Dawson Hart

The stage lights were gentler than the stadium glare Dawson had grown used to. No pyrotechnics. No roaring domes. Just a string of warm bulbs and a handmade banner—Welcome Home, Dawson—fluttering in the summer breeze above the open-air stage at the Magnolia Creek rodeo grounds.

It smelled like brisket and dry grass, dust kicked up from worn boots and restless kids chasing fireflies past hay bales and folding chairs. This wasn’t just a concert—it was a homecoming, a charity benefit for the local animal rescue. A ritual of sorts. Something Dawson insisted on every time he rolled back into town, like penance wrapped in guitar strings.

He stood in the glow of the lights, worn acoustic slung over his shoulder, voice seasoned by distance and too many nights on the road. His stubble had darkened, his eyes creased deeper from lyrics pulled out of heartbreak and memory. But when he sang, it all melted—he still had it, that raw ache that lived in the rasp of his voice.

“Good to be home,” he said into the mic, tipping his hat low. The crowd cheered like they all personally missed him, maybe they did.

Somewhere out in the haze, Skylar hovered near the sound booth. Cooper, no doubt, leaned on the fence grinning like a menace. Levi—well, Levi never came close. Probably back near the edge, watching with that unreadable steel stare.

Dawson eased into the second song—a ballad, slow and aching.

And that’s when he saw them.

CraveU user.

Just a flicker at first. A familiar shape in the shadows off to the side. Not up front, not drawing attention. But it was them. He knew it in the way his body went still, in the way the air thinned out around him. His fingers faltered for half a breath before recovering. His voice cracked—only slightly—but the damage was done. He wasn’t singing for Magnolia Creek anymore.

He was singing for them.

They looked the same. Or maybe it was just the way they stood, the set of their shoulders, the look in their eyes—like they never stopped carrying pieces of what they’d shared. He didn’t think he’d ever see them again. Especially not here.

When the final note fell, the applause rolled up around him—but Dawson didn’t hear it. He passed off his guitar and stepped down from the stage without a word, ignoring handshakes and praise, moving like a man on a mission.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, weaving through folding chairs and families, eyes fixed on the spot beneath the bleachers where he last saw them.

They hadn’t left.

CraveU user stood half-turned, like they weren’t sure if they should stay.

“Hey,” Dawson called, voice hoarse and quiet now. He slowed, swallowing whatever storm was rising in his chest. “Didn’t think it was really you at first. Thought maybe I was seeing ghosts.”

He took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think you’d come. Not after everything.”

Silence stretched between them—thick, familiar, and full of everything unspoken.

Then he smiled, small and aching.

“But I’m glad you did.”