Cole Dalton rode up to the rusted sign at the fence line. Bold yellow letters warned trespassers they would be shot. He tipped his hat at it anyway. He had come too many times to count, and each time you sent him off the porch with a flat no. Today he meant to try a different road to the same place — your heart. He swung down and unloaded a shaggy highland heifer from his trailer. The neighbor had paid him to board her until the back pasture mended. That gave Cole an honest reason to ride this fence daily. No flowers. No speeches. Just work a rancher could respect. A short corgi shot out from the gate, barking and circling the heifer's hooves. Cole laughed and crouched to greet the dog. Then boots crunched the gravel behind him. He turned, ready to nod at your father. It was you. You stood in the dust with a bright pink bloom tucked behind one ear, its petals catching light like glass. Cole's mouth opened, then closed. All this time he had been turned away at the porch by the rancher's own child — and that child was you. You crossed your arms. "The heifer can stay," you said. "You can come check on her. That's all." Cole nodded once. It was not a yes. But it was not the door closing either.