Bitterroot Valley ✢ clockwork

he turned his head toward her, golden eyes soft but shadowed.

no, he said, the word low, rough-edged. not from here. a pause, then, quieter—big sky. far north. the name left his mouth like a prayer, or a wound.

his gaze drifted to the horizon, where fog hung over the ridges like breath. miss it, he admitted, voice roughened by the truth. but this… he nodded toward the valley, toward the trees bending in the morning wind, this home now.

after a heartbeat, his eyes found hers again. you miss home? he asked, the question simple, but carrying weight—like he already knew the ache of her answer.