November 10, Sunday

MORNING LIGHT filtered through the gauzy curtains, painting stripes of gold across Sawyer's sleeping form. I watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest, savoring the peaceful moment before the day truly began.

He stirred, green eyes blinking open. "Morning," he rumbled, his voice still rough with sleep. He pulled me closer, nuzzling into my neck. His stubble tickled my skin, sending pleasant shivers down my back.

"Coffee?" I offered, though I made no move to leave the warm cocoon of blankets and his embrace.

"Mmm, in a minute." His lips found mine in a lazy kiss that tasted of possibilities and promises.

Eventually, the lure of fresh coffee made us leave the bed. Sawyer moved through my kitchen with unexpected grace, his bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. He'd pulled on his jeans but skipped a shirt, and I couldn't help but admire the play of muscles as he reached for coffee mugs.

"Pancakes?" he suggested, already rummaging through my cabinets.

I hopped up on the counter, enjoying the view. "You really do cook."

"Told you I had hidden talents." He winked, measuring flour with surprising precision.

The kitchen filled with warmth and the sweet scent of vanilla as Sawyer worked his magic. Outside, frost sparkled on the grass, but inside was all comfort and contentment. When he slid a plate of perfectly golden pancakes in front of me, topped with butter and real maple syrup, I nearly swooned.

"These are amazing," I managed between bites. The pancakes were light and fluffy, with crispy edges and a hint of cinnamon I hadn't seen him add.

"Family recipe," he said, stealing a bite from my plate despite having his own stack.

After breakfast, we bundled up to tackle my morning chores. The November air bit at our cheeks as we made our way to the chicken coop. Sawyer's hand found mine, his warmth seeping through both our gloves.

"So this is the famous Butterscotch?" he asked as I reached under the hen for her eggs.

"Careful, she's—" I started to warn him, but to my surprise, Butterscotch let Sawyer stroke her feathers without protest. "Well, that's new. She usually pecks anyone who comes near her."

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "I have a way with animals."

But when we approached Satan's pen, the usually sociable goat took one look at Sawyer and backed away, bleating in obvious distress. His eyes rolled white, and he knocked over his water bucket in his haste to get to the far corner of his enclosure.

"Satan?" I called, concerned. I'd never seen him act like this. "It's okay, boy."

"Guess I don't have a way with all animals," Sawyer said lightly, but something in his tone seemed forced. "Maybe he can sense I'm more of a dog person."

I studied Satan's trembling form, then looked back at Sawyer. The goat's reaction seemed extreme for a simple case of stranger danger. Almost as if he sensed something about Sawyer that I couldn't perceive.

"Here," Sawyer said, handing me the feed bucket. "You take care of your demon goat. I'll start the coffeemaker for round two."

He kissed my cheek and headed back to the house. As soon as he was out of sight, Satan calmed down, approaching the fence to nudge my hand as if nothing had happened.

"What was that about?" I whispered, scratching between his horns. "What do you know that I don't?"

Satan just bleated softly and nibbled on my sleeve. As I walked back to the house where Sawyer waited, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just witnessed something significant.

Even if I didn't yet understand what it meant.