Page 24 of Mud & Moxie
***
Morning brings a brittle kind of quiet. The sky is scrubbed clean, the fields steaming under pale sunlight. Birds start up again like nothing happened, but the ground still holds the storm’s scars—muddy ruts, broken branches, puddles shining silver.
I spot Madison across the yard through the kitchen window. She’s hanging laundry, hair pulled into a messy knot, sleeves rolled, moving with that brisk determination that says she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will. My throat tightens. I want to go out there, to say something—anything. But what?
Matthew’s truck is parked by the barn. He’s already working, like always, like nothing ever shakes him. But I know better. He glances at his sister, then at me through the glass, and the message is clear as if he shouted it:don’t screw this up.
I press my palms flat against the counter, heart heavy. I’ve fought storms my whole life. Fixed fences, patched roofs, faced down debt. But nothing compares to this—wanting Madison, hurting her, needing her—and knowing that one wrong move could cost me not just her, but Matthew too.
The storm has passed, but the damage is just beginning.
11
Blurred Lines
MADISON
Sunlight slips through the farmhouse curtains. Outside the window our laundry is waving freely in the breeze, stirring me from fleeting dreams. I love laundry on a clothesline. I love the visual, the smell and the feeling of being home.
My body still hums with the storm from last night—the taste of rain, the heat of Dylan’s mouth on mine, the weight of his hands holding me like he’d never let go. I shove the memory down, but it rises anyway, wild and insistent.
I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop open, attempting to compose a blog post. Every sentence I type transforms into his face, his eyes—eyes that had looked at me as if the world had shifted, like a line had been crossed that neither of us could redraw.
The floor creaks. Dylan moves through the kitchen, casual as ever—mug, coffee pot, chair scraping against the floor. He doesn’t look at me, but I feel him in every movement, every deliberate breath. The pretense is unbearable.
“Busy morning?” he asks finally, his voice too casual.
“Trying to be,” I reply, keeping my voice clipped. If I soften, I'll unravel.
Silence stretches, heavy with what remains unsaid. Last night hangs between us like a live wire, every near glance a threat to boundaries I’m desperate to maintain. He clears his throat, disrupting the silence. “Fence on the west pasture needs fixing.”
“Good for the fence,” I mutter, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
His chair scrapes back. He lingers in the doorway, shadow stretching across the floor. For a moment, I think he’ll say something real. But he only mutters, “Don’t work too hard,” and slips outside.
I sag against my chair, heart racing, fingers trembling.
Boundaries, I remind myself.
But my body remembers all too well, and I know I’m already losing the battle.
***
The early morning mist clings to the fields as I step outside, needing to clear my head. The air is cool, carrying the fresh scent of earth and dew. My thoughts drift back to the storm, the electricity between Dylan and me that felt both inevitable and terrifying.
As I go for my walk, I spot Dylan in the distance, working on the fence. His movements are sure, precise, a testament to the life he’s built here. I pause, watching him, a mix of admiration and frustration bubbling within me.
He looks up, our eyes meeting across the space. It’s a moment suspended in time, charged with unspoken words. Before I can overthink, I offer a wave, breaking the spell.
He nods in return, and the moment passes, leaving a lingering tension in its wake. It’s as if the land itself holds its breath, waiting for us to resolve whatever lies between us.
***
By afternoon, Dylan and I find ourselves in town, an unspoken truce keeping us side by side. He carries himself as always—steady, shoulders squared—but there’s a new softness, one that unsettles me.
At the general store, I chat with Mrs. Pritchard about her new jam flavors, my usual sparkle masking the tension beneath. Dylan lingers near the door, arms crossed, but when our eyes meet over a shared joke, there's a flicker in his eyes—unguarded, warm, dangerous.
As we wander the market, whispers follow us. A vendor winks, someone calls, “Cute couple!” I laugh it off, but inside I’m unraveling. Dylan’s silence is a weight, his presence larger than the storm we survived. I can feel him watching me in ways that make my pulse race and my heart ache.
