Vintage Sunflower Ink
From the pages of Let That Pony Run, by A.J. Rose
When she finally spoke, her voice was low and rough from everything that had already torn through it. “I was married.” The words came muffled against his chest, barely above a whisper. Travis didn’t move, but his hand stilled for a fraction of a second before it resumed its slow rhythm.
“He told me one night,” she continued, her voice uneven but steady enough to keep going. “After he’d been drinking. Said he’d fallen in love with someone else.” Her fingers tightened slightly in his shirt. “She was pregnant.”
The words landed heavy between them, but she kept going. “I left that night,” she said quietly. “Packed what I could and walked out.” There was no pride in it, no relief, just truth.
“But that didn’t make it better,” she went on after a moment, her voice quieter now. “It just made everything else louder. My parents… what people would say. What it would look like for my father.” Her grip shifted slightly, like she was grounding herself again before she finished. “I did everything the way I was supposed to, and it still wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.”
Travis’s hand stilled against her for a moment before he moved, his fingers shifting from her hair to her jaw as he guided her gently but firmly upward. She resisted at first, just a fraction, but not enough to stop him. When her eyes finally met his, there was still that same vulnerability there, that same quiet expectation of judgment she hadn’t said out loud.
He held her there, his gaze steady on hers, searching, measuring, and then settling into something far more certain. “You think that makes you less?” he asked quietly. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to.
His thumb brushed lightly along her cheek. “It doesn’t,” he said, just as quiet, but absolute.
Something in her expression shifted, small but real, and that was all it took. Travis closed the distance between them and kissed her. It wasn’t rushed, it was deep, and certain, like he wasn’t asking a question and he wasn’t waiting for permission. His hand stayed steady at her jaw, holding her there as he kissed her, anchoring her in place as much as grounding her.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His gaze stayed locked on hers, just as steady, just as certain. “A man worth a damn knows what he’s got when he’s holding it, and he doesn’t walk away from it. And he sure as hell doesn’t let it go.” he said quietly, his thumb brushing her cheek again.
From the pages of Strawberry Wine, by A.J. Rose
“Why?” The word wasn’t sharp, not like in the truck. It carried more hesitation than anger — as if the very idea that someone might have thought of her wants was almost too much to believe.
Jesse shifted, resting his hands on the counter edge. He’d expected her to snap, to toss them aside. Instead, she stood there avoiding his gaze, holding them like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to keep them. He cleared his throat. “Figured you’d like ’em.” A shrug, meant to sound easy. “That’s all.”
Magnolia’s lashes flickered, but she didn’t look up. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her fingers tracing the edge of the magazine before she quietly slipped both to the side of the counter, away from his eyes. Then she went back to unpacking, movements brisk but not quite steady.
Jesse let the silence hang in the air for a moment, then said more quietly, “Nothin’ wrong with wantin’ things, Magnolia. Even if it feels like you can’t have ’em.”
Her hands stilled on the sack she was opening. For a moment she didn’t move, then, still not looking at him, she whispered, “Thank you.”
It was soft, almost lost beneath the rustle of paper and the hum of cicadas outside — but weighted enough that Jesse felt it settle in his chest. He didn’t answer, only reached for another bag to unpack beside her. The silence that followed wasn’t sharp like before. It was quieter, heavier, carrying something neither of them was ready to name.