Sage

The early morning sunlight filters through the lean-to, soft and golden, making the small space feel warmer than usual. Dash’s arm is slung over my waist, his body a solid, comforting weight beside mine. I stretch slightly, careful not to disturb him, but the small movement stirs him awake.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly from sleep. His eyes open, soft and warm, and he pulls me closer, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my hip.

“Morning,” I reply, unable to suppress the smile tugging at my lips. This is new, this slow, easy closeness—the kind that comes without hesitation or overthinking.

He leans in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that starts soft but deepens quickly. His hand trails up my back, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel the heat rising between us, each touch more electric than the last.

This… this is dangerous territory, but it’s the kind of danger I don’t mind. I let myself lean into the kiss, my fingers tangling in his hair, and when his lips trail to my jaw, I shiver. It’s like we’ve been holding back for so long that now every touch feels magnified, every moment charged.

“Dash…” I whisper, his name slipping out before I can stop it. He pauses, just for a moment, his forehead resting against mine as we catch our breath.

“Too much?” he asks, his voice low, but there’s a teasing edge to it.

“Not even close,” I reply, my own voice breathless.

He grins, the kind of grin that makes me weak in the knees, even when I’m lying down. But just as his lips find mine again, there’s a sharp knock on the door.

We both freeze.

“Dash! Sage! Are you in there?”

It’s Branson. Of course, it’s Branson.

Dash groans, his head falling to my shoulder in exasperation. “I swear that man has the worst timing,” he mutters, his breath warm against my neck.

I can’t help but laugh, though it comes out more frustrated than amused. “Guess we can’t pretend we’re not home.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes still heavy-lidded and full of all the things we didn’t get to finish. “I’ll get the door,” he says, though he makes no move to leave, his hand still resting on my waist.

“Dash,” I prompt, trying not to laugh again, though the heat of the moment is well and truly gone.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles, pressing one last kiss to my forehead before rolling out of bed and grabbing his shirt from the corner.

As he opens the door, I sit up, smoothing down my hair and trying to look less flustered. Branson stands there, looking entirely too awake and oblivious to the mood he’s just shattered.

“Morning,” Branson says, nodding. “We’ve got an issue with the new pipeline plans. Thought you’d want to weigh in before we make any calls.”

Dash throws me a glance over his shoulder, his expression somewhere between amused and annoyed. “Of course. Be there in a minute.”

Branson nods, oblivious, and heads off. As soon as the door closes, Dash turns back to me, shaking his head. “We’re putting a lock on that door,” he mutters.

“Don’t tempt me,” I reply, though I can’t help but smile at him, the frustration melting away as I take in the sight of him, still rumpled from sleep and looking at me like I’m the only person in the world.

But as much as I want to drag him back to bed and finish what we started, there’s no escaping camp life. Not yet, anyway.

Dash

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A week has past and the morning feels heavier than usual as I step out of the lean-to, the air cool but weighted with the kind of tension that comes with knowing today marks the start of something big. The pipeline project is officially underway, and Branson wants us to get ahead of potential snags before they become full-blown disasters.

Sage isn’t with me this morning—she’s tied up with her meetups, which apparently includes about half the camp passing through her little corner. She said something about mediation, check-ins, and a “group brainstorming session,” whatever that means. I almost offered to help, but then she’d just laughed and told me, “This is my territory, Dash. You go do the heavy lifting—literally.”

So, here I am.

Branson’s already by the tool shed, going over the plans with Eli and a couple of others. His voice carries across the clearing, even and sharp as always. “We’re looking at about five miles of pipe total. Some of it’s in decent shape, but we’ll need to patch at least two or three sections if we want to avoid leaks.”

“Assuming the damn thing doesn’t burst as soon as we test it,” Eli mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

I step up beside them, leaning against the shed as Branson glances my way. “Glad you could join us. You’re with me on the first dig team,” he says, handing me a small map with scrawled notes.

I glance at it, already spotting a potential problem. “The east section here—near the old barn. If the ground’s shifted since it was laid, that piping’s gonna buckle as soon as we get water running through it.”

Branson nods, frowning. “We’ll reinforce it if we have to. But let’s dig it up first, see what we’re working with.”

The conversation shifts to the logistics of transporting the supplies back to camp. The first haul of pipes had gone smoother than expected thanks to the horses, but the sheer number of materials we’ll need means it’s going to be a grind.

Eli pipes up, his tone cautious. “What about the Accord? Any chance they’re gonna change their mind halfway through and decide to lean on us for more?”

Branson sighs, running a hand over his face. “It’s possible. But for now, they’re holding up their end. They agreed to stay back while the project’s underway, and Reeves hasn’t given me a reason to think otherwise.” He glances at me, his expression hard to read. “Still, we’ll keep an eye on them. Last thing we need is them sniffing around for leverage.”

I nod, already picturing the Accord men stationed nearby, watching from a distance but never far enough to feel like we’re truly alone.

“Alright,” Branson says, straightening. “Let’s get to it. Dash, you’re with me. Eli, take your team to the west section and start clearing the overgrowth.”

We split up, and soon I’m knee-deep in dirt with a shovel in hand, clearing the first section of buried piping. It’s grueling work, the kind that leaves your arms aching and your mind spinning. My thoughts drift back to Sage more than once, wondering if she’s faring better than I am.

Here’s a revision that makes Branson’s dialogue about Mara a bit more gradual and impactful, while also enhancing Dash’s internal reaction to the moment:

At one point, Branson pauses, leaning on his shovel as he glances over at me. “How’s Sage holding up?”

I straighten, wiping the sweat from my brow. “She’s good. Busy, though. Meetups all day.”

He nods, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Doesn’t surprise me. That woman’s got more energy than most of us combined.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “She’d argue it’s not energy—it’s stubbornness.”

Branson snorts, digging back into the dirt. “Whatever it is, we’re lucky to have her.”

There’s a pause, and I decide to push my luck. “Speaking of stubborn,” I say, keeping my tone casual, “Mara. How’s that going?”

Branson stills for a second, his shovel resting on the ground as he blows out a breath. “Stubborn’s a good word for it,” he admits, his voice low.

He starts digging again, but I can tell he’s thinking, the words coming out slower now. “Confusing,” he mutters. “Opinionated.” A small, begrudging smile tugs at his mouth. “Loud. Chatty.” Another shovel of dirt hits the ground. “Warm. Kind.” He stops for a beat, his voice softer now. “More wonderful than I know what to do with.”

I blink, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. Branson’s not one for big declarations—or small ones, for that matter.

He clears his throat, quickly digging again, but the air between us feels different. “But she’s ya know, still mourning. We’re not…,” he he trails off, shaking his head.

It’s rare to see Branson this way, like he’s standing on uneven ground. The man is solid as a rock in every other part of his life, but when it comes to Mara, he’s clearly still finding his footing. I don’t blame him—loss has a way of making everything more complicated. I finally just smirk. “Good luck,” is all I offer, understanding the complicated nature of things.

Branson grunts, clearly not looking for encouragement, but I can’t help the grin tugging at my mouth. I can already imagine Sage’s reaction to this—she’d be over the moon to hear that Mr. Stoic has a soft spot after all.

For now, I keep the moment to myself, tucking it away for the next time Sage and I are alone. I have a feeling she’ll appreciate the details.

The rest of the day blurs together—digging, clearing, and hauling. By the time we call it quits, the sun’s dipping low on the horizon, and my arms feel like lead. We’ve made progress, but there’s still a long way to go.

As we head back to camp, my mind strays to Sage again, wondering if her day has been as exhausting as mine. I can already picture her sitting by the fire, that focused look on her face as she writes out plans or checks in with Mara.

And when I see her, I can’t help but hope she’s saved a little space in her day for me.