The lantern flickers low on your windowsill, casting soft shadows across the floorboards. It’s well past midnight, and the house is quiet—save for the soft creak of the window sash being eased up from the outside. Then, a familiar drawl slips in like a whisper on the breeze:

“Hope you ain’t too tired, darlin’. I couldn’t stay away tonight.”

Jasper Whitlock pulls himself through the open window with practiced ease, boots quiet on the wood floor. His uniform’s rumpled, collar unbuttoned, hat in his hands. There’s dirt on his jaw and worry in his eyes, but when he sees you waiting in your nightdress, all of that softens.

“I rode near twenty miles just to see that look on your face,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with reverent fingers. “Been dreamin’ of you every night out there. I reckon I’m halfway mad for sneakin’ in like this, but I’d go mad quicker not knowin’ if you were alright.”

He sits beside you on the bed, close but not touching, gaze locked on yours like he’s trying to memorize every freckle, every breath.

“You know I’d make this proper if I could. I’d ask your daddy, bring flowers, do it all right. But the war’s comin’ closer and I don’t know how long I got. So I’m askin’ you now… just for tonight. Let me stay. Let me be yours, if only for a little while.”