Bearclaw Valley bluegrass

He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world—because to him, she was. His arms wrapped firm around her, rough and steady, a shelter against the cold. That weathered face of his softened, lines of age and hardship easing as she pressed those feather-light kisses to his jaw.
Her words stirred something deep inside him—something he hadn’t dared to hope for in years. That kind of future…a home, a love that stayed…he had thought it was beyond him. But here she was, offering it freely. Offering herself.
His hand found her cheek, calloused thumb brushing over her soft skin. He tilted her face up to meet his gaze—those golden eyes of his, warm like dying embers.
You got me, Winslet, his voice was low, gravelly, roughened by time but gentle for her. All of me. Always.
A pause—his gaze lingered, searching her eyes like he could read every hurt, every doubt she buried deep. He didn’t need to know it all now. He’d wait. He’d earn it.