NINETEEN.
Ever
——————————
Maybe that’s what I want.
I watch Jesse slide his arms around Marissa from behind, guiding her hands into position on the bow, showing her exactly how to draw the string back. He presses in close—definitely a little closer than necessary—and I shake my head, fighting a smile.
When I told Caden I was running out of ideas on how to keep Marissa entertained, he lit up with the suggestion of dragging out some hay bales and setting up the bow and arrow.
Turns out Marissa is a terrible shot. Every arrow sails wide or buries itself in the dirt short of the target.
Yet part of me wonders if she’s exaggerating the struggle on purpose, just to coax Jesse into stepping in and wrapping his arms around her.
And from the way his hands linger, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mind one bit.
The two of them have been completely wrapped up in each other from the moment they started talking.
Marissa insists nothing has gone further than a few heated make-out sessions, but I can’t bring myself to judge her for it—not when I see the way her eyes brighten every time they land on Jesse.
And the way he treats her, gentle and attentive, like she’s something precious he’s afraid to break—it’s impossible not to notice.
It almost breaks my heart knowing she’s leaving in a few days, that this spark is going to flicker out when she heads back to Chicago.
The familiar crunch of tires on dirt pulls my attention. I don’t need to look to know it’s Tobias pulling up fast. It’s Friday—he doesn’t usually roll in until later in the evening to lock the gates for the weekend, which means something’s brought him here early.
The engine cuts, the door swings open, and his boots hit the ground in that steady, purposeful stride I’d recognize anywhere. He stops right beside me, arms already crossed tight over his chest.
“Good to see the ranch is well taken care of when I’m not here,” he says, voice low and dry.
I grin to myself and keep my eyes on Jesse and Marissa. She releases the arrow this time, and—miracle of miracles—it thuds solidly into the hay bale.
“Nice one!” Jesse calls, encouraging, finally stepping back. His hand trails down her back as he moves away to collect the spent arrows.
Marissa turns, beaming, but the smile falters when her gaze lands on Tobias. Her eyes harden just a touch.
“You barely hit the hay bale,” he says, deadpan.
She rolls her eyes. “For a city girl, I’d say it’s pretty good.”
“Pretty good? Or bare minimum?” he fires back, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Caden lobs a glove at him. Tobias swats it aside like it’s nothing, then fixes him with a hard stare. “Why you gotta be so mean all the time?” Caden mutters.
“She’s not gonna get better if you just pat her on the back,” Tobias says, shrugging. “Piss her off a little, and I bet she’ll find the will to prove me wrong. Works wonders.”
Marissa tilts her head at him, then glances at me, eyebrows raised in silent question. I feel my own expression mirror hers because his words are somehow making sense.
Is that why he’s always needling me? Every time I’ve needed a push—when I was dragging my feet, doubting myself, or just plain scared—he’s been right there with some cutting remark that lights a fire under me.
Not cruel, exactly. Just enough to make me want to shove it back in his face.
To prove him wrong. To show him I’m stronger than he thinks.
I glance up at Tobias. The first thing I notice is that his beard is freshly trimmed, neat but still long enough that I can imagine sliding my fingers through it, tugging just hard enough to bring his mouth to mine. My pulse kicks up at the thought.
“I bet you never miss,” Marissa says, cutting through the tension.
“Never,” he says, voice steady and confident. “I always hit my mark.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I look away quickly, suddenly too aware of how close he’s standing, of the heat rolling off him, of the memory of his lips on mine and the way his hands felt sliding over my skin. Why does he unravel me like this every single time?
“We’re not just talking about bows and arrows, are we?” Marissa asks, her tone skeptical and amused.
I shake my head faintly, dragging a hand over my face to hide the flush creeping higher.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Tobias asks.
When I glance up, his eyes are locked on mine. My stomach does a small, involuntary flip. He’s talking to me.
“Oh, yeah. Sure,” I say, and I shoot Marissa a quick, nervous look. She gives me an encouraging nod before turning back to Jesse, who’s returned with an arrow in hand, already launching into some new instruction.
I walk a short distance toward the open stretch of grass, not entirely sure whether he actually wants privacy or if this is just some casual ranch-related question that doesn’t require a hushed tone.
When I stop and turn to face him, though, the expression on his face throws me.
He looks… uncertain. Almost nervous. It’s so unlike him—always so steady, so sure of himself—that it throws me off balance.
I’m used to the teasing smirk, the dry quips, the way he fills up space without even trying.
This quieter version of him makes my pulse tick faster.
“Marissa said you’re going out to Knoxville tonight,” he says, straight to the point.
My eyes narrow. “When did she tell you that?”
I rack my brain, trying to remember a single moment when Marissa could have been alone with him. I’ve barely left her side since she got here. If they had some private conversation, I feel like I would’ve noticed—or at the very least, she would’ve mentioned it afterward.
“This morning,” he answers simply.
I rewind through the day in my head. “But when?”
“I came by earlier and you were on a phone call out back.”
“Oh.” The word drags out as pieces start clicking. “She didn’t tell me you stopped by.”
“You seem suspicious of your friend,” he observes, and there’s a sly edge to his grin now, like he’s enjoying watching me puzzle it out.
“I am a little bit,” I admit.
He tilts his head. “You do remember I walked around back and talked to you after your call, right?”
I press my palm to my forehead, heat creeping into my cheeks. Of course. The memory floods back—me finishing the call, turning to find him standing there, casual as ever. I’d completely blanked on it. “Okay, I do remember now. But that still doesn’t explain why she told you about Knoxville.”
“She’s surprisingly easy to get information out of,” he says, shrugging.
I shake my head, fighting a smile. “I was waiting for you to finish your call, so I asked if you two had plans for the weekend before she heads home. She told me about Knoxville, then launched into this whole ramble about the Tomato Festival—every detail she could think of. I told her I needed to talk to you about something important and left before she could keep going.”
A giddy little grin tugs at my lips as his side of the story settles in. It all makes sense now—no secret scheming, just Marissa being Marissa. “Ah, I see. Well, yes, we’re going out to Knoxville tonight. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
“It’s just gonna be the two of you?” he asks.
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
“And you’re taking Gladys?”
“I was planning on it.” He huffs out a short breath and glances toward the barn. Did he really drive over here just to ask about my plans? “Is… are you… did you want to go or something? I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say here.”
“No,” he says quickly. “I didn’t want to go.”
But the words don’t sound entirely convincing. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hesitation, maybe.
“You can if you want to,” I offer.
But then I remember what Ruben said about Nashville—how the girls were all over Tobias the whole time. The image flashes through my mind: women laughing too loud, leaning too close, hands brushing his arm.
“Actually, I change my mind.”
“You’re taking back the invitation?” His eyebrows lifts, amused.
“I am,” I say, crossing my arms, trying to sound sure even though my pulse is racing.
“What time are you going?” he asks after a moment.
“I don’t know yet. Maybe six? Traffic’s going to be awful, but I don’t think we want to be out super late anyway,” I tell him.
He drags a hand slowly down the side of his face, fingers rasping against the trimmed edge of his beard as he thinks. His gaze drifts off toward the barn again, distant.
“Is there something going on I don’t know about?” I ask finally, because the way he’s holding himself makes me feel like there’s more to this.
“No,” he says, letting out a long breath before meeting my eyes directly. “I’m just worried.”
“Worried…” I repeat the word slowly, feeling something soft and unexpected flutter in my chest. There’s no deflection in his voice, no quick joke to lighten the moment—just honesty. “About what?”
“You,” he answers simply.
The single word hits me like a quiet shock. He’s worried about me? For a second I can’t even process it.
“Why?” I manage. “You don’t need to be.” My voice betrays me, cracking in places where I wanted it to sound sure. I hate how vulnerable it makes me feel, how much I suddenly want to believe he means it.
“I’m always worried about you,” he says, and the words settle between us like they’ve been waiting there all along.
We stand there, staring at each other, the noise of the ranch fading into a distant hum.
I study the lines of his face—the way his brows knit slightly, the steady intensity in his eyes—and he studies me right back.
Time stretches, and I have no idea what to say.
My mind spins, searching for something safe to grab onto, but my heart is already racing ahead.
“Will you walkie me when you get back?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“Channel two,” I say quietly.
“And if anything happens—if you need a ride, or anything at all—just call,” he continues. “I’ll come get you. Doesn’t matter what time it is or where you’re at.”
A rush of warmth spreads through me, soft and dizzying.
I’ve seen him strong, seen him clever and quick-witted.
I’ve watched him handle things on this ranch that would break most people without even blinking.
But this—protective, steady, willing to drop everything for me—this is new.
And I think I could get used to it far too easily.
“Ever,” he says, and the sound of my name snaps my attention back to his face.
“Yeah,” I breathe, realizing I’ve been staring—my eyes tracing the line of his shoulders, the way his shirt pulls across his chest—anywhere but where they should be.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” he says, voice dropping lower, “we’re going to have a problem.”
Heat floods my cheeks instantly. My gaze drops to his mouth anyway, and I can’t help it—I want to taste him again, feel the press of his lips, the way his hands slide over me.
But I’m painfully aware of the others nearby, the occasional glance they throw our way, the way the air feels suddenly charged.
“Maybe that’s what I want,” I say, the words bolder than I feel, slipping out before I can stop them.
He steps forward—close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him—and his hands twitch at his sides like he’s fighting every instinct to reach for me.
“Don’t,” I whisper, barely audible. His jaw clenches, shoulders stiffening as a storm rolls through his eyes. He’s holding himself back by sheer will, and the sight of it makes my knees weak.
“You’re making it very difficult to restrain myself,” he mutters, voice deep and smooth.
My eyes dart across his face—his mouth, the dark sweep of his lashes—unable to settle on one part because every part of him feels overwhelming. God, he really is perfect.
“Everything okay over there?” Marissa calls from a distance, her voice cutting through the haze.
I force myself to look away, flashing her a quick thumbs-up. Her eyebrows lift in silent question, but I blow out a shaky breath and take a step back from him, putting space between us before I lose the ability to think clearly.
“We’ll be safe,” I tell him, trying to steady my breathing.
He doesn’t move. He’s still frozen in place, gaze locked on me like he’s afraid to blink. So I keep moving instead.
“And I’ll ring you when we get back,” I add.
As I step forward to pass him, I lay my hand on his abdomen without conscious thought—fingers grazing the hard plane of muscle beneath his shirt.
The second I make contact, his body tightens under my palm, and his hand clamps over the back of mine holding me there.
His breath comes ragged now, uneven, and when his eyes drag up to meet mine, they’re dark and wanting.
I turn my hand in his grip and give it a gentle squeeze before pulling away, stepping forward quickly because if I stay even a second longer I’m going to combust under the weight of that look.
I try to shake the thoughts loose—try not to imagine the way his body would feel pressed against mine, the way his hands would map every curve, the way he’d hold me like nothing else mattered—but it’s useless.
He’s already taken over every corner of my mind.
There’s no room for anything else. And honestly, at this point, I’m not sure I want there to be.