Page 135 of Knotting the Cowboys

I think about that as we sit in comfortable silence, the town going about its business below us.

About choices and protection, about the difference between being claimed and being valued.

How these men keep offering me things I didn't know I was allowed to want.

"Thank you," I say eventually. "For showing up when you did. For getting me out of there."

"Always," he says simply, like it's that easy. Like protecting me is as natural as breathing.

"And Mavi?" I wait until he looks at me. "Next time you want to kiss me senseless in public? Maybe warn me first so I can at least put on lip gloss."

His laugh is bright and surprised, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

"Deal. Though for the record? You don't need lip gloss. You're perfect exactly as you are."

The warmth that blooms in my chest has nothing to do with the morning sun and everything to do with the way these men keep teaching me I'm worth more than I ever believed.

It's terrifying and exhilarating and completely overwhelming.

But as Mavi pulls back onto the road, humming off-key to whatever's playing on the radio, I think maybe overwhelming isn't always bad.

It just another word to prove I’m alive and allowing myself to live a cowardice life to please the world.

Claiming Protection Through Ice Cream And Whisky Part One

~MAVERICK~

The restaurant's neon sign flickers to life just as I pull into the back corner of the parking lot, choosing the spot furthest from the other cars where shadows pool thick between the dumpsters and delivery trucks.

My fingers tap against the steering wheel—a nervous habit I thought I'd broken years ago—as I shift the truck into park and let the engine idle, the vibration a steady thrum beneath us that should wake anyone who wasn't completely exhausted.

"You hungry?" I ask, already reaching for my wallet in the center console. "They've got decent steaks here, or we could grab something quick and?—"

Silence.

I turn to look at her, and the words die in my throat.

Willa's fast asleep, her head tilted forward at an angle that's going to murder her neck if she stays like that much longer.

The evening light slanting through the windshield turns her hair into something between copper and gold, but it alsohighlights things I should have noticed before—the dark circles under her eyes, purple-blue like old bruises, the way her cheekbones seem sharper than they did even yesterday.

How long has she been running on empty?

Her lips are slightly parted, breath coming in soft, even waves that fog the window beside her. One hand rests in her lap, fingers curled loose like a child's, while the other clutches the door handle like even in sleep she needs an escape route. The silk of that borrowed dress—still wrinkled from Austin's rodeo adventures—rides up her thighs, and I force my eyes away from the exposed skin, focusing instead on the concerning pallor beneath her freckles.

"Willa," I whisper, reaching over to gently adjust her head. My fingers barely graze her jaw before her head drops forward again, chin nearly touching her chest. "Come on, sweetheart. You're gonna hate yourself if you sleep like that."

I try again, cupping the back of her neck this time, thumb brushing the baby-soft hair at her nape. Her skin is warm, pulse steady beneath my touch, but she's dead to the world. Her head lolls back for a moment before gravity wins again, pulling her forward into that same uncomfortable position.

"Stubborn even when you're unconscious," I mutter, though there's no heat in it.

The third attempt is equally futile.

She's like a rag doll, all her usual tension dissolved in sleep, leaving her boneless and pliant in a way that makes something protective and fierce rise in my chest.

This isn't normal tired—this is bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that comes from running on adrenaline and anxiety for too long.

"Alright, different approach."

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