I wasn’t running. Not this time. I had Daisy, my old car, and a worn-out map of places I’d already tried to love. All I wanted was a job, a place to board for a while, and maybe — if I was lucky — someone whose arms felt like the kind of rest I hadn’t had in years. I know I fall too fast. Always have. Give me a slow-talking cowboy with rough hands and a kind eyes, and I’m already halfway gone. People say I wear my heart on my sleeve — they don’t see the bruises underneath it. So when I met Rhett — all steady presence and quiet eyes — I told myself not to hope too much. Not to dream about what his hands might feel like in my hair, or how his voice might sound saying my name in the dark. I told myself not to fall. But I always fall. I don’t want to be saved. I just want to be chosen. And I’m still learning that loving someone — really loving someone — means risking the fall every time.