Archive of Our Own

Dustin hates the cold at the end of winter. It’s cruel seeing the signs of spring — grass beginning to sprout up through the last of the snow; new buds forming on his trees — and still getting hit with a bitter wind and fresh sleet.

Even more than the cold, he hates the cattle rustlers that have forced him to routinely ride the line of his property in said wind and sleet.

He’s cold and wet and tired, and he hasn’t seen any signs of rustlers in almost ten months, but he knows the day he doesn’t check is the day they return.

He digs his heels gently into the sides of his horse and Pepper continues onwards, fetlock-deep in mud, her breath visible in the low light of dusk. He pulls the brim of his hat lower, trying to protect his face, but his jaw went numb a mile or so back and now he’s just longing for the warmth of his stove at home.

To the west of his land, the trees grow thicker, providing more places for potential rustlers to hide. He typically makes it the last of the areas he checks and this evening is no different.

A snapping twig puts him on alert, and he pulls his pistol out of his holster when Pepper’s ears prick forward, staring at something near a lone birch. He nudges her onward, tightening his grip on the reins as they move closer.

He honestly expects it to be a deer, which means when a man strolls out into the open, not even seeming to notice Dustin, Dustin’s heart leaps into his throat. He cocks his gun and levels it.

“I’ve been robbed once already,” Dustin says, startling the man, who turns, eyebrows high in surprise when he notices the gun. “I don’t plan on being robbed again.”

The man is short and blond with a closely cut beard, and he's dressed nicely — or at least nicer than anything Dustin owns.

He looks suspicious.

“I’m not a thief,” the man says quickly, hands raising in surrender. Dustin doesn’t trust it. He hasn’t made it this far in life by trusting people.

“You’re on my property.”

The man visibly swallows. “I didn’t see a fence.”

“I’ve shot men for less sarcasm,” Dustin grunts, which is a lie because Dustin’s never actually shot anyone, but the man doesn’t need to know that.

“It wasn’t sarcasm,” the man tells him, his gaze dancing between the gun and Dustin’s face. He looks concerned, but also like he might bolt the second he gets a chance.

“You’re just out for a twilight stroll in weather like this?”

“I’m new in town. I arrived today and I’m checking out the area.”

Dustin glances toward the trees beside them, looking for any other signs of movement. The wind shaking the branches puts him on edge.

“If someone new was coming to town, I’d know about it,” he says, looking back down at the man. “This place is small. News travels fast. Where’s the rest of your gang members?”

"Gang members," the man repeats faintly, as though trying out the words for the first time, and Dustin doesn't have enough patience to be mocked by a stranger.

"Where are they?" he snaps, and the stranger's blue eyes go impossibly wide.

“I’m alone,” he promises, but it feels unlikely. No one sane would be this far outside of town alone. He’s not even wearing gloves; his hands must be like ice.

“So you moved to town alone and without belongings? You’re making this more difficult for yourself by lying.”

“I’m not lying,” the man insists, but he looks cagey and Dustin can already tell the guy is looking for an out. He’s going to make a break for it.

As quickly as he can, he uncocks and holsters his gun, reaching instead for the rope looped around the horn of his saddle, as the man takes off running. Dustin has no idea where he plans on going with nothing but an old abandoned house in the vicinity. With one hand, he guides Pepper into a trot, his other hand carefully lining up his lasso.

The thing the stranger doesn’t know is that Dustin spends almost all of his free time with cattle, roping them, rounding them up. A predictable man is nothing compared to a wild beast.

Dustin catches him on his first throw, the rope settling around the man’s hips and throwing him backward as Dustin pulls Pepper to a halt. The pained grunt the man lets out is almost satisfying enough to make the whole effort worthwhile.

“I’m not here to rob you,” the man insists, voice higher, sounding more panicked. “I live here.”

“No you don’t,” Dustin tells him bluntly. “You’re on my property.”

He ties the end of the lasso to his saddle to keep the man from running any further while he dismounts, but the man makes a few feeble attempts to roll over. Which is a shame because Dustin’s not gentle when he puts a boot between the man’s shoulders and pins him, shoving his face into a mix of mud and decaying leaves.

“I think the sheriff might like to meet you.”

“The sheriff knows I moved here,” the man grunts. “We've been corresponding for weeks now! You’ve got the wrong idea!”

“These lies aren’t helping you.”

“I just want to go home,” the man tells him, jerking against his hold.

“Me too, pal,” Dustin sighs. “It’s rustlers like you that make my life harder than it needs to be.”

“I’m not who you think I am,” the man spits and Dustin’s getting tired of listening to him.

From his back pocket, Dustin pulls out an old kerchief. He’s not entirely sure how clean it is, but he also doesn’t care. He just wants silence. Using a hand on the man’s forehead, he stuffs it unceremoniously into the man’s mouth.

The silence is blissful even as the man grunts, still clearly trying to talk and clearly more annoyed now that he’s been quieted.

“Now, we can do this the hard or the easy way,” Dustin tells him, tugging the rope from around the man’s body and using it to bind his arms together behind his back. The man grunts and shifts below him, like he’s trying to throw him off, and Dustin puts more of his weight onto his back. “The hard way it is.”

Firmly bound, Dustin slips a hand under the man’s upper arm and pulls him to his feet.

“This isn’t going to be comfortable,” he warns. “Sheriff Remsburg is a long ride from here.”

He’s glad for all the work he does with his herd, because it means he’s able to manhandle the stranger onto his stomach over Pepper’s saddle. The man kicks out in retaliation, catching Dustin in the shoulder before he can step aside and avoid it.

Dustin grunts and doesn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt when he binds the man’s ankles together with the end of the lasso, making the position even worse for him.

“You only have yourself to blame for this,” Dustin tells him and the man says something, muffled behind the gag, probably calling him a few names of which the Lord wouldn’t approve. “C’mon.”

He pulls the reins over Pepper’s head and uses them to guide her as he begins walking toward the only road that leads into town. It’s going to be a long, cold walk and he’d much rather be at home in front of the fire, warming his feet.

*

The man finally falls quiet about halfway to Sheriff Remsburg’s house, clearly tired, but the tense lines of his body suggest that he’s no less annoyed. Dustin guesses that makes two of them because it’s dark by the time they arrive and now he’s even colder than before and all he wants is a hot meal and his bed.

When they reach the edge of Sheriff Remsburg’s property, Dustin drags the man off the back of Pepper, barely trying to break his fall on the way down because Dustin might be a nice guy, but he’s not that nice. The man grunts in pain as he hits the dirt sideways and Dustin leaves him where he’s bound as he steps over him to knock on the door.

It takes a moment for the sheriff to emerge, a lantern in one hand, the other resting on his hip, near to his gun.

“Dustin,” he says, voice sounding surprised, hand dropping at the sight of him. “Everything okay?”

“I caught a trespasser,” Dustin grunts, nodding his head toward the man on the ground.

The sheriff swings his light over to see for himself and then frowns.

“Where did you find him?”

“On my land, near Magistrate Baker’s old place.”

The sheriff curses and sets his lantern down, rushing forward to attend to the thief. But instead of letting the man know his rights and taking him directly to the jail, he pulls the gag out of his mouth and starts untying him.

“Sheriff,” Dustin complains, but the sheriff waves him off.

“Dustin, this is Mr. Jim Cipperly from New Jersey,” he says, pulling the man — Jim — to his feet.

Dustin scoffs. “Then he’s thieving a long way from home.”

Jim dusts himself off, anger radiating from him in clear waves.

Dustin thinks that if the sheriff wasn't between them, he might start trying to throw punches in Dustin's direction.

“Mr. Cipperly inherited Magistrate Baker’s land," the sheriff explains. "He's his nephew.”

The house and land have been sitting barren for two summers straight since the magistrate passed, and this is the first Dustin’s hearing of anyone new coming to town.

“No one told me.”

Sheriff Remsburg levels him with a look. “Dustin, when’s the last time you came to town?”

Dustin folds his arms in annoyance, mostly because he’s right. “He ran,” he tries instead. “He had time to explain himself, but instead he ran.”

“I did explain myself!” Jim finally snaps, looking at Dustin like he’s lost his mind. “I told you I was new in town and you pointed a gun at me!”

“And you thought you could outrun a bullet?”

Jim’s mouth thins, his glare hot with anger, and the sheriff holds up a hand.

“Gentlemen,” he says diplomatically and Dustin knows when to cut his losses. “I should have warned you, Dustin. I lost track of time and couldn’t visit your farm. Mr. Cipperly arrived sooner than expected.”

“I wanted to check out the land before dark,” Jim says quietly. After a long beat, he adds, “I may have mistaken the property line.”

It’s not a good first impression for either of them. Especially when Jim is apparently about to become his new neighbor. He stares at Jim and Jim stares back.

“You can never be too careful,” Dustin tries and Jim scoffs and rubs at his shoulder like there’s a lingering soreness to it.

“I beg to differ.”

“You boys shake hands,” Sheriff Remsburg insists, before the argument can start again. “You’re neighbors now, which means you need to have each other’s backs. Don’t start off on the wrong foot.”

Dustin knows he’s right, even if it does make him feel like a scolded child. The wilderness around them is enough of an enemy. Dustin doesn’t need anyone else adding to that.

Begrudgingly, Dustin holds out his hand and Jim stares down at it like he’d rather get hogtied and thrown over the back of a horse again. But eventually, he lets out a breath and takes it in his own, giving enough of a shake to pacify Sheriff Remsburg before letting go again.

“Jim, go ahead and make yourself comfortable inside. The wife is in there and she won’t let you leave before you’ve eaten. She’ll want to hear about your travels.”

Dustin can see from his expression that it’s the last thing Jim wants to do, but being so new to town, Dustin knows he can’t turn down an invitation from the sheriff. Jim nods, glancing at Dustin one last time before turning and heading into the house.

“I’ll make sure Mr. Cipperly makes it home,” the sheriff tells him, which is the out Dustin’s looking for. It means he can finally leave.

“Sure,” he agrees. “Sorry about the whole — ” he gestures loosely and the sheriff smiles and shakes his head.

“You’re vigilant, Dustin, I’ll give you that. But it might be a sign that you need to come into town more often.”

“If anyone needs me, they know where to find me.”

“You’re too isolated out there,” Sheriff Remsburg sighs, sounding like Dustin's mother. “Maybe having someone else in the vicinity will help.”

“I’ve always needed a city boy neighbor,” Dustin says sarcastically, but instead of laughing, the sheriff folds his arms and looks disappointed.

“You need to apologize to him.”

Dustin glances toward the house. “He can’t hear me.”

“For what you did tonight,” the sheriff clarifies and Dustin offers up his palms, incredulous.

“I already did! You watched us shake hands.”

“You need to welcome him properly. He’s a long way from home. A little kindness wouldn’t go amiss.”

Dustin scuffs his boot against the dirt and glances over at where Pepper’s chewing idly at the grass verge of Sheriff Remsburg’s lawn.

“It really was an honest mistake,” he admits. “I wasn’t going to take a risk after last time.”

Last time, Dustin had been shot in the shoulder, lost almost his entire herd, plus fifty dollars from the stash he kept under his mattress. Doctor Holt had patched him up and the rest of town had rallied around to keep him from starving — and he’s endlessly grateful — but it had been a brutal year getting back on his feet and he never wants to go through it again.

Sheriff Remsburg rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, his eyes kind. “I know, Dustin. You should make sure he knows that.”

Dustin blows out a breath because he knows the sheriff is right. “If I have time tomorrow, I’ll stop by. But if he shoots me in retaliation, that's on you.”

Sheriff Remsburg laughs and finally moves his hand away, letting Dustin take a step toward Pepper to gather up her reins.

“He won't. I have a feeling he’s going to need all the help he can get with that old place.”

Dustin snorts. “I’ll help him if I can, but there’s only so much a man can do.”

“Sure,” Sheriff Remsburg agrees with a grin. “You just make sure you get home safely.”

Dustin tips his head and pulls himself up into the saddle, Pepper letting out a noise like she highly disapproves of having her snack time interrupted.

“I already cleared the streets of potential thieves,” Dustin reminds him and the sheriff makes a shooing motion with one hand, making Dustin laugh.

“Get out of here,” the sheriff complains and Dustin doesn’t need to be told twice.

He spares one last glance at the house, before turning Pepper away and nudging her straight into a canter. The wind is cold against his face, but the sooner he gets home, the happier he’ll be.

*

Jim has bruises on his wrists when Dustin makes his way over to his property the following morning, a pie cupped carefully between his hands. He’d traded a bag of lemons from his pantry for it in town and can only hope Jim likes cherries.

Jim looks dubious when he opens the door and Dustin can’t blame him.

“Hey,” Dustin says gently, still half expecting to get some kind of firearm pointed at him. “I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Jim props the screen door open with his shoulder and stares at him, clearly still irked. “I thought you did that last night.”

The sarcasm is thick and Dustin can’t pretend he doesn’t deserve it.

“And apologize,” Dustin adds, which makes Jim’s head tilt almost imperceptibly.

“What could you possibly have to apologize for?”

Dustin shuffles from foot to foot. Jim’s going to make it difficult for him.

“It’s not easy living this far outside of town,” Dustin tells him carefully. “But I should have given you more of a chance to explain.”

“Have you always been that paranoid?”

It’s a facetious question, but Dustin takes Sheriff Remsburg’s advice to heart and figures it might be worth being honest.

“Only since I was shot by rustlers.”

The curl at the edge of Jim’s mouth drops and he looks at Dustin with surprise.

“Oh,” he says and Dustin takes a little satisfaction in how easy Jim is to disarm.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” Dustin says with feeling. “I made a mistake and I brought you this as the start of my apology.”

He offers the pie, staring down at it like a lifeline, the silence between them growing longer until eventually Jim takes a step closer and pulls the pie from his grip, holding it easily in one hand.

“The start of your apology?”

“You might think otherwise, but I’m not enough of an idiot to expect a cherry pie to solve my problems.”

Jim watches him for a second before shrugging with one shoulder.

“Maybe you're underestimating the quality of the pie,” Jim tells him, and Dustin knows an olive branch when he sees one. “Or my love of cherries.”

Dustin offers him a small smile. “The bakery is one of the best parts of town. You’ll have to stop by once you’re settled in.”

Jim nods but looks as though he might have a few greater priorities than baked goods.

“I knew this place when your uncle was here,” Dustin continues, “but it’s not exactly how I remember it.”

Two years of disuse haven’t been kind to the property. The weeds are tall where there once was a small garden and there are vines growing up toward the second floor. The house itself isn’t too bad, but more than a handful of boards seem in need of being replaced before the year’s end.

Jim glances around and nods. “It’ll keep me busy for the year.”

The implication isn’t lost on Dustin.

“You’re not staying longer?”

Jim shrugs. “Only as long as it takes me to fix up and sell.”

Dustin hums quietly. “Do it right and you’ll get a good price for it.”

“It’ll give my family peace of mind,” Jim admits and Dustin tucks away the admission, part of him feeling worse now for what he did when Jim’s so far from anyone he knows.

“Well, I’m the only person around out here, so if you ever want to cash in on my sense of guilt, I’d be happy to help where I can.”

His house is almost a mile’s walk away, but he’s still the closest neighbor Jim has in any direction.

Jim lets out a breath of laughter. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve never been one to hold grudges.”

“Lucky me,” Dustin jokes and Jim watches him for a moment before glancing down at the pie in his hand.

“Would you like to come inside for a slice?” he asks. “I just brewed some coffee.”

“I can’t,” Dustin apologizes, “I have to check on my herd today.”

Jim’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“You have cows?” he asks, and Dustin nods.

“About forty-five. I used to have more, but that’s rustlers for you.”

Jim’s mouth twists in empathy. “That must keep you busy.”

“Just a little,” Dustin laughs. “It should be a good calving season this year, though. It’ll be a chance for me to get the numbers back up.”

Jim actually looks impressed and Dustin finds himself laughing again, to which Jim appears embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, “I didn’t mean — ”

Dustin waves it off with one hand. “Us country folk do a lot more out here than just drinking and wallowing in our own filth.”

“I know,” Jim insists. “It seems like a lot for one person is all.”

“Tell me about it,” Dustin sighs. “But if I don’t do it, no one else will.”

“I won’t keep you then,” Jim says and Dustin takes his hat off just long enough to push his hair back under it.

“Thanks. It was nice to meet you under better circumstances.”

He can’t help glancing down at Jim’s bruises one last time as Jim gestures with the pie as a sign of thanks.

“You too, Dustin. Take it easy out there.”

Dustin nods and turns away toward the porch steps, but feels Jim’s gaze on him for a while before finally he hears the hinges of the screen door creak and the quiet thud of it shutting.

*

It’s only just light outside when someone knocks on Dustin’s door, the sound barely distinguishable above the noise of a steady rain pattering against the roof.

He pulls on a pair of pants and figures it should be modest enough for anyone willing to knock on his door at this hour.

“I have a leak,” Jim says the moment Dustin answers. He’s soaked from head to toe and looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

"What?" Dustin asks, head still foggy with sleep.

“My roof is leaking,” Jim clarifies and Dustin still can’t figure out why Jim would ride a mile to his property just to let him know.

“You need help putting new boards up?”

“I don’t have any,” Jim admits and Dustin watches him for a moment, realizing that Jim’s in over his head with the house and has probably only just begun to understand. He weighs the thought of spending his day helping a city boy dig his way out of a bad decision, but knows that if Jim has come to him for help, there’s only one answer Dustin can give.

He’s never been able to turn anyone away.

“I think I have some spare boards in the barn,” he finally tells Jim, who visibly sags in relief, as though he’d been fully prepared for a rejection. “Bring your horse around and I’ll figure out how much you can carry.”

Jim shuffles from one foot to the other.

“I don’t have a horse.”

Dustin blinks. “How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

Dustin stares at him for a long moment, but Jim doesn’t waver.

“God help you,” he mutters, because it seems more polite than calling Jim a fool to his face. “I don’t have a way to keep the boards dry in this rain. Come inside before you catch something. The weather will ease eventually.”

*

Once the rain stops, it takes the rest of the day to patch up the holes in Jim’s house, shuffling around together in an attic that’s filled with nothing but dust and cobwebs.

For what it's worth, Jim’s good with his hands. He knows where the boards should go, how to fit them into place and hold them steady while Dustin hammers in new nails.

His hands may be unmarred, the hands of a man who uses more brain than brawn, but it’s clearly not the first work he’s done and Dustin wonders what else might take him by surprise about him.

When the sun starts to dip below the horizon, Jim disappears downstairs and returns carrying a tray of cold drinks, fresh bread, and cheese. There’s also a small slice of pie that Dustin assumes is a bonus for him.

“I was meant to have a shipment of wood already,” Jim tells him. “I didn’t want to be a burden on anyone, but it’s been delayed. I can repay you for the boards and your time, or I can give you new boards as replacements — whatever you find acceptable.”

Dustin shakes his head as he takes a long draw of water. “I offered to help,” he says, wiping at his mouth.

“You didn’t offer to provide free materials. It’s not cheap.”

At least Jim’s aware of that, Dustin thinks, taking a mouthful of bread and cheese, but he shakes his head again. “It’s fine.”

“What about an exchange of time?” Jim suggests. “I’ll give my time in return for the time you’ve given already.”

Dustin almost laughs aloud. “Your time? What would I do with your time?”

“I don’t know,” Jim tells him honestly. “What about with your cattle?”

Dustin chews thoughtfully, wondering if it’ll even be worth the effort. He’s managed alone just fine, but with spring looming, it’s tempting.

“It’s almost calving season,” Dustin muses aloud and Jim’s expression doesn’t change, but in a way that it’s obvious Jim’s forcing himself not to react. Dustin would bet that Jim’s never seen a birth, let alone been elbow deep in placenta.

“I don’t think I’d be much help.”

Dustin shrugs. “I can teach you. It’s valuable knowledge. I mostly just need another pair of hands.”

“That would be another favor I’d owe.”

Dustin lets out a huff of laughter. “Keep a tally. We’ll settle it another day.”

Jim watches him silently for a moment. “The pie is for you,” he admits eventually.

“See,” Dustin says easily, “we’re already even again.”

Jim smiles like he doesn’t mean to. “It’s good.”

“That so?”

Jim nods. “Best apology ever.”

Dustin snorts. “How many apologies have you received?”

“This is the first,” Jim admits and Dustin laughs outright.

“The first and the best?”

"Something like that," Jim agrees.

Dustin eats a forkful of pie and nods in approval. “You’re right — it’s a damn good apology. If I'd tried making it myself, you would've considered it another assault attempt.”

Jim lets out a breath of laughter. “You're being hard on yourself.”

“No,” Dustin says, shaking his head. “I'm not kidding. I can't cook for shit. I can make a stew and that’s about it.”

“Enough to get by,” Jim points out and Dustin nods and shrugs because Jim is right.

The sound of rain starts up again, tapping rhythmically against the roof, and Dustin scoops the last of the pie into his mouth and sets the plate aside.

“How many more leaks need fixing?”

“There’s one last one in the back,” Jim tells him. “I have a bucket catching the water right now.”

Dustin nods and internally lets out a sigh of relief. “You’ll have a leak-free home tonight, but you’ll need to go up on the roof in summer and patch it properly. This is only a temporary fix.”

Jim exhales, like the thought alone is too much, but nods in understanding. “Thanks,” he says, “for everything.”

“It’s what neighbors are for.”

“Well, we didn’t have neighbors this kind back in the city.”

Dustin can’t help but take satisfaction in that and nods like he already knows it to be true. “They make ‘em differently out here.”

Jim snorts gently. “Maybe,” he says, but his gaze lingers on Dustin.

Dustin blinks and looks away. “C’mon,” he says, “this roof won’t fix itself.”

*

“You can ride a horse, right?” Dustin asks as he brings Pepper to a halt outside the fenceline of Jim’s garden, two weeks after helping with the house.

Jim’s hunched over, pulling weeds from the dirt, his hands caked with filth, but he draws himself up to his full height at the sound of Dustin’s voice, brushing his palms against his thighs.

His face is beet red, not made for the sun.

“Sure,” he replies, but Dustin laughs.

“I’m not buying what you’re selling.”

Jim frowns. “I can ride.”

“When’s the last time you did?” Dustin asks and Jim’s frown deepens like maybe Dustin makes a good point. “I have a gift from Mabel in town.”

Jim rests his hands on his hips. “Mabel?”

“She runs the butcher shop with her husband Atif. She heard you didn’t have a horse.” The look Jim gives him makes it clear he knows that Dustin’s the only way she would’ve known that. “She had one she doesn’t have much use for.”

He gestures to the horse ponied to Pepper and Jim moves closer.

“It’s certainly a horse,” Jim grunts, like he doesn't know what else to say, and the laugh escapes Dustin before he can stop it. The corner of Jim’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “What do I call her?”

He moves close enough to smooth a hand down her neck and across her shoulder.

“It’s a horse,” Dustin jokes. "She won’t answer no matter what you call her.”

Jim stares at him unimpressed and Dustin caves.

“Mabel calls her Sugar.”

Running his palm down her nose, Jim watches her, looking slightly enraptured. “Hi, Sugar.”

“Mabel’s son will deliver grain and hay tomorrow. I brought enough for her for now,” he says, gesturing to the saddle packs draped over Sugar's shoulders.

Jim shakes his head slowly. “I can’t repay all that.”

“Mabel would be offended if you even tried,” Dustin tells him, leaning on the horn of his saddle. It’s an easier lie than telling Jim he settled everything himself. “The magistrate used to grow sunflowers here and bring her bouquets in the summer. Grow her something if it'll help you sleep at night.”

Jim pauses like he’s still not particularly happy with the answer, maybe wants to do more, but eventually he nods.

“Welcome to small town living,” Dustin jokes. “The kindness will drive you mad.”

“You’re one of the worst offenders so far,” Jim grunts and Dustin laughs.

“I’m still trying to apologize.”

“You’ve done more than apologize,” Jim tells him, sounding earnest as he takes his hat off and fans himself with it. “But for the record, you had every right to do that. I was on your property.”

“It was an accident.”

Jim shrugs and sets his hat back into place. “Sheriff Remsburg warned me you were out here.”

Dustin can’t help but laugh. “He warned you?”

“Said you’d been out here alone for a long while.”

“You must’ve been expecting some crazed mountain man,” Dustin says with a snort.

“Immediately waving a gun around didn’t help your cause.”

“I think I’m even more impressed now that you tried running.”

“I panicked,” Jim admits. “I assumed you probably wouldn’t want to shoot me in the back.”

Jim’s right.

“Doesn’t seem fair,” Dustin tells him and Jim nods.

“You still left your mark,” Jim admits, lifting the hem of his shirt just enough to show off a yellowing rope-shaped bruise across his hip.

Dustin winces in sympathy. “And that’s why I still feel the need to apologize and help out where I can.”

“You already helped.”

“Maybe,” Dustin shrugs, “but I draw the line at teaching people how to ride.”

Jim lets out a breath of laughter and shakes his head. “I do know how to ride. It’s just been a while.”

That’s good news for both of them.

“Sugar is easy going,” Dustin says. “If she throws you and breaks your back, just drag your way to my place. I'll find your body eventually.”

Jim stares at him for a moment before seeming to realize he’s joking. "Thanks."

It's a deadpan response that makes Dustin laugh.

"You’ll survive," he promises and Jim shrugs as he carefully unties Sugar from the back of Dustin’s saddle.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “I’ll go put her in the barn. Give her time to settle and get to know the place.”

“I’ve heard she’s easy to bribe. A couple of apples and she’ll be your friend.”

“Understandable,” Jim tells him. “I’ve done something similar just for a pie.”

“You two will have something to talk about.”

Jim shakes his head, but Dustin catches his smile before he turns away and begins leading Sugar in the direction of his barn. Dustin watches him go for a moment, but eventually nudges at Pepper’s sides and turns her back onto the road that’ll lead him home.

“See you later,” he calls out and Jim raises a hand in acknowledgement, but doesn’t turn to see him leave.

*

During the second week of spring, Dustin takes Jim out to his herd. He does a remarkable job at looking comfortable on Sugar, using one hand to guide her, the other resting easily on his thigh.

It’s a low bar, but Dustin’s impressed.

“We’re not here to help them all,” Dustin says as they’re rounding the last hill after a long, quiet ride to his back pastures where the cattle are grazing. “Nature will take care of most.”

“Seems pessimistic,” Jim grunts and Dustin looks over, realizing that Jim has misunderstood him.

“That’s not — ” he starts, shaking his head. “I mean that nature is good at what she does. Most of these cows will have easy births. We won’t need to interfere.”

“Doesn’t look easy,” Jim mutters, gesturing with a tip of his head toward a lone cow lying under a tree. She’s in the throws of labor, but the feet and nose are free and she seems calm enough from Dustin’s experience.

Dustin shrugs, because he doesn’t know how to convince Jim. “She’s doing well. Watch.”

With a half dozen more pushes, the calf slips free and the noise Jim makes in response is enough to make Dustin laugh. The cow turns and starts cleaning the calf, who’s sprawled out, clearly shocked by its introduction to the world, and Dustin knows he was right. They’re both fine.

“Too much for a city boy?”

“I’ve never — ” Jim admits, his expression still aghast. “I’m fine. I can still help.”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” Dustin says with a grin and Jim looks away.

“How can you tell if you need to help?” he asks and Dustin shrugs.

“Read their body language.”

“But they’re cows.”

Dustin glances over to see if Jim’s joking, but he’s frowning thoughtfully.

“So pretend they’re human. Look,” he points toward another lone cow, but this one is stomping the ground, tail swishing, grunting and clearly agitated. “She’s uncomfortable.”

He urges Pepper forward so he can get a closer look and doesn’t like what he sees. There’s something coming out of her, but it’s not feet. It’s most likely a breech.

He hops off without a thought, rolling his sleeves up and sparing a glance toward Jim. “Get rope ready.”

“Rope?” Jim asks, but Dustin’s too busy concentrating to answer.

The cow tries to kick out at him at first, anxious and upset, but Dustin has experience on his side. He keeps close to her, one hand smoothing along her flank, the other he uses to reach inside and gently adjust the calf.

“I have to reposition him,” he says, trying his best to find the back legs, timing his movements with the cow’s contractions to avoid crushing his arm.

“Like that?” Jim asks, clearly aghast and Dustin laughs.

“How else do you suggest I do it?”

Jim doesn’t respond to that and Dustin feels hope when the calf finally dips forward, the back legs coming up easily as Dustin tugs.

“I need a loop of rope,” Dustin says as he pulls the feet free, glancing over his shoulder.

“What kind?” Jim asks and Dustin lets out an exasperated noise.

“Jim,” he complains and Jim grunts.

“Here,” Jim fires back and Dustin reaches back in time to catch the rope Jim tosses in his direction.

He hooks it around the hocks of the calf and pulls it tight.

“Loop it around the horn of your saddle and keep it steady,” Dustin orders, watching as Jim does exactly that. “Back Sugar up slowly. Keep her calm.”

Jim nods and gently pulls on the reins.

Dustin’s heart feels like it’s in his throat as the calf begins to slip loose, but the cow is cooperative and Sugar moves gently enough that in a few short minutes it slips free.

Dustin knows he has to work fast. As a breech birth, it’s possible that the calf may already be dead. It depends how long it’s been stuck. But he still has to try.

He rubs at it with his hands, trying to massage the life back into it while wiping away the worst of the mess it’s covered in. The calf still doesn’t move and doesn’t seem to be breathing either. Carefully, he wipes at the calf’s muzzle, using his fingers to clear out its nose, but he can’t will the calf to live. It has to do that itself.

He loosens the rope from around the calf’s legs and sits back on his heels, waiting, barely daring himself to breathe.

Finally, the calf shifts, drawing in a shaky breath and Dustin drops onto his ass in relief.

“Holy shit,” he exhales before letting out a exhausted kind of laugh. “Wasn’t so hard, huh?”

It’s just a joke, but when he turns to look at Jim, Jim’s watching him like maybe he’s underestimated Dustin.

“You’re good at that.”

Dustin shrugs easily. “Like I said, I’ve been doing this for a few years now. You city folk may not think we’re much out here, but we get by.”

Jim doesn’t answer, but he watches Dustin push himself to his feet and swing back up into the saddle.

“C’mon,” Dustin tells him. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

*

Dustin’s exhausted by the time they reach his barn again. They only lost one calf, which is better than he expected, and it turns out Jim's a quick learner.

There's hope for him yet.

"Come in for stew," Dustin orders, knowing if he gives Jim a choice, he'll politely decline.

"It's late," Jim tries anyway, but still guides Sugar into the stall next to Pepper's own, pulling off her tack like he may have practiced in his free time.

Dustin fills an extra water for her and splits a flake of alfalfa between the two mares as a treat, patting Pepper's rump as he turns to leave.

Jim follows him into the house, kicking off his boots just inside the doorway, like it’ll make a difference, like there isn’t already a layer of dust and dirt over everything Dustin owns. Dustin keeps his boots on, stomps his way over to the stove and lights it before he hangs up his hat and shucks his duster, tossing it toward his bed — though it misses and crumples in a pile that he doesn’t bother to fix.

His house is small compared to Jim’s, but he refuses to feel self conscious about it. It’s enough for him. He doesn’t need more.

Though it certainly feels small when he’s shuffling around Jim to put water on the stove for them to wash their hands.

“Really gets under the nails,” Dustin tries to joke, handing Jim the soap — the good stuff he got from town to try to attempt not smelling like cattle his whole life.

Jim washes his hands in silence, accepting the towel Dustin offers him to dry himself, and then collapses in the nearest chair as though too exhausted to do anything else.

Dustin laughs as he moves the basin of water aside, to dispose of outside later. “They don’t have fun like this in the city, huh?”

He places a pot of stew on the stove to reheat and gives it a stir and a sniff. He’d made it two days ago, so it should still taste fine. He hopes.

“Just because things are different doesn’t mean they’re bad,” Jim says, surprising Dustin, who drops into the seat opposite him, kicks his feet up on the table, and grabs his tin of pre-rolled cigarettes.

“Oh yeah?”

“You keep talking about the city like it’s a bad thing,” Jim explains, shaking his head when Dustin offers him a smoke. “It’s just different from what you know.”

Dustin leans back in his chair, placing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it. He takes a long pull and then exhales smoke to one side, away from Jim. “What do you think I know?”

Jim shrugs. “I have no idea. I know nothing about you.”

Dustin raises his eyebrows. “You’re making it sound like a bad thing.”

“You’re my neighbor,” Jim says like it’s an explanation. “I should know something.”

“You know my name,” Dustin jokes, but Jim doesn’t laugh.

“I don’t even know your family name,” Jim points out and Dustin frowns when he realizes Jim’s right.

“It’s Howard,” Dustin tells him. “My family is from Kentucky.”

Jim perks up at that. “You’re not from here?”

“This whole town is built from outsiders wanting a better life — whatever that means. We’re all from somewhere else. You’re not special.”

Jim blinks. “I didn’t think I was.”

“Most of us are educated, too. It’s not much, but they have classes a few times a month for those who want them. I can read and write as good as any of you city folk.”

“Well,” Jim says and Dustin scoffs.

“Well what?”

“It’s well, not good. You can read and write as well as any of us city folk.”

Taken aback by Jim’s audacity, Dustin says nothing at all, just openly stares. Jim watches him in return, his body tensed like he half expects Dustin to kick him out of the house.

“You son of a bitch,” Dustin says eventually, a laugh escaping before he can stop it. “You goddamn son of a bitch. Who raised you?”

The problem is that when Dustin starts laughing, he can’t stop, but across from him, Jim slowly relaxes, a smile breaking out as though finally realizing Dustin’s not offended.

“I spend the day teaching you valuable life skills, I’m about to feed you, and I was going to suggest you stay on a cot here tonight, and you’re sitting there insulting me?”

“I corrected you,” Jim tells him. “If you’re insulted by a correction, that’s your own problem.”

Dustin laughs again, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette and shaking his head as though stunned. “That’s the last thing I ever tell you, Cipps.”

“No, please,” Jim pleads, laughing with him. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“So you can correct me some more?” Dustin asks. “No thank you.”

“I won’t say a word,” Jim promises and places a hand over his mouth.

Dustin takes one last draw of his cigarette and stubs it out. Glancing over at Jim, he drags his feet off the table, standing up as he says, “Your mother would be ashamed.”

Jim drops his hand as he laughs and Dustin grins, shaking his head again as he moves to stir the stew on the stove now that it’s starting to boil.

Too hungry to wait any longer, Dustin splits it between two bowls, adds a slice of fresh bread, and sets them on the table. Before he sits back down, he grabs two glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey he keeps for special occasions.

Jim accepts both the food and drink eagerly, fingers pulling apart the bread, a mouthful halfway to his lips before he pauses.

“Do you want to say grace?” he asks and Dustin laughs.

“If God blessed this house, I wouldn’t have a shoulder with a hole in it.”

Jim regards him for a moment before seeming to realize it’s the only answer Dustin is going to give him and stuffs the bread into his mouth, following it up with a spoonful of stew.

He chews quickly, like it’s probably burning his mouth and Dustin looks down, starting to eat his own food.

“Thought you said you couldn't cook,” Jim says after a few mouthfuls. “Tastes okay to me.”

Dustin blows out a breath and takes a swig of whiskey. “You've been wrangling calves all day. I think you'd eat just about anything right now.”

Jim grunts, like maybe he's wrong, but shrugs like maybe he's right.

Dustin hides his smile behind his glass.

“What about you?” Dustin asks after a moment and Jim looks up, but doesn’t stop eating.

“What about me?”

“I don’t know anything about you either,” Dustin points out and Jim chews, perhaps thinking.

“You know my family name,” Jim teases. “You know my uncle owned the old house. You know I’m from the city. What more could you want to know?”

Dustin shrugs, wondering if it was maybe stupid to ask. He doesn’t know what he wants to know anyway. He’s never had real friends before as an adult. Not that he thinks Jim is a friend, he just — he doesn’t know. He’s so out of his depths. There’s just something about Jim that makes him want to try.

“What’s your favorite food,” Dustin asks, feeling lame, but Jim smiles around his spoon, eyes bright.

He chews, swallows, and says, “Stew.”

Dustin snorts. “Yeah, funny.”

“I’m serious!” Jim admits. “It’s quick, it’s easy, it’s delicious. Yours is nice.”

“Nice,” Dustin says blandly and Jim laughs.

“It’s not as good as my mom’s,” he explains. “But it’s nice.”

Dustin does feel a little better about it. No one can out-cook a parent.

“Thanks,” Dustin grunts and Jim smiles.

“What about you?”

Dustin scratches at his beard and then mops up the remains of his stew with his bread. “Apple and cinnamon pancakes.”

Jim’s eyebrows dart toward his hairline in apparent surprise. “You’re a sweet man.”

“I try to be,” Dustin jokes and under the table, Jim kicks him gently.

“I mean you prefer sweet to savory.”

"I suppose," he admits. "I don't get it often so it actually feels like a treat."

Jim nods like it makes sense and takes a large gulp of his whiskey, apparently trying to catch up with Dustin who's already poured himself a second glass.

He blinks as he swallows, like maybe he's made a mistake, and Dustin laughs.

"Strong, huh?"

Jim coughs once and looks at Dustin with wet eyes. "Yep."

Dustin laughs again. "Drink up. It'll help with the aches. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself."

Jim smiles and drains the rest of his cup, continuing to surprise Dustin in every way possible.

"I'll take your word for it."

Dustin nudges his empty bowl aside, half afraid to send it clattering to the floor as he reaches across, eager to refill Jim's glass.

The more Jim drinks, the more red his cheeks turn, and Dustin wonders if any other parts of him flush that nicely. Which is precisely how Dustin knows he's had too much to drink.

It's from being alone for too long, he reasons. Jim's just the first person to want to sit and get to know him.

"Are you married?" Jim asks as Dustin sets their dishes aside to wash later.

Dustin adds another log to the stove and glances over his shoulder at Jim incredulously. "Does it look like I'm married?"

Jim snorts so loudly that Dustin thinks he should be offended. "Some people have wives elsewhere. Maybe back in Kentucky."

"No," Dustin says, sitting back down across from him, their knees briefly knocking together. "No, I'm not married. Are you?"

Jim grins and shakes his head and Dustin doesn't know what that means. "Don't know if I'm a marriage kind of guy."

Dustin understands. It's never interested him either. He traces a finger around the rim of his glass, making it hum quietly.

"If you change your mind, there are a few eligible daughters in town. They'd make good wives for you."

"It doesn't seem fair to marry them and drag them back to New Jersey," Jim says and, weirdly, Dustin's stomach sinks at the reminder that Jim won't be staying long.

A year will pass quickly when they're busy.

Dustin drains the last of his drink but doesn't refill it. He's clearly had enough for one night.

They sit in silence for a moment, the only noise of the fire popping quietly, but eventually Jim clears his throat.

Not looking up from the table, he asks, "What happened to your shoulder?"

Dustin reaches up toward it without thinking, an ache radiating out across his body as he remembers how it had felt that day.

"It's where I was shot by the cattle rustlers," he admits and Jim looks up, intrigued.

He doesn't know why he does it, the scar is ugly, marring his shoulder with silvery lines and splotches; it should make any normal person sick at the sight. But he unfastens the first two buttons of his shirt and pulls the collar down enough to show Jim anyway.

Jim leans forward in his chair, arm extending out like he might try to touch, before he seems to think better of it and drops it back down to his side.

"They got you good," he says, eyes glued to Dustin's skin, and Dustin nods.

"Took a few years off my life, for sure."

He pulls his collar back up, but doesn't rebutton his shirt. It's warm in the cabin now anyway.

"They busted down my door," Dustin tells him, remembering the crack of wood as it had splintered and given way. "There were four of them and I never stood a chance."

Jim swallows. "Did someone from town find you out here?"

Dustin frowns at him. "No, I rode to the doctor."

"While shot?" Jim asks incredulously and Dustin frowns harder.

"What choice did I have? I wasn't going to let them kill me."

"That must've taken a lot of strength," Jim says, and looks at Dustin almost appreciatively.

Dustin doesn't tell him that he had passed out halfway there and Pepper had wandered on just far enough for someone to see and get him the rest of the way into town.

"I don't recommend it," Dustin deadpans, just to see Jim laugh, which he does, before punctuating it with a wide yawn.

Dustin snorts and Jim has the decency to look embarrassed.

"I'm sorry to bore you with my near death experience."

"That's not — " Jim starts, laughing again like he can't help it. "This is a dangerous combination."

He gestures at the table, meaning the food and drink, and Dustin completely understands.

He worries that if he blinks too slowly, he'll just fall asleep right then and there.

"You worked hard today," Dustin says and Jim shakes his head.

"Not as hard as you."

"It's not a competition," Dustin reminds him. "Everything is relative."

Jim snorts. "Are you saying I don't work hard every day?"

"If that's how you want to interpret it, who am I to stop you?"

Jim tosses his head back and laughs, and Dustin stares at his throat and decides he wants to put mouth-shaped bruises across it.

He needs to go to sleep before he ruins something else in his life.

"Do you want that cot, or not?" he asks, carefully standing up as the room wobbles just enough to make him grip the edge of the table.

Jim looks up at him through pale eyelashes. "God, yes," he says, and Dustin knows he's in trouble.

So much trouble.

*

It’s late spring when Dustin next rides past Jim’s place on the way back from town.

Jim has his garden up and going, his rows neat, like maybe there’s something he does know about country living. It’s too early to tell what anything is yet, just tiny green shoots sprouting upwards, but the soil is damp and well tended-to.

Next to the house, there are a couple of barrels, most likely for collecting rainwater for the dry days.

Halfway up a ladder, Jim’s efficiently stripping vines from the side of the house, his bare shoulders flexing in the sun, skin pink, already beginning to burn.

“Howdy, neighbor,” Dustin calls out, but Jim must’ve heard him coming because he doesn’t startle.

He finishes ripping down the vines in his hand and turns, sitting on the next rung down, not seeming at all fazed about the height.

“Hey, yourself,” he says, wiping his brow with his forearm, and Dustin very pointedly tries not to stare too obviously. Jim has the kind of body he’d expect to see in a painting. He briefly forgets what he was about to say.

“I, uh, haven’t seen you in a while. How are you doing out here?”

“Surviving,” Jim tells him, but he looks tired, like the hard work is getting to him.

Pepper tugs on her reins, impatient, and Dustin gives her some slack and lets her munch on the wild oats around her feet.

“Need a hand with anything?”

Jim’s expression tightens, like he does, but can’t bring himself to admit to anything.

After a moment, he pushes himself back to his feet and climbs down the ladder.

When he’s standing just a few feet away from Dustin, it’s easy to see the freckles on his shoulders, brought to life by the sun.

“I think I’ve been conned,” Jim says bluntly and Dustin leans on the horn of his saddle, knowing whatever it is, it’ll be a good story.

“How’s that?”

“Greg had some sheep,” Jim starts, and Dustin immediately laughs, knowing exactly what Jim’s about to say. Jim narrows his eyes, like maybe he thinks Dustin’s in on it, but Dustin holds up his hands in supplication.

“How many?” Dustin asks and can’t tell if it’s the sun or shame that makes Jim’s face go red.

“Fifty.”

“How many sheep does Greg still have?”

Jim folds his arms, clearly not amused, but Dustin appreciates the swell of his biceps. “None,” Jim grunts eventually.

“And how many sheep do you now own?”

Dustin’s too busy laughing to hear Jim’s answer, but he can see it in his posture, in the lines on his face. Jim now owns fifty sheep.

“Greg has been trying to pawn those off onto some schmuck for almost a year now,” Dustin tells him when he finally calms.

“Schmuck,” Jim repeats as though to be sure.

Dustin shoots him a look because there's only one reason why Jim would end up with the herd, and it’s not because of his good looks.

“Greg has always talked about his dream to travel the states,” Dustin admits. “Maybe he'll actually go now. Jesus, what the hell are you gonna do with four dozen sheep? They won’t fit out here.”

Jim blanches like he hasn’t got that far in his stages of panic. “God, I need to tell him I can't take them.”

Dustin blows out a breath, but eventually shakes his head, thinking. “You can put them with my cows. There’s enough space and they’ll keep to themselves.”

“I don’t even know where to begin with sheep,” Jim says, like it’s any surprise.

“If you shear them, the wool will be popular in these areas. You might even turn a profit. I know a guy who can teach you.”

What Dustin means is that he’ll have to call in a favor via letter to someone two towns over. It’ll be a headache, but if it keeps Jim from losing his mind, it might be worth it.

“I can pay a boarding fee for them,” Jim tells him, but Dustin shrugs.

“Keep your money,” he says. “You can help me with herd checks. It needs to be done every few days, but if there's a morning I don't want to get up, you'll do it yourself. That’s the payment.”

Jim nods as though it's not even a choice, which Dustin supposes it isn't. Jim's getting a good deal out of it.

Jim holds his hand out and Dustin leans down to take it in his own, shaking firmly.

“Deal,” Jim says, and that’s that.

*

“Let yourself in!” Dustin calls out, a month or so into their arrangement, and it’s been working well so far.

Jim ducks inside, rain dripping off the brim of his hat, already soaked in a way that doesn’t bode well.

“Eugh,” Dustin says into his mug, reaching back toward the stove and tossing Jim a hand towel. He watches as Jim dries his face and the back of his neck and then hangs it on the nearest chair, ever the polite boy.

“It’s raining,” Jim says bluntly and Dustin snorts.

“Coffee?”

Jim nods and gestures for Dustin to stay where he’s sitting, moving around the kitchen area, already knowing where Dustin keeps his spare mugs. Sometimes this is how they spend their mornings now. They’ll share coffee or some kind of tea Jim’s picked up in town that week, and they’ll enjoy it before riding out into the fields.

It’s not anything Dustin’s ever experienced before.

Some mornings, they don’t even talk. They just share a companionable silence, and Dustin likes that too.

He’s never met anyone like Jim, who sits and cups his mug like he’s always trying to warm up his hands. Who will blow across the top of his drink and stare out Dustin’s window like it’s even a view worth looking at.

He looks like he belongs, and Dustin doesn’t know what to do with that.

“The rain shouldn't last much longer,” Dustin says as Jim sits beside him. “The dry season is coming.”

“Can't come soon enough,” Jim grunts and Dustin laughs.

“You say that now, but summer will crisp you up something proper, little red shepherd.”

Jim grunts and glances at Dustin over the top of his mug, like he’s barely holding back from saying something. Eventually, he takes a sip of his coffee and Dustin grins, considering it a win.

*

Dustin may spend a lot of time by himself, but he doesn’t often get a lot of time for himself. With Jim helping with the herd, he gets to enjoy a handful of quiet mornings to himself.

One day when Jim swings by just after dawn, Dustin is already sitting on the porch, working his way through a bowl of oatmeal.

Jim pulls Sugar to a halt just a few feet away and Dustin grins.

“Guess I’m going alone today,” he says as Dustin takes another mouthful, smiling around his spoon.

“Guess so,” he agrees as he chews and Jim rolls his eyes, but doesn’t actually complain, most likely because he’s still getting the better end of their deal.

He nudges his heels into Sugar’s ribs and Dustin watches them, quietly chewing, until they disappear from view.

*

Another day, Dustin doesn’t even get out of bed when Jim knocks. He waits for Jim to crack open the door and then leans up on one elbow.

“Not today,” he grunts, immediately flopping back onto his mattress and rolling over.

He hears Jim’s soft sigh, but doesn’t hear the creak of the door pulling shut before he’s asleep again.

*

It’s three weeks later and raining the next time Dustin decides not to help with the herd. To be honest, Dustin isn’t thinking about the herd at all.

He wakes up hard and in a certain kind of mood. He’s a hot-blooded man. It’s not unheard of.

It feels good to kick the sheets away, the cool air hitting him as he impatiently shoves his sleep pants down. He slicks his hand with the oil he keeps beside his bed and strokes himself, quick and ruthless, too eager to take his time.

The rain on the roof is loud, enough so that it drowns out the voice in his head. The voice that tells him that there are better ways to spend his time, that it’s a sinful act that will send him directly to a hell he doesn’t believe in, that he absolutely should not be imagining a soft pink mouth around his cock and short blond hair under his palm.

He leaks freely over his knuckles, hips bucking up against his own fist.

It’s not right to think about Jim. It’s not fair on Jim, but all Dustin can think about is Jim in his bed, Jim rolling onto his stomach as easy as anything, offering up what Dustin wants to take. He thinks about how Jim’s back would flex under his hands, how he would sound moaning Dustin’s name, begging for more.

He thinks about how he could spunk inside of Jim without worry, and maybe afterwards he’d put Jim on his back and use his hand on him. He could watch Jim fall apart. He’d probably look real pretty under Dustin, all flushed up, biting his lip, holding Dustin’s gaze as he finally spilled between them.

Dustin shivers, a chill ghosting over him as he spreads his legs, his free hand nudging up under his shirt. If he shuts his eyes, he can almost imagine it’s Jim touching him.

“Dustin,” Jim murmurs and Dustin’s so close, balancing on the edge.

“Jim, like that,” he begs as the chill grows heavier.

“Dustin?”

Jim’s voice sounds louder now, less like it’s in his head, and Dustin opens his eyes, turning to look toward his door.

Jim’s standing there, hat in his hands, jaw slack in surprise.

Dustin comes even as he’s reaching for his sheets to try to cover himself. The noise he lets out is ragged and embarrassed and he watches as Jim scrambles to leave, finally seeming to realize what’s happening.

His whole body aches, pleasure and embarrassment winding together until he can’t tell the two apart.

He gasps for breath, wiping his hand on his sheets and he shoves himself out of bed, tugging his pants up. He doesn’t bother fastening them, just holds them at the hip and scrambles for the door.

Outside, Jim is already on Sugar, turning and kicking her on toward the trail that will lead him to their herds. His shoulders are tight and Dustin should call out and urge Jim to come back so that he can explain or apologize or something. But he can’t find his voice.

Instead, he stands on the porch, feeling shaky and terrified that he’s messed everything up, as per usual.

He watches Jim go, his body cold and mood soured.

*

Dustin's outside on Pepper, his stomach in knots, waiting for Jim when it's time for the next herd check. He half expects Jim not to show, scared off or disgusted by Dustin and what he’d seen — possibly also what he’d heard.

He refuses to stare down the road for any signs of Jim, knowing it won’t help, and just when he’s thinking about leaving and doing the herd check alone, there’s the steady sound of Sugar’s hooves on the dirt.

“Morning,” Jim says, sounding the same as any other day, except that when Dustin looks over, he can’t quite seem to hold his gaze.

“Morning,” Dustin grunts back and figures it’s better than he ever could’ve expected. It’s more than he deserves, that’s for sure. “Ready?”

“No coffee today?” Jim asks, even as the horses fall into step beside each other on the trail, but it takes Dustin by surprise.

Honestly, he didn’t think Jim would ever want to step inside his house again. He grunts, noncommittally, and Jim doesn’t push it.

After a few minutes of silence, Jim says, “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

Dustin’s stomach clenches in anticipation, his blood running cold.

This is it, he thinks. The end of everything good.

“My parents are coming into town,” Jim says. “Will you have dinner with us?”

Out of all the things Jim ever could’ve said, this is what takes Dustin by surprise the most. It feels like he almost breaks his neck with how quickly he turns to stare at Jim.

“What?” he asks, while Jim continues to avoid his stare, like it’s not Dustin he was ever ashamed about, but his own request.

“I got a letter,” Jim explains. “They want to see the progress on the house. They’ll be here next week.”

“You want me to meet them?”

Jim looks off into the trees, but even from an angle, Dustin can see there’s a pink tinge to his face.

“You don’t have to if you don't want to,” Jim tells him, a hint of attitude in his voice that actually makes Dustin smile.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to,” Dustin points out. “I’m just saying — ”

“It’ll be Thursday, next week,” Jim interrupts. “Either show up or don’t — it doesn’t matter.”

“Sounds like it does,” Dustin jokes after a moment, and Jim finally looks at him, clear annoyance on his face.

“I’d like you to be there,” he admits abruptly, looking away again, and a strange kind of numbness washes over Dustin, because somehow after everything, Jim isn’t running for the hills. He's doing the opposite and inviting Dustin into his home.

Dustin hasn’t messed everything up and he’s somehow been given a second chance.

He swallows, watching Jim, whose face is still flushed, his complexion never letting him keep secrets. “I’ll be there.”

Jim glances over, somehow seeming surprised by Dustin’s answer. “You will?”

“You just said you wanted me to.”

“Doesn’t mean you need to do something,” Jim points out and Dustin shrugs.

“I’ll be there,” he repeats and Jim shuts his mouth and looks away again.

“Thank you,” he says quietly and Dustin grunts.

With just a few words, the weight has been lifted off of Dustin and it feels like he can breathe again.

He sneaks another look at Jim, how flustered he still seems, and smiles to himself.

*

Dustin adjusts his bolo tie for what seems like the millionth time before reaching up to knock on Jim’s door.

The cicadas are loud, the heart of summer drawing in, and he’s so unfathomably nervous that he almost feels like joining in with their screaming.

After a moment, the door opens and Jim appears, smiling, his cheeks pink like he’s been laughing, or perhaps already drinking.

“Hey,” he says easily, leaning on the doorframe, and Dustin swallows thickly. Jim’s smartened up for the occasion — wearing a starched shirt, a bowtie, and some nice gray pants held up with suspenders — and Dustin finds his mouth drying out.

“Hi,” he replies woodenly, feeling off-guard as Jim runs his gaze down him.

“Well, you look — ” Jim says, but doesn’t finish the thought.

Dustin clears his throat. “Ridiculous?” he suggests, reaching out to hand Jim the nice bottle of wine he’d picked up from town especially for the occasion. Dustin may not go to many dinners, but he knows how to be polite.

Jim doesn't even seem to notice the bottle in his own hand. “You look good, Dustin.”

Dustin blinks, the words sending a zing of something through Dustin's body. He touches his tie again, nervously, and smooths his hand down the front of his waistcoat.

“Could say the same for you, Cipps,” he admits, which only seems fair.

He reaches out to touch one of Jim's suspenders, thinking about tugging on it to annoy him, but instead grazes his knuckles along it.

The air seems thick between them, and it’s not just the unrelenting humidity.

“James?” a voice calls out from deeper inside the house. “Have you seen your father's glasses?”

Dustin pulls his hand back and raises his eyebrows at Jim, silently mouthing James?

Jim shakes his head slightly, one corner of his mouth curling up.

"No, Ma," he calls out before gesturing with his head for Dustin to step inside. "C'mon, they can't wait to meet you."

Jim isn't lying.

Not that Dustin thinks he is, it's just a little surreal when Jim's mom immediately pulls him into a hug, her head barely reaching his collarbone, her arms tight around him, like the fact that they're still strangers hasn't even crossed her mind.

Dustin folds around her, quietly missing his own family.

When she eventually pulls away, Jim's father steps in to shake his hand firmly and slap him on the shoulder.

"It's good to meet you, son," he says. "James has told us all you've done to help. You're a generous man."

"We have to help our own out here, y'know?" he says, tongue feeling too big for his mouth.

Jim talks about him. Jim talks about him to his parents.

"You've been raised well," Mrs. Cipperly says. "A true Kentucky gentleman."

"I don't know about that," Dustin deflects with a laugh, glancing at Jim. He doesn't know what to do with this sort of kindness. It's overwhelming.

"Ma, Dustin brought wine to go with dinner," Jim says easily, saving Dustin from further compliments. "We should serve up and open it."

And that's exactly what they do.

Dustin finds himself sitting opposite Jim, Mrs. Cipperly refusing to sit anywhere but next to Dustin. Her hand keeps finding the crook of Dustin's arm as she tells him gossip from back home that Dustin doesn't understand, but enjoys listening to nevertheless.

Jim's watching them quietly, mostly hiding his smile behind his wine glass, but under the table, his foot gently taps at Dustin's ankle and Dustin hasn’t quite figured out if it’s on purpose or if he's mistaken it for the leg of the table.

"This is a beautiful roast," Mrs. Cipperly eventually says between mouthfuls. "We don't get meat like this back home."

"It's one from Dustin's herd," Jim tells her and it's true.

They'd processed it a few days after Jim had extended the invitation for dinner. Dustin has the majority of it stored in his icehouse and some curing for jerky.

Dustin feels terrified that it's not enough for Jim's family. Enough of what he's not sure, but his stomach rolls.

"Is there anything you can't do?" Mr. Cipperly asks with a laugh and Dustin takes a much needed gulp of wine.

"I can't sing," he admits, and it's only meant to be a joke, but beside him, Jim's mother inhales loudly.

"Oh, I doubt that's true," she says. "James, put on a record — "

"Ma," Jim interrupts, a small mercy for Dustin. "If you embarrass him, he won't come back."

Mrs. Cipperly looks between them, as though trying to decide if it's a ruse, but eventually she gives in. "I'm sure you have a wonderful voice, Dustin. There's no need to be modest."

Under the table, Jim's foot taps a new beat against Dustin's ankle — definitely on purpose — and when Dustin looks over, there's an easy smile on Jim's face. He looks softer with the crinkles around his eyes, and Dustin almost wants to trace them with his fingers.

Dustin stares down into his plate, his chest feeling tight, and thankfully Jim’s father switches the conversation while Dustin shovels vegetables into his mouth.

“Did you ever see this place before James arrived?” Mr. Cipperly asks, and Dustin glances up, chewing for what feels like an awkwardly long moment before he can finally swallow.

“I did,” Dustin tells him. “Parts of it, at least. I used to help the magistrate.”

“Henry was my brother,” Jim’s mother says and Dustin clears the rest of his mouthful with a sip of wine.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, and means it. “He was well liked here and we miss him.”

She nods politely, but Dustin supposes after two years, she’s probably heard the sentiment too much.

“James will show you around after dinner,” she says, even as Jim sits up, seeming to want to protest.

“Ma,” he says, and she shakes her head.

“You haven’t given us the full tour either, James. We want to see what you’ve done.”

Honestly, Dustin would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. The foyer and kitchen have been repainted, that much Dustin is sure of, just from briefly passing through, but he’d seen the state of the upper levels when he’d helped Jim with his leaks. He wants to know how much has changed.

“It’s not finished yet,” Jim tries and his mother shoots him a soft look.

“We know how hard you’ve worked on this. You’ve always had an eye for architecture. At least let us appreciate it.”

Jim rubs the back of his neck. “Fine,” he relents. “I’m just saying — it’s not all finished yet.”

Dustin finds himself grinning and Jim looks over, rolling his eyes when his mother looks away to talk to his father. Under the table, Dustin pins Jim’s foot, finally stopping it from tapping, but he doesn’t move away, just keeps them held together.

Jim shoots him a small smile and Dustin’s grin widens.

*

“It’s not finished,” Jim reminds them again as he leads them upstairs.

Dustin has had enough wine that he holds onto the railing to keep steady as he follows Jim and his family up to the second floor. The stairs seem less creaky now, and the railing itself has been swapped for a dark oak that’s smooth under Dustin’s palm.

“It’s not much,” Jim says, but Dustin is more than impressed, partly because he doesn’t know when Jim’s found the time and resources to do what he’s done already.

The floors are all new, the planks smooth and even, the walls have all been repainted, and there are new shutters in the windows.

Dustin barely recognizes it as the magistrate’s old home. It’s clean and updated to the kind of professional level Dustin doesn’t expect. Jim’s clearly better with his hands than Dustin has ever given him credit for.

“Jim will make a fortune when he sells this place,” Dustin mutters to Mr. Cipperly as Jim and his mother move on to another room ahead of them.

Mr. Cipperly laughs, like Dustin has told a joke. “James isn’t selling the place.”

For a moment, Dustin thinks he’s misheard. “What?”

“He’s not putting the house up for sale. He’s been talking about staying here himself.”

“He’s staying?” Dustin asks, mouth feeling dry, as he glances over at Jim, who's pointing out the new crown molding he’s added.

Jim’s father shrugs.

“I think he likes it here. I figure we have you to thank for that. You’ve helped him out a lot, beyond what any other neighbor would.”

“I didn’t do that much — ” Dustin starts, but Jim’s father reaches out and sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“We haven’t seen him this happy in a long time. You’re a good man.”

It feels as though he’s been given a blessing he doesn’t deserve. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out and after a moment, Mr. Cipperly pats his shoulder and moves away.

It takes a second for Dustin to follow, but when he steps through into the next room, Jim sidles up to him.

“You okay?” he asks, which probably means Dustin still looks a little shocked.

“I’m fine,” he lies, before trying to deflect. “The place looks good. You should be proud.”

“Oh yeah?” Jim asks with a laugh. “Not bad for a city boy?”

Dustin finds himself smiling, letting himself reach out to touch Jim’s arm. “Yeah, Jim, not bad for a city boy.”

*

“Thanks for coming tonight,” Jim says as Dustin sits on the floor of the foyer to pull on his boots. His hands feel slow and uncoordinated after too much wine and whiskey. He can feel it in the heat of his face, too.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he replies, squinting up at Jim, who laughs.

“Is it a good idea for you to walk home?” Jim asks. “You know you can stay here.”

“Your home is full enough,” Dustin tells him, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen, where he can hear the quiet murmur of Jim’s parents talking. “I’ll be fine. It’ll clear my head.”

“Need company?”

Dustin snorts. “You think a fair maiden like me will get lost?”

Jim’s face scrunches up as he tries not to outright laugh. “I think you’re drunk and you’ll end up in a ditch.”

Dustin holds out a hand, forcing Jim to help pull him to his feet again. “Sounds like you might be worried about me, James.”

Jim huffs, though seems unable to stop mirroring the grin Dustin shoots at him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Your mother picked out that name especially for you, James. Don’t be embarrassed.”

Jim presses a hand to Dustin’s chest, pushing him backward. “Get out of my house,” he tells him, but all he manages to do is pin Dustin up against the screen door, which creaks against Dustin’s weight.

“I’m trying, James.”

Dustin reaches back, blindly finding the handle, as the door gives way suddenly, finally releasing Dustin and sending him stumbling backward, Jim gripping Dustin’s waistcoat and going along for the ride.

It’s still fairly warm outside, though it’s even warmer when Jim presses along his front, laughing as Dustin hits the railing of the porch and grunts loudly.

“You need more help than I do, Jim,” Dustin grumbles as Jim buries his face against Dustin’s shirt and laughs again.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Jim says, after a moment, voice muffled. “It was fun.”

It was terrifying, Dustin doesn’t admit aloud. It had felt so necessary to make a good first impression with Jim’s parents, and although he can’t put a finger on exactly why, he thinks it might have something to do with the way he wants to wind his arms around Jim’s back and keep them pinned together forever.

Carefully, he eases Jim backward, letting him stand on his own two feet.

Jim’s face is flushed, his hair drooping into his eyes — the pristine parting he usually combs into it, now long gone — and Dustin thinks it would be very easy to make a very big mistake.

“I’ll take care of herd checks while your parents are visiting,” Dustin says to distract himself. “You can pick up the slack when they’ve left.”

The fact that Jim doesn’t try to argue shows it’s the right thing to do. It’s hard to move away from family, Dustin knows, and Jim should enjoy every minute he has with them while they’re here.

Slowly, Jim reaches out, his hands warm and steady as they adjust Dustin’s tie, probably straightening it again. After a moment, Jim opens his mouth, closes it, and then says, “Thank you. My parents really like you.”

Dustin scoffs. “Of course they do. All parents like me. Your mother was right, I’m a Kentucky gentleman.”

Jim exhales, not quite a laugh, but close, and pats Dustin’s chest as he takes another step back, leaning one shoulder against the side of the house. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Dustin shoots Jim one last look as he pushes himself away from the porch railing and heads for the stairs. “I will. Goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Howard,” Jim fires back and Dustin doesn’t let himself glance backward as he leaves.

It's safer that way.

*

Jim’s parents leave not long after the summer starts to become unbearable, the heat unrelenting, the afternoon storms barely helping to break the temperature. The back of Dustin’s neck, just under his hair, is constantly wet with sweat now, and he often sleeps with all of his windows open, just to try to create a crossbreeze.

Jim goes red and stays red, and Dustin feels for him. But despite it all, Jim upholds his end of the bargain and takes care of herd checks, giving Dustin valuable time to harvest some of the crops in his garden.

Dustin is on his knees, raking his fingers through the dirt to pull up carrots, when the first gunshot rings out.

He’d thought enough time had passed since his attack for him to be considered fully recovered, but as a second shot rings out, a cold sweat spreads across his body.

By the third shot, he’s on his feet, entirely sure the sounds are coming from over the hill in his fields.

His fields where Jim is currently patrolling.

He drops his carrots and finds himself running in the direction of his barn. If Jim’s been shot, he won’t have long before he bleeds out.

His hands shake as he throws a saddle onto Pepper, tightening the cinch with sharp tugs that he knows she won’t appreciate, but he doesn’t have time to be delicate. He gets a bridle onto her and grabs the shotgun he keeps stashed by the door, tucking it behind the saddle as he pulls himself up.

He sets off at a gallop, guiding Pepper to the trail they both know by heart. Ears pinned forward, she gives Dustin what he asks for — speed and sure footing — and before long, they’re winding downwards, his cattle and Jim's sheep coming into view.

They’re agitated, that much is certain, though he knows Pepper thundering toward them isn’t helping. They’re circling around and although Dustin can’t see any signs of rustlers, he pulls his shotgun free and rides one-handed with it settled across his lap.

“Jim?” he calls out, because he knows stealth isn’t an option now. His yelling isn’t going to give him away. There’s no sneaking on a horse. If there are others out there, they already know he’s there.

The cows and sheep scatter around him as he tries to guess how far Jim would’ve been in his loop of the fields.

Low, on the wind, there’s a whistle and Dustin draws Pepper to a sudden halt.

“Jim?” he yells again and after a moment, there’s another whistle, which sounds like it’s coming from the north.

He nudges Pepper into a trot and guides her off the path and into the field, toward where the treeline starts at the edge of the lake just beyond.

“Jim?” he tries again and finally —

“Dustin?”

Dustin’s heart lodges somewhere in his throat as he pulls roughly on Pepper’s reins, toward the noise.

“Jim? Are you hurt?”

If it was rustlers, there’s no sign of anyone else around. Dustin can’t even see Sugar, but as he finally passes under a low-hanging branch, he sees Jim, flat on his back on the ground.

He slides out of the saddle before he can even pull Pepper to a halt, but he lets her go, trusting her not to wander far. Stowing his shotgun, he runs toward Jim, already imagining the worst.

“Jim?” He kneels beside him, one hand pressing to Jim’s chest as he rakes his gaze over him, trying to assess the damage.

But strangely enough, the first thing Jim does is laugh.

When he spots the blood above Jim's brow, he has the terrifying thought that maybe Jim's had the sense knocked out of himself.

"Jim? I heard gunshots."

"It was a mountain lion," Jim says in a rush, gaze focused only on Dustin.

"A mountain lion? You were attacked?"

It's somehow worse than rustlers, but Jim laughs again.

"No, no, it was stalking the herd," Jim explains, gently turning his face as Dustin cups it between his hands to get a good look at the cut. "I tried to spook it away with my gun, but it wouldn't leave and when I chased it — I don't know. I think I hit a branch because I woke up here."

"Jesus, Jim," Dustin complains. "I heard — and I thought — "

"I'm okay," Jim promises, and it should be enough. It should be enough for Dustin's brain to understand Jim's not hurt.

Jim is real beneath his hands, breathing and alive, but Dustin had been so worried, and it all suddenly comes into focus.

He wants Jim to stay. He wants Jim in his house sharing coffee in the mornings. He wants to ride side by side with him, to check on their herds, even in the pouring rain. He wants Jim in his bed, saying he belongs to no one else but Dustin.

Dustin dips down, self-preservation gone as he kisses Jim, because it's all he can think to do.

Jim is okay and his mouth is soft under Dustin's. The relief hits like a two by four to the back of the head.

He lets out a raw noise, hands tightening on Jim’s face, the adrenaline flooding through his veins, making him want to climb on top of Jim then and there, outside for anyone to see.

And just as suddenly as it starts, Dustin realizes what he’s doing and pulls back. Though he doesn't get far because Jim has a hand on the back of his neck, and his mouth moves against Dustin’s, saying something that Dustin can’t hear over the roaring of blood in his ears.

“What?” he asks and Jim’s eyes look unfathomably blue up close.

"Sugar," Jim repeats and Dustin belatedly realizes it's not a petname. “She bolted.”

Dustin pulls the rest of the way back, sitting on his heels for just a moment before shoving himself to his feet, face hot with shame. He rubs the back of his neck, hating that now he has to live with the knowledge of how it feels to have Jim touch him there.

“Which way?” he asks, taking a step back as Jim reaches out toward him.

“Dustin,” Jim says and then after a second, seems to think better of it and points off to his right. “Last I saw, she went that way.”

Dustin nods. “Wait here,” he orders, though it doesn’t look as though Jim will go far. He’s sitting up, but staring at the ground, a flush high on his cheeks. A flush that Dustin put there.

His stomach rolls uneasily, realization sinking in that he’s put everything between them at risk. He’ll be lucky if Jim even looks at him after this.

He's already been given one second chance. He won't get another.

“I’ll find her,” he promises, and leaves before he can make more bad decisions.

*

Sugar hasn’t wandered far — it’s barely a five minute walk before he finds her, head down, quietly grazing and acting as though nothing has happened.

He pats her shoulder, gaze raking over her to make sure she doesn't have any obvious injuries, before he pulls the reins over her head and clicks with his mouth.

"C'mon," he tells her. "You lost your rider."

By the time he returns, Jim is on his feet, leaning against the nearest tree, dabbing his fingers against his brow and pulling them back to stare at the blood.

"You'll have to clean it when you're home," Dustin tells him. "Don't let it get infected."

He holds Sugar's reins out for him to take, which Jim does, and Dustin hesitates.

"Are you okay to ride home? Your head is — "

Jim shakes his head and gestures loosely. "It aches, but it's fine. I'll survive."

Dustin doesn't doubt that, but he worries. He watches Jim a moment longer, not allowing his gaze to dip down to his mouth, and eventually turns away, moving toward Pepper.

"I'll stay out here a little longer," Dustin tells him, climbing into the saddle. "I'll try to track the mountain lion. The last thing we need is it picking off the herd one by one."

Jim pulls himself up onto Sugar and stares across at Dustin as though he wants to say something. "Be careful," he tells Dustin eventually, and when Dustin nods in acknowledgement, he squeezes his heels into Sugar and sets off without him.

Dustin watches him go and wonders if it'll be the last time Jim ever agrees to be around him.

*

Despite everything, Jim continues the herd checks by himself. Dustin knows this because he hears Sugar’s footsteps plodding past the house every other morning, but Jim never stops and Dustin doesn’t bother to invite him inside for coffee, preferring instead to lick his wounds alone.

Dustin’s out in his yard again — already dripping sweat as he digs up another batch of potatoes — when the thunder starts and he’s hit with the first few drops of rain. He leans on the handle of his garden fork and breaths in the petrichor as it fills the air around him.

It’s almost pleasant as the rain picks up, wetting his shirt against his shoulders, flashes of lightning periodically illuminating his garden through the dark storm clouds overhead. But when his hair is completely stuck to his forehead, water dripping down his nose, and the soil begins to clump unhelpfully, he stabs his fork into the ground and grabs up the bags of potatoes he’s already collected.

Inside, he sets the potatoes in the corner to dry and cure before he stores them and grabs a towel to dry off his face, finding himself drawn to the windows as he wipes down the back of his neck.

He knows Jim must be soaked by now. It won’t be long until the lightning and cracks of thunder force him to give up and head home. If Dustin waits long enough, he’ll most likely see Jim pass by, and maybe it’ll stop the angry rolling of his stomach.

He paces from one window to the other for a few long minutes before he eventually gives up and makes a pitcher of coffee. Under the cover of his porch, he sits heavily in an old wicker chair, balancing his cup on one knee as he waits to confirm that Jim makes it back safely.

It’s what any good friend would do for another, he reasons. It’s not a big deal.

But the way Dustin’s stomach twists at the first sight of Jim making his way down the trail, looking soaked and unhappy — it feels like a big deal after all. Even more so when Jim looks up, his whole expression changing, softening when he notices Dustin.

He pulls Sugar to a halt outside Dustin’s gate, the rain hammering down on him, though he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hi,” he says, and overhead the lightning flashes, immediately followed by a clap of thunder.

Dustin waits for the sound to fade before clearing his throat.

“Coffee?” he asks, a white flag, and Jim offers up a small smile.

“I’ll put Sugar in the barn,” he says without hesitation and Dustin nods and watches him ride across the property.

Picking up his mug, he slips back inside, pouring Jim a coffee and sweetening it the way he prefers, finding himself cleaning up his kitchen, as if Jim would ever care. He’s seen Dustin at his worst. But Dustin can’t stand still, his hands unsteady, and he almost drops the coffee pot as he takes it off the stove when Jim lets himself in, the door slamming behind him.

“Sorry,” Jim apologizes. “The wind caught it.”

But Dustin doesn’t care. He sets the coffee aside and gestures towards the table, where Jim’s cup is waiting for him.

Jim doesn’t look at the coffee, only looks at Dustin, who worries for a second that maybe there’s dirt on his face.

Jim kicks his boots off and hangs up his hat, like he’s planning on staying, and Dustin swallows.

“How’s the herd?” he asks awkwardly and Jim wipes a hand over his own head, pushing his wet hair back, out of his face.

“Fine,” he says, taking a step closer.

The days-old cut on Jim’s face is only noticeable now because his brows are so light in comparison. There’s a bruise spreading out from the edges of it, but it’s already beginning to yellow.

“How’s your head?” Dustin asks, swallowing, needing something in his hands to occupy them.

“Fine,” Jim says, and takes another step closer.

The thunder overhead is so loud it seems to shake the walls of Dustin’s house and Dustin keeps startling at every rumble.

“Do you want a towel?” he asks, though he’s not sure he has another clean one around. He needs to do some washing. “You’re soaked.”

“Yeah, I am,” Jim agrees, and without another word, he pulls the tails of his shirt out of his pants and starts to unbutton it.

Dustin doesn’t know what to do with that, feeling slack-jawed. “Do you — ” he starts before stopping. “I’ll get you a dry shirt.”

He turns away, barely taking a step before Jim says, “Dustin,” in such a commanding tone that Dustin freezes in place, doesn’t even turn around.

The floorboards creak conspicuously and Dustin knows Jim’s moving closer, but he still flinches when Jim touches him, one hand settling on Dustin’s waist, the other on the opposite shoulder.

“Dustin,” Jim repeats, softer this time and his hands guide Dustin around to face him again.

Dustin stares down at him feeling, in all honesty, terrified. Jim's shirtless and so close to his bed that if he stuck his foot out, he could touch the mattress.

"You kissed me," Jim says and Dustin shuts his eyes.

He takes a breath.

"Don't be cruel, Jim," he begs, but the hand on Dustin's shoulder moves to cup his face, Jim's thumb rubbing high up on his cheekbone.

"I — " Jim starts, but then pauses.

The pad of his thumb presses gently at the delicate skin just under Dustin's eye. But there's no warning when Jim drags him down and kisses him, his mouth hot, but confident, like he knows exactly what he wants.

Dustin doesn't know what to do, his whole body tensing in one long line before Jim draws back just as suddenly, his gaze heavy on Dustin.

"Now we're even," Jim tells him, still so close that their breaths mingle.

Dustin's mind is whirring at a million thoughts per second, his eyes darting around Jim's face to try to read his expression. But he looks serious, like it isn't a joke to him.

Jim’s gaze drops down to Dustin’s mouth and Dustin finds himself unconsciously licking his lips, not sure what to expect. But barely a beat later, Jim’s pulling them back together, like one taste wasn’t enough, like he’s greedy for more, and Dustin isn’t strong enough to resist.

Dustin brings a hand up to the back of Jim’s neck, holding him in place as he opens his mouth and kisses back, insistent, a little bit mean because Jim shouldn’t want this. It’s Dustin who’s messed up. Jim shouldn’t be dragged down with him.

But there’s no hesitation in Jim’s movements, the way he makes a ragged kind of noise when Dustin licks into his mouth, how his tongue meets Dustin's like he's been waiting to find out what it would be like.

Dustin may be greedy, but Jim seems even more so as his hands shift from Dustin's face, to his shoulders, to the small of Dustin's back, where he tugs, pulling Dustin somehow even closer.

Jim’s rain-soaked pants are starting to dampen Dustin’s own and his chest is cool through Dustin’s shirt. Dustin runs his hands down Jim’s back, palms settling around on his ribs, feeling the way Jim moves, how they expand as Jim pulls in gasping breaths between kisses.

"I thought about you," Jim admits directly against Dustin's mouth, voice gravelly. "I thought about you so much I thought I was going crazy."

Dustin feels floored by the admission. Little city boy James Cipperly shouldn’t want someone like Dustin, who’s gruff and rough around the edges. Who’s lived alone for too many years. Who doesn’t know how he could ever give someone like Jim what he wants, what he needs.

"What did you think about?" Dustin asks, because he’s stupid enough to think he can withstand whatever answer Jim gives.

"Things I shouldn't have thought about," Jim tells him, shifting his hips just enough to put a subtle kind of pressure where Dustin is starting to show interest. "But I did."

Dustin thinks about Jim in that big house of his, with no one around. How he could be fucking his fist every night with Dustin's name on his lips. No one would ever know.

“Jim,” Dustin says, because it’s too much to process, and Jim slides one hand down to Dustin’s ass, so there’s no mistaking his intentions.

“Take me to bed,” Jim orders and Dustin thinks there’s little that could keep him from obeying.

He doesn’t pick Jim up, but it’s close. He turns them, walking Jim backwards, feeling so out of his depth when the backs of Jim’s knees hit Dustin’s mattress and he drops easily, letting Dustin crowd over him, their kiss only breaking long enough for them to settle: Jim on his back, Dustin between the splay of his legs.

It’s the first time Dustin’s had someone in his bed here. It’s not that the people in town aren’t interested in him, it’s just more hassle than it’s worth. He can’t imagine bringing someone home and then having to see them every time he goes for supplies.

But with Jim, it’s different. He can’t even explain it, mostly because he doesn’t think there’s a rational explanation. He thinks he’s just making an exception.

“Dustin,” Jim exhales, and Dustin wants to keep making him say his name like that, like Dustin means everything to him.

Dustin hooks a hand under Jim’s hip, pulling him up as he grinds down, both of them moaning, Jim curling a leg around him.

“What do you want?” Dustin asks, staring down at him.

Jim’s face is already so red, his mouth wet and a little swollen. If Dustin were more depraved, he might ask Jim to let him put his cock in there.

“I don’t know,” Jim murmurs, sounding sincere. “I’ve never — ”

The words hang between them and Dustin aches.

“With a man or — ”

“Anyone,” Jim admits and Dustin pulls back, sitting on his heels, Jim’s leg falling away from his waist.

“Jim,” he implores, but Jim shakes his head, hand reaching out to grab the front of Dustin’s shirt.

“Someone has to be my first,” he says. “I want it to be you.”

Jim deserves better. Jim deserves someone who can take care of him. Dustin can barely take care of himself.

“Jim,” he tries again and Jim tugs at his shirt.

“I’ve used my fingers before. You won’t be the first thing inside of me.”

Dustin thinks again about Jim in that big house of his. He thinks about Jim fucking his fingers into himself every night with Dustin's name on his lips.

Jim is going to kill him. Jim is going to stay a virgin because Dustin will be dead.

“Jim,” Dustin pleads and Jim nods, fingers already working at the buttons of Dustin’s shirt.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s okay. We both want this, right?”

Dustin does. His want is straining against the front of his pants.

Jim pulls him back down to him, finished with Dustin’s buttons and now trying to shove the shirt off Dustin’s shoulders. Dustin helps him, trying not to think about how different his body looks in comparison to Jim’s. But for Jim to be in his bed, Jim must like him the way he is.

Dustin’s shirt disappears, thrown aside, and Dustin finds himself pulling at Jim’s belt, hands trembling with eagerness.

Jim lifts his hips helpfully as Dustin unfastens his pants, dragging the wet material over the sharp angles of his hips, and as Dustin leans over, draping them out on the floor so they might actually have a chance of drying, Jim shimmies out of his underwear.

When Dustin turns back, his mouth dries out.

Jim’s spread out before him, all pink skin and tight muscles, and he can’t believe he gets this. Jim’s letting him have this.

He swallows and Jim reaches out to rub a hand on his thigh.

“You got oil?”

Dustin can’t even remember if there’s a roof on his house. He blinks and Jim tilts his head against the mattress.

“Dustin? Oil?”

The world comes screeching back into focus and Dustin nods. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, I have some.”

Dustin moves off of him — letting Jim shift up the bed to settle against Dustin’s pillows — while he grabs his oil from where he keeps it tucked behind the bed’s wooden frame. He tosses it to Jim, who catches it and immediately opens it, and Dustin puts his back to him, busying himself with taking off his boots, pants, and underwear to give himself a few seconds to breathe.

Behind, he hears the pop of the oil’s cork and then the wet sound of skin on skin, and it feels as though if he turns around, Jim’s going to change his life.

He turns around anyway because Jim’s already done that. Just by showing up in their middle-of-nowhere town, Jim’s changed his life.

“Were you thinking about me?” Jim asks, stroking himself, his cock already slicked up.

Dustin thinks he’d probably be beet-red if all the blood wasn’t already down south.

“What?” he asks, voice strangled, unable to stop watching as Jim touches himself.

“That morning I walked in on you. You said my name. Was it because you saw me, or because you were thinking about me?”

Dustin can’t think. His mind is full of static.

“I don’t — ” he starts, but Jim stares at him like he already knows the answer.

“I thought about you,” Jim tells him. “I thought about the first time we met. How easily you held me down. How it felt when you picked me up.”

Jim may be a virgin, but his mind is as debauched as Dustin’s.

Something knocks loose inside Dustin and he suddenly needs to be touching Jim. He’s rougher than he ought to be as he all but throws himself across the bed, though he has the sneaking suspicion that Jim might enjoy it.

He gets Jim back under him, his mouth finding his neck as he thinks about all the times he’s wanted to mark Jim up, and now he can. Jim moans, his wet hand slipping across Dustin’s hip, smearing oil that Dustin can’t bring himself to care about.

“I was thinking about you,” Dustin tells him, mouth close to Jim’s ear. “I was thinking about you in my bed just like this.”

Jim slides the fingers of his clean hand through Dustin’s hair. “Would you have ever done anything about it?”

Dustin sucks another bruise onto his skin. “About what?”

“About getting me into your bed.”

Dustin draws back, just enough to stare down at Jim, who watches him expectantly.

“No,” Dustin grunts and Jim laughs so easily that he doesn’t know if it’s because Jim thinks he’s joking or because he knows Dustin’s telling the truth.

He guesses it doesn’t matter.

“Lucky I did something,” Jim decides and Dustin kisses him to keep him quiet.

Jim’s so hot against him, and if Dustin shifts just right, their cocks slide together. It doesn’t provide much relief, but it makes Dustin feel feverish, like maybe the whole experience is a grand hallucination.

Jim draws one knee up and Dustin can hear his hand patting around on the bed, and then he’s nudging the bottle of oil into Dustin’s side until he gets the hint.

Dustin rests his hand on his thigh as he slicks his fingers, trying to hide how much it’s shaking, and Jim breathes hard, watching him like nothing else matters.

He looks devastating in Dustin’s bed, and every now and then with the lightning still flashing outside, he gets lit up in a way that reminds him that this is nothing he deserves. But he’s taking it anyway, universe be damned. The years have been hard, but being with Jim has been so easy.

Jim takes the first finger with ease, his body moving restlessly like it’s not enough, but Dustin goes slow and steady, makes him wait, until he’s grunting impatiently before giving him another.

His mouth drops open, gaze going distant like he’s focusing on adjusting around Dustin’s knuckles. Dustin kisses him, though Jim returns it in a distracted kind of way, and when Dustin breaks it, he adds more oil to his fingers and shoves them in deeper, drawing a harsh noise from Jim.

“Dustin,” he pleads, and he’s so wet and warm on Dustin’s fingers, tighter than a woman, and Dustin knows he won’t last once he’s inside him.

Dustin gives him a third finger, half afraid it’ll be too much, but Jim takes it like he’s made for it, stretching around him, both knees falling open like he still wants more.

“Yeah,” Jim sighs. “Your fingers — this feels like I thought it would.”

Dustin leans down to bite his shoulder, unable to think when Jim says stuff like that, and Jim makes yet another noise, like everything Dustin gives him is everything he wants.

When Dustin sits back, watching the way his fingers disappear into Jim, he can’t help himself from reaching out and finally touching Jim’s cock.

It’s so hot against his palm, having never once flagged, and Jim moans and reaches down to grab Dustin’s wrist.

“I don’t want it to end so soon,” he says and Dustin thinks that if he’s ever allowed this again, he might spread Jim out and make him come just like that. “C’mon, please.”

Dustin doesn’t need to be told twice, not with this.

“You ready?” he asks and Jim huffs, impatient and more than a little bratty about it.

“I’ve been ready, Dustin. C’mon, just — ”

And Dustin does.

He pulls his fingers out, grabbing the oil one final time to slick himself, before he’s hitching one of Jim’s legs up, probably too high to be comfortable, but Jim bends like it’s no problem for him. Dustin almost wants to see how far he can fold him, but the urge to get inside is too much.

Guiding himself with one hand, he eases into Jim, watching the way Jim’s expression changes as he fills him.

Jim clutches at his shoulders, grip so tight that Dustin might have his own bruises come tomorrow.

“Dust,” Jim moans and Dustin keeps going, can’t stop.

“That’s it, Jim,” he encourages. “You can take it.”

Jim does. Jim takes all of him, little cut-off whines escaping from him, like it might be too much but he’s too stubborn to ask Dustin to slow down. He looks like he’d argue if Dustin even tried.

“Jesus, Jim,” Dustin pants, finally inside as far as he can get, “you feel — ”

He can’t even explain it. It’s everything Dustin’s never had before, and he predicts he’ll last about three thrusts before he spills.

He drops his chin to his chest and closes his eyes, trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling as Jim’s hands cup the back of his head.

“You can do it,” he promises. “You can move.”

“Jim, just — ” Dustin grits out, “ — just give me a minute.”

Jim doesn’t press for more, just cards his fingers gently through Dustin’s hair, going quiet beneath him. Dustin leans into the steady rising and falling of Jim’s chest as he breathes and wonders why it’s never felt like this with anyone else.

After a moment, Dustin lifts his head and stares down at Jim.

“You do something awful to me, James Cipperly,” Dustin tells him, and Jim runs a hand down the side of Dustin’s face, thumb resting at the corner of Dustin’s mouth. “You make me feel like I might be a settling down kind of man after all.”

Jim smiles, wide and genuine, like Dustin’s told his favorite joke. “If this is your way of proposing, I think we ought to wait. I can’t tell my family that it happened like this.”

Dustin hitches Jim’s hips up, wiping the grin off Jim’s face as he lets out a low noise.

“You’ll know it when I propose, Cipps,” Dustin tells him gruffly, finally bringing himself to move, the feeling so good it almost sends him right back to the edge again.

But he pushes through it, pressing his hands to the bed as he finally starts to fuck Jim the way he deserves.

Jim goes back to clutching at his shoulders, clinging to Dustin, seeming to want to stay as close to him as possible.

“Please,” Jim begs, and Dustin can feel Jim’s cock pinned between them, still hard, probably still beautifully red, and every time he moves, Jim grunts like it’s too much.

Dustin fucks him the best he can, even as his whole body aches. He wants to make it so good for Jim that he never wants another.

“Touch yourself,” he orders and Jim breathes loud in his ear. “Want to feel you around me.”

“Don’t need to,” Jim tells him, rolling his hips against Dustin’s now. “Just keep doing that.”

Dustin curses, but doesn’t stop, keeps giving Jim what he wants and slowly, he begins to feel Jim tensing below him.

“Like this?” Dustin asks and Jim doesn’t answer aloud, but he nods.

Dustin’s so close himself, he just needs to get Jim there first.

“Dustin,” Jim moans. “Fuck, Dustin!”

It’s one of the best things Dustin has ever experienced feeling Jim shoot off between them, making a mess of both of their stomachs, crying out so loudly Dustin is once again happy to not have neighbors.

Jim keeps repeating his name, even as he’s coming down from his high, and Dustin likes the way it sounds.

He lasts two, maybe three more thrusts before he shoves deep into Jim, not even asking permission, just coming inside him as if he has any right. But Jim holds him there, like maybe it is what he wants, and he holds Dustin as he shakes above him.

“Fuck,” Dustin groans, half collapsing on Jim, who grunts, but accepts his weight without complaint.

The thunder is fainter outside now, and if Dustin were a man of God, he might have a few thoughts about it.

Instead, he tucks his face against Jim’s throat and kisses at his skin, carefully pulling out, trying to be as gentle as possible, knowing Jim must be sore. Jim makes a soft noise and shifts beneath him and Dustin finally rolls to the side, letting Jim breathe.

Jim immediately rolls back into his space, curling against Dustin’s side to throw a leg and an arm over him, his head resting on Dustin’s shoulder before Dustin’s even had time to settle himself.

Dustin wants to laugh, but his chest feels too tight.

He curls an arm around Jim, rubbing slow circles on his back, staring at the ceiling of his cabin. He said a lot of things before, caught up in his emotions, and he’s a little surprised Jim still wants to be near him.

But he's there, running a finger along Dustin’s skin, his breathing starting to quieten.

“Does it still hurt?” Jim asks and Dustin frowns in confusion until he clarifies, “Your shoulder.”

Glancing down, Dustin realizes Jim’s been tracing his scar.

“Sometimes when it’s cold,” he admits and Jim leans down, pressing a kiss directly over the worst of the mess, and Dustin’s chest gets impossibly tighter.

“We’ll have to keep it warm,” Jim says, matter-of-factly, and Dustin thinks he must’ve done something right in a previous life to get any part of Jim in this one.

They should wash and do something productive while it’s still light outside, but instead Dustin reaches for the throw on his bed and pulls it up over both of them.

Jim yawns against him, head dropping back down to Dustin’s shoulder, seeming content.

“Wake me for supper,” he says and Dustin waits just a beat before pinching his side, making Jim laugh.

“Insolent little — ” Dustin begins, but before he can continue, Jim leans up and settles a hand over Dustin’s mouth.

Jim stares at him, as though daring him to try something, and after a long moment, Jim moves his hand away and kisses him, the kind of kiss that might actually convince Dustin to make dinner while Jim keeps their bed warm.

Mollified, Dustin cups the back of his head and holds him close.

*

Dustin wakes to the smell of burning.

He grunts, digging himself out from under his blankets as he sits up, staring across the room to find Jim standing at his stove, flapping a hand towel at something.

“What are you doing?” Dustin asks and Jim startles and turns around.

His face is flushed, looking as though he’s been standing near the heat for too long, but more importantly, he appears to only be wearing Dustin’s shirt. It’s too big in the shoulders and hangs down to his thighs and there’s no way Jim didn’t know what it would do to Dustin when he decided to put it on and putter around his kitchen.

“Everything’s fine,” Jim tells him in a way that hints it probably isn’t, and Dustin swings his legs over the edge of his bed, finding his pants in the mess of clothing on the floor and pulling them on as he stands.

For what it’s worth, everything does actually seem to be okay, in that nothing’s on fire, but there’s something in Dustin’s cast iron pan on the stove that seems to be what some might consider well cooked.

“I got distracted,” Jim admits, “but it’s the only one that burned.”

He gestures towards Dustin’s table where there are plates laid out, a stack of almost a dozen or so pancakes in the center.

“I wanted you to have something nice,” Jim tells him and Dustin blinks.

Jim made him food. More specifically, Jim made him his favorite apple and cinnamon pancakes.

Dustin doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, just steps closer to Jim and pulls him against him, tucking his face into his shoulder.

Jim rubs at his side with one hand, pulling the pan off the stove with the other, and Dustin huffs a laugh against his skin.

“Thank you,” he mumbles after a minute.

“Don’t get used to it,” Jim tells him, and he can almost hear the smile in his voice.

And all at once Dustin has the thought that he really can’t get used to it, because he still doesn’t know if Jim’s selling the house and leaving. Whatever this is, it might just be temporary.

He tightens his grip on Jim, who grunts in surprise.

“Hey,” Jim says gently and Dustin lifts him easily, turning and setting Jim on the open countertop to their right. The wood groans — well made, but not for the weight of a grown man — and Dustin pins his shoulder to the cabinet behind with one hand.

“Are you leaving?” he asks bluntly and Jim looks at him, confused.

“What? I guess eventually I’ll have to go home. I can’t really stay here.”

“I mean town,” Dustin explains shortly. “Are you selling the house and leaving town?”

Jim’s confusion clears. “I — ” he starts, but Dustin interrupts, impatient.

“Your father said you were staying. Is that true?”

“You spoke to my father?” Jim asks, head tilting and Dustin nods sharply.

“At dinner, when he was here."

Jim’s expression softens and he reaches up to rest his hand on the arm Dustin’s using to pin him.

“I hadn’t fully made up my mind,” he admits. “My father means well, but he sometimes makes his own assumptions.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” Dustin snaps, but Jim just watches him, eyes bright, not offended by Dustin's temper.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want me to stay around.”

“Whether or not I want you here makes no difference,” Dustin tells him bluntly. “You have every right to own your property.”

Gently, Jim rubs his palm up and down Dustin’s forearm. “I like it here,” he says. “I really like my neighbor.”

Dustin watches him for a long minute, letting the words settle around him before he reaches up with his free hand and grazes a finger over the healing cut on Jim’s brow.

“I think hitting your head damaged your brain if you think you like me.”

He settles his hand on Jim’s face, cupping his jaw, and Jim curls one side of his mouth up, as though thinking, before saying, “I think I liked you before that happened.”

“That’s embarrassing,” Dustin tells him and Jim laughs, just as he thought he would.

Jim pulls him in for a kiss, like he can’t help himself, and Dustin kisses back, still not quite believing that after everything, Jim still wants this. Wants him.

“I’m staying,” Jim murmurs. “Just in case that wasn’t clear.”

“Good,” Dustin answers. “Just in case that wasn’t clear.”

He can feel Jim smile against his mouth.

“Crystal,” Jim tells him, before pulling back. “Now, can we eat some goddamn pancakes? I labored over those while someone was snoring.”

Dustin scoffs. “I don’t snore,” he says, but grabs Jim’s hips and guides him down to his feet again. Before Jim can step away, Dustin dips down and kisses him one last time. “Thank you.”

He’s not sure if he means for the pancakes, or the affection he still doesn’t yet believe he deserves, or just the company. Jim’s changed his life in so many little ways, and they all seem to be for the better.

Jim touches the side of Dustin’s face and smiles up at him, like all of it actually took no effort at all.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

*

Epilogue

*

“The layout was easier last year,” Jim grunts from the porch, unhelpful and opinionated, and Dustin doesn’t even look up.

“Yeah, well the whole left side wilted from too much sun.”

“Maybe you didn't water it enough,” Jim tells him and Dustin climbs to his feet, solely to set his hands on his hips and stare at him.

“Shouldn't you be building a fence?”

“I'm taking a break,” Jim says, raising the glass of water in his hand like proof, but it's clear from the sweat on his skin how hard he's been working. For all that Dustin mocks him, he's a more than decent worker.

“Take a break elsewhere.”

Jim laughs and makes his way down the steps towards him. “Don't get huffy.”

“I'm not,” Dustin lies. “I'm trying to make sure we don't starve.”

Jim offers him his water and after a beat, Dustin takes it, drinking half, partly to annoy him but mostly to quench his thirst.

“You do this every year,” Jim says patiently. “I don't know why you insist on changing things.”

“I'm trying to make it easier for us.”

“Sometimes being consistent is easier.” Dustin doesn't answer and Jim sighs. “Do you want to see what I've done?”

Jim's been fixing up the back paddock for the horses. He’s been working on it on and off for over a week now, and as he follows Jim around the house — the one Jim had put back together years ago now, the one Dustin had surreptitiously moved into until his own cabin had become so empty they'd started using it only as storage space — Dustin can see Sugar and Pepper quietly grazing together.

At the front, Jim’s added a gate. It hadn’t been in their original plan, but as with everything else Jim makes, it’s well built, and Dustin likes it.

In the middle of it, hangs a new, neatly carved wooden sign that quietly declares Dustin and James Howard est. 1886.

Jim gently touches the inside of Dustin’s arm and Dustin finds that every single inch of fight has suddenly left him.

“Greg owed me a favor," Jim tells him quietly. "He made it when he was last in town.”

Greg was in town last March. Dustin and Jim had been married last July. But even then, they’d never spoken of Jim taking Dustin’s name. Dustin didn’t even know that was something Jim was interested in.

“What do you think?” Jim asks, but Dustin can barely string two thoughts together.

They’ve been together for three years now, though only married for seven months, and it feels like Jim has never once stopped surprising him with his affection.

Even after everything, it had been Jim who’d proposed to Dustin, pulling a small silver band from his saddle pack during herd checks on a cloudy day in January.

It had felt so right that Dustin had said yes before Jim had even finished asking. And Jim had pulled Sugar alongside Pepper and had leaned over, still in his saddle, to kiss him.

Dustin curls an arm around Jim’s waist, pulling him against his side.

“What did I do to get so lucky?” he asks, tucking his face against Jim’s shoulder, as Jim holds him in return, pressing a kiss to the side of Dustin’s head.

“I think hogtying me helped,” he says, startling a laugh out of Dustin, who pulls back to stare down at him.

“My hogtied husband, Jim Howard.”

“It has a certain charm to it,” Jim jokes, and Dustin finds himself reaching for Jim’s chin and pulling him into a kiss.

“It’s perfect,” Dustin tells him and Jim pecks him on the lips once more, before asking,

“The moniker or the sign?”

Pressing his smile to Jim’s cheek, Dustin says, “Both.”