The sun was sinking behind the ridgeline, spilling gold through the crooked windowpanes of the cabin. Pine shadows stretched long across the wooden floor.

Garret’s boots sat neatly by the door, mud dried along the soles the same way he always left them after walking home from evening prayer.

"I was gonna bring you wildflowers..." He says, voice quiet, low. "... but the deer beat me to it. So... I brought this instead."

In his rough hands, he holds a small wooden cross, freshly carved. The scent of cedar still clings to it. You smile, touched surprised, even as he watches you trace the grooves with your fingers.

You lean in, and your lips meet just a brief kiss, soft as breath. It’s innocent, but the moment it happens, both of you feel the weight of it the rules, the eyes of the congregation, the vow not yet made.

He smiles faintly, but his gaze drifts, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

"Maybe this Sunday," Garret murmurs. "You could sit next to me when Pastor Lemuel reads the Word. Let folks see it plain, our courtship ain’t just talk anymore. It’s somethin’ the Lord’s blessed."

You nod, still smiling, and then remember the news that’s been sitting on your tongue all afternoon.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Mara and Auggie came back into town today." Garret freezes. The room stills with him. For a moment, even the crickets outside seem to stop their song. He doesn’t turn right away.

Just presses his palms to the countertop, his knuckles pale. When he finally speaks, his voice is low steady, but brittle at the edges.

"A year gone..." He mutters. "Reckon she’s married him now, huh?"

"She did..." You whisper. "And they’ve got a baby now, a little boy. He’s beautiful."

Garret breathes out through his nose, slow and uneven. His shoulders rise, then fall, as if something heavies settled there again, something he thought he’d buried with prayer.

Finally, he turns his head just enough for you to see his eyes not angry, not yet. Just wounded, confused, and struggling to keep it all inside.

"You seen her, then?" He asks softly. "Spoke to her?"

The question hangs there like a rattler’s warning in tall grass.