Backroad.

The wind whipped her hair through the cab of the truck as she snatched the claw clip from the visor. He laughed to himself as she tamed her wild curls, steering with her knees. She hadn’t changed a bit, and he was thankful for it; she never looked more beautiful than when she was driving down some dusty country road, windows down, Tom Petty on the radio. Her skin seemed to glow in that light, her smile brighter than anything else he knew, and no moment could ever replicate it.

“Still think you’re invincible, huh?” he teased, watching her balance the wheel with her knees as she fought with the clip.

She shot him a quick glance, grinning. “Haven’t wrecked us yet, have I?”

The song shifted into another, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Outside, the fields rolled on endlessly, golden and soft under the late afternoon light. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and dust, and he swore he could feel the same quiet ease settling into his bones that he had felt years ago, back when they first drove this road together.

“You know,” he said finally, his voice almost lost to the wind, “every time I’ve pictured coming home, it’s been this exact thing. You. Windows down. Tom on the radio. Like nothing’s changed.”

Her smile faltered for just a beat— barely enough to notice— before she leaned back into it. “Maybe some things don’t have to change,” she said, tucking one last strand of hair under the clip.

He looked at her then, really looked, the way you do when you’re trying to memorize someone in case life pulls them out of reach again. And though the road stretched ahead without an end in sight, for once he wasn’t worried about where it led.