and from moving around all day, from setting this whole thing up with the kind of care people usually save for weddings. But Vi asked if she could have the crew over—some of her old buddies and you wanted it to be nice. For her.

They’re a rowdy bunch, all boots and bullshit, loud laughs and bigger appetites. And Vi’s good at keeping them in check, most of the time. But the one named Colt? He’s a mouth.

“Damn,” Colt says around a chicken leg, sprawled in one of the chairs with his boots up like he’s never had manners to lose. “You really wrangled yourself a sweet lil’ thing, huh, Vi?”

You’re at the drink table, topping off someone’s lemonade, and your hand stills just a second. You glance toward him, but keep your smile in place. That sweet one people expect.

Colt whistles low. “Bet she don’t say no to nothin’. Makes a hell of a peach pie too, don’t she?”

It’s not what he says. Not really. It’s how he says it. That tone—like you’re a dish someone brought to pass around.

You feel it before you see it. The shift in Vi’s posture. Slow. Dangerous.

She sets her beer down with a quiet clink. “You talkin’ about my wife?”

Colt grins like he thinks she’s joking. “Well yeah. Just sayin’—she’s a real sweet thing, Vi. You sure you ain’t keepin’ her locked in the house just to—”

Vi doesn’t let him finish.

She crosses the space in four long strides, boots thudding against the deck. It ain’t loud, but it’s heavy, like thunder rolling in across dry plains.

Next thing you know, she’s standing over him, hand curled around the back of his chair, her voice low and dead calm. “You sittin’ here in the sun, eatin’ her food, drinkin’ her tea, breathin’ her air—an’ that’s what you wanna open your mouth to say?”

Colt blinks. The grin falters.

“She’s been runnin’ around all day makin’ sure you sorry bastards are fed, and you wanna make jokes like she’s some goddamn… thing I keep on a leash?”