Elvis thumps his tail in response, completely unbothered.
I smile, shaking my head, then glance up and find Boone watching me.
He’s watching me like he’s remembering something, like he’s seeing something familiar and trying to hold onto it. His gaze lingers, tracing over me with the kind of quiet intensity that makes my pulse stutter. There’s something about the way he looks at me that feels like a slow unraveling, like he’s filing away every detail—the slope of my shoulders, the way my fingers drum against my glass.
The kitchen lights cast a soft glow over him, catching on the cleft in his chin, the dip in his bottom lip, the dimple threatening to appear in his cheek. His expression shifts, something caught between knowing and nostalgia, and it’s suddenly too much.
I drop my gaze, gripping my drink a little tighter, swallowing against the lump in my throat.
But I can’t help wondering if he’s thinking the same thing I am—if he remembers how we used to sit at this very table, hands hidden under the wood, fingers laced together like some secret neither of us wanted to let go of. If he remembers staying up too late, throwing chocolate chips in each other’s mouths, trying not to laugh too hard and wake up the whole house.
As the last bites of dessert disappear and conversation starts to slow, I sink back into my chair, my stomach full, my body tired in a way that feels good. Across the table, Hudson stretches his arms over his head with a satisfied groan.
Molly shakes her head, grinning, then folds her napkin neatly on thetable. “Alright, y’all know the drill.”
The room groans.
Wren and Ridge glance at each other before blurting in unison, “Not it.”
Molly raises a brow, completely unimpressed. “Nice try. You two are on dish duty. Chop chop.”
Ridge mutters something under his breath, but Wren just sighs dramatically, shaking her head like she’s just been sentenced to hard labor.
Molly turns to Sage next. “Go check on the barn before it gets too late.”
Sage groans but stands, Elvis following at her heels, his tail wagging.
Molly’s gaze lands on Hudson next, softening. “Now, I hear you’re a baseball fan.”
Hudson lifts a shoulder, playing it cool, but I catch the flicker of excitement in his eyes.
Molly nods toward the stairs. “I’ve got some of Boone’s old baseball stuff lying around somewhere. Want to come take a look?”
Hudson flicks a glance at me, like he’s checking to make sure it’s okay. I give him a small nod, and then he’s on his feet, following Molly up the stairs, doing a terrible job of masking how excited he really is.
The house moves into its usual rhythm—Wren and Ridge arguing over who’s drying and who’s washing, Loretta laughing at them from her chair, Boone standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing as he rinses his plate.
I grab a beer from the fridge and step outside, the screen door creaking as it swings shut behind me.
The air is cooler now, dusk stretching long shadows across the fields. The sky is painted in the last strokes of pink and gold, fading into deep navy where the first stars begin to flicker awake. The wooden deck is cool beneath my bare feet, the grain smoothed by years of footsteps, of late-night talks, of kids running in and out with scraped knees and muddy boots.
I trail my fingers along the railing as I walk toward the edge, resting my weight against it. The land spills out before me, endless and familiar—fenced pastures rolling into open fields, the barn standing sturdy in thedistance, its weathered red paint glowing faintly in the soft light. Beyond that, the tree line sways with the evening breeze, whispering secrets I used to think I could understand.
I take a slow sip of beer, the cold bite of it settling on my tongue. Inside, I can still hear the clatter of dishes, the laughter, Ridge’s voice carrying over the rest.
It feels like nothing has changed.
Except everything has.
I exhale, pressing the heel of my palm against the railing, my fingers curling over the wood. It’s strange, the way muscle memory still recognizes this place. The way my body still knows exactly how to move through it, how to breathe it in.
I close my eyes for a second, letting myself be sixteen again, barefoot on this same deck, the night buzzing warm around me, Boone beside me, his arm brushing mine.
A different lifetime. A different girl.
My phone buzzes against my hip. I sigh, pulling it from my pocket.
Miller:On a scale of 1 to Little House On The Prairie, how ranch-core are you right now?
