Page 36 of Saddle and Scent (Saddlebrush Ridge #1)

"Can I kiss your forehead?" he asks, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

The request is so unexpected, so gentle, that it completely derails my ability to think coherently.

"Why?" I ask, even though as the word leaves my mouth, I know I'm going to say yes.

Because this is Wes.

Because he's asking instead of assuming.

Because there's something in his eyes that looks like hope mixed with longing mixed with the kind of careful affection that makes my chest tight.

His smile widens, but his eyes soften to something almost vulnerable.

"I miss you, that's all," he whispers.

Five simple words that hit harder than any grand declaration.

Five words that acknowledge the decade of distance without demanding anything in return.

Five words that remind me why I fell for him in the first place.

I try to maintain my stubborn facade, try to hold onto the walls I've built so carefully over the years. But the truth is, I miss him too. I miss all of them. I miss the easy affection, the casual intimacy, the feeling of being cared for by people who know all my secrets and love me anyway.

"Fine," I say, though it comes out less reluctant than I intended.

More like permission than resignation.

He leans down slowly, giving me plenty of time to change my mind, and presses his lips gently to my forehead. The kiss is soft, reverent, lasting just long enough to feel like a promise before he pulls back.

"From now on, do you promise to take better care of yourself?" he whispers against my skin.

The question makes me want to laugh and cry in equal measure.

Because taking care of myself has never been the problem.

The problem has been having anyone around who cares enough to notice when I'm not.

"I feel like I don't have much choice in the matter if you're all going to be around," I mumble, though there's no real complaint in my voice.

Honestly, the idea of having people who refuse to let me neglect my own wellbeing is more comforting than I want to admit.

"Exactly," he says with satisfaction, pressing another quick kiss to my forehead before straightening up. "Speaking of which, did you like the new room setup?"

The room.

Right.

The mysterious transformation that I still don't understand.

"What do you mean?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer. "I woke up in a completely different room than where I went to sleep."

"This place has at least four bedrooms," he explains, seeming pleased that I've noticed. "But they were pretty much filled with stuff that needed to be cleared out. We figured you'd be more comfortable in a space that was actually designed for sleeping."

We.

Of course this was a group effort.

Of course they coordinated a complete room makeover while I was unconscious.

"Come on," he says, taking my hand and leading me back toward the room I woke up in. "Take a proper look at everything."

I follow him back into the space, seeing it with fresh eyes now that I know it was intentionally created for me.

Every detail speaks to careful observation and genuine care— the colors are soothing without being childish, the furniture is functional but beautiful, the lighting is warm without being dim .

But then I notice something that makes me gasp.

In the corner, positioned perfectly to catch the morning light, is the most beautiful wooden vanity I've ever seen.

It's exactly like the ones I used to dream about as a child, the kind I'd imagine when playing with Polly Pocket dolls and creating elaborate fantasy bedrooms in my head.

Delicate carved details, a large mirror with perfect clarity, small drawers with brass pulls that probably contain more luxury than I've ever owned.

It's perfect.

It's exactly what I would have chosen if I'd had unlimited resources and perfect taste.

It's the kind of thing that suggests someone has been paying very close attention to my dreams for a very long time.

"How did you do this so quickly?" I ask, running my fingers along the smooth wood surface.

Because this level of transformation doesn't happen overnight.

This kind of coordination requires planning, shopping, careful execution.

This kind of perfection takes time.

Wes's expression shifts to something almost shy, which is so unlike his usual confident demeanor that it catches me completely off guard.

"We actually had this stuff already bought," he admits.

Already bought.

As in, purchased before I even returned to Saddlebrush.

As in, they've been planning this for... how long?

"When?" I ask, though I'm not sure I'm ready for the answer.

His smile turns almost sheepish.

"Over the years, Junebug."

Over the years.

They've been buying furniture for me for years.

Collecting pieces, planning spaces, creating a home for someone who might never return.

Hoping I'd come back.

Believing I'd come back.

Preparing for the possibility that someday I'd need a place to belong.

The realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making my eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed. Because this isn't just about a bedroom or furniture or expensive pajamas.

This is about love.

The kind of love that persists across years and distance and hurt.

The kind of love that plans for reunion even when logic suggests it will never happen.

The kind of love that believes in forever even when forever seems impossible.

Before I can find words for the tangle of emotions churning in my chest, Wes presses another kiss to the top of my head.

"I'll go make you some breakfast since Beckett's out with Callum back in town," he says, heading toward the door. "Take some time to explore everything. It's all yours."

He's giving me space to process, to absorb, to feel whatever I need to feel without an audience.

It's exactly what I need, even though I didn't know I needed it.

As he reaches the doorway, I find my voice.

"Thank you, Wes."

The words are inadequate for what I'm feeling, but they're all I have.

He pauses, looking back at me with an expression so tender it makes my chest ache.

"Anything for you, Junebug."