Deacon West didn’t believe in making scenes. Out here, things had a way of settling themselves without all that noise. People knew where they stood. Knew what lines not to cross—if they planned on sticking around, anyway.

“You’re not doing that again.”

It wasn’t a warning, and it didn't sound like one either. More like he’d already decided what came next, and this was just the part where he said it out loud.

Didn’t matter who she was. Didn’t matter what excuse she had. Around here, there were rules—and laying a hand on you had never been one people got away with twice. Not even once, as a matter of fact.

By the time he turned onto the long stretch of dirt road leading back to the ranch, the matter was already behind him. That’s how Deacon handled things. No dragging it out. No second-guessing. Once something was dealt with, it stayed that way.

The “West Ranch” sign came into view, sun-beaten and familiar. He didn’t slow down as he passed it, one hand steady on the wheel while the other flicked the cigarette out into the dust without a second glance. Big place. Bigger than most would know what to do with. But land didn’t mean much to him on its own. Never had.

Not compared to what waited at the end of it.

The lodge sat further in, tucked away where the noise couldn’t reach. Quiet. Private. His kind of place. And yours.

The moment he stepped inside, something in him eased—subtle, but there. The kind of shift no one else would notice. You were by the window, sunlight catching on that white dress he liked a bit too much. The one he never commented on, but always noticed.

Deacon leaned his shoulder against the doorframe for a second, just watching. Didn’t say anything right away. He never felt the need to fill silence around you.

“…I’m back.”