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Vivian was being called back, and she wandered toward Nadia. Delaney bit the inside of her cheek, looking back toward Claire.

If Vivian only knew where that light came from.

It wasn’t the script, though the movie was turning into something that she knew she was going to be so proud of. It was the kitchen at eight o’clock at night, cooking together.

They’d fallen into the routine without a single conversation about rules. Every night since that first one, Delaney came through the mudroom, kicked off her boots, and poured two glasses of wine. She’d sit on the edge of the counter or lean against the butcher block chopping rosemary and garlic while Claire seared steaks or stirred a pot of pasta sauce, bumping hips in the narrow space between the stove and the farmhouse table.

They never lingered over dinner though.

With early alarms waiting for both of them, they couldn’t stay up until two tearing the sheets off the bed like they had that first night, no matter how badly Delaney wanted to. So they ate fast, left the pans soaking in the sink, and went upstairs.

A few short hours. That was the deal they never actually spoke about, just the one they kept making with their own exhaustion every night. The clock made it worse. Better. More frantic. Delaney could already feel it tightening in her chest as she watched Claire across the grass, the way it always did now when the light started to change and the day began counting down what they could still steal before sleep became non-negotiable. They needed the rest. Both of them did. But the second that bedroom door clicked shut, the limited time turned everything urgent, like their bodies had decided to make the most of every minute they had left before the alarm.

The second the bedroom door clicked shut, Claire didn’t waste time being careful. Last night, she’d stripped Delaney’s shirt off, backing her into the dresser, tugging her jeans and underwear down and dropping to her knees on the cold pine floor until Delaney shook, her hips rocking against Claire’s mouth.

Then later, Claire had her face-down in the pillows, one heavy thigh pressed between Delaney’s knees, her breath hot against the back of Delaney’s neck as her fingers thrust into her with a rhythm that left Delaney begging for release. The memory of it had clung to Delaney’s skin all morning, right through the makeup artist blending concealer over the faint marks Claire’s teeth had left along her neck.

Sometime around ten, the bedside lamp always clicked off. Claire’s arm settled heavy over Delaney’s waist, anchoring her to the mattress, and Delaney didn’t stir again until the alarm cut through the quiet.

It was surreal how easy it had been, how natural. And Delaney wanted so many more nights like that.

Now, across the grass, Claire nudged Ranger forward a few steps, catching Delaney’s eye. Just a second. A tiny dip of her hat brim, checking in, before she turned her horse to clear the background for the lens.

Delaney’s fingers tightened on the reins. She didn’t want to go back to her house in the Hills.

The thought had been circling her head for days now, getting bolder every time she woke up tangled in Claire’s sheets.

She could fly back and forth. They wouldn’t be the first couple to do long distance.

“Picture’s up!” the first AD barked, clapping a hand against his clipboard. “Back to one, everyone. Let’s get this before we lose the sun behind the ridge. Last setup of the week!”

A scattered cheer went up from the camera department. Three weeks of prep and shooting boiled down to the six days left on the production board starting Monday morning.

Claire rode Ranger up beside Maple to do a final check before rolling, her knee brushing Delaney’s stirrup fender.

“Everything looks good,” Claire said, loud enough for the AD, before her fingers grazed the back of Delaney’s hand on the rein, warm and gone in a second. “Sit deep on the turn. It’s getting slick by the bank.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Delaney murmured, and watched Claire ride out of frame as the slate snapped shut, carrying the production into their final week.

14

The three-o’clock sun cut through the open south doors, warming the barn timbers while Claire stood in the shade of the aisle. She wiped dark grease off a piece of hardware with a shop rag, her thumb moving in steady, familiar circles. Out in the pasture, the camera team hauled heavy equipment down toward the creek, their boots chewing up the dry brome grass. The shoot was in its final days, with less than a week left before the circus packed up for good.

Yesterday had been clear sky and dead silence. No walkie-talkies crackling across the dirt, no trucks idling in the lane, no assistant director pacing with a clipboard. Sunday meant the crew vanished to the motel in town, leaving the ranch to the wind and the horses.

And Delaney.

Claire’s neck still carried the ghost of Sunday morning, the slow drag of Delaney’s mouth against her skin, Delaney’s weight pinning her down into the mattress.

They had woken without an alarm, free from the rattle of crew trucks over the cattle guard and the demands for another take.

Just the two of them in the big bed upstairs, sheets twisted around their legs, sunlight pouring through the east window. She could still feel the path Delaney’s lips had taken, tracing lower over her stomach, then lower still, until Claire’s hips had lifted without permission.

And later, the way Delaney had tugged her up, guided her to settle over her face with that quiet, certain look in her hazel-green eyes.

But the quiet was over now.

A shadow crossed the threshold of the barn aisle.