The car rounds the final bend in the road, and Walker Ranch unfolds before us. The farmhouse stands just as it always has—weathered wood and deep porches, the paint faded by decades of Montana sun. Chickens scatter in the yard as we pull up, and I can see the barn door standing open.
"Home sweet home," Mia murmurs, and something in my chest cracks open at hearing her call it home so easily.
I barely put the car in park when the front door swings open. My father emerges, leaning on his cane but moving with surprising speed. Behind him, Ruthie bustles out, already calling instructions over her shoulder to someone inside.
"There they are!" Dad's voice carries across the yard as I kill the engine. "About damn time you showed up. Dinner's almost ready."
Climbing out of the car, I circle around to meet Mia. My hand finds the small of her back automatically. The gesture is possessive, I know, but I can't seem to help myself around my family. As if I need to constantly stake my claim, remind them all that this incredible woman chose me.
"Sebastian." Dad reaches us first, his free arm already opening for an embrace.
I step into his hug, surprised as always by how solid he still feels despite the weight he's lost. "Hey, Dad."
He holds me tight for a moment longer than usual, and I swallow against the unexpected emotion that rises in my throat. When he pulls back, his eyes are suspiciously bright. "Good to see you, son."
Before I can respond, he turns to Mia. "And Mia. You're looking beautiful as always."
She laughs, that bright, uninhibited sound that never fails to make me smile. "You’re too good for my ego, Mr. Walker."
Dad surprises me by pulling her into a hug that lifts her slightly off her feet. "You're family now," he says gruffly. "Bradford or Dad works just fine."
Over Mia's shoulder, his eyes meet mine with a knowing look that makes heat crawl up my neck. He's never said it outright, but the way he looks at us, I know he sees what I'm planning.
Ruthie reaches us next, arms already open wide. "Get over here, both of you." She engulfs Mia in a hug that threatens to crush ribs, then turns to me with narrowed eyes. "You're too skinny. City living is clearly not providing adequate nutrition."
"We eat, Ruthie," I protest, submitting to her embrace. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon, exactly the same as when I was eight and scraping my knees running from Bradley.
"Coffee and takeout isn't eating," she scolds, patting my cheek affectionately. "I've got a pot roast that'll put some meat on those bones."
"Pot roast?" Mia perks up beside me. "With those potatoes that absorb all the gravy?"
Ruthie beams, linking arms with her. "Someone appreciates my cooking. Sebastian, get the bags. Your girl and I have recipes to discuss."
I watch them head toward the house, Mia's head bent close to Ruthie's as they talk, matching each other step for step. Dad claps a hand on my shoulder.
"She fits," he says simply.
Two words that somehow encompass everything I've been thinking. Mia doesn't just visit Walker Ranch; she belongs here in a way I never thought possible for someone who didn't grow up with dirt under their fingernails and horse hair on their clothes.
In a way I never thought I did.
"Yeah," I agree, throat suddenly tight. "She does."
Dad's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Well? You going to get those bags or stand there looking lovesick all day?"
I snort but move to the back of the and haul out our suitcases. This time, we've packed for two weeks—the longest vacation either of us has taken in years. Henderson wasn't thrilled, but after the diagnostic department's record-breaking quarter, he could hardly say no.
"Need a hand?" Dad asks, though we both know his help would be more symbolic than practical.
"I've got it," I tell him, balancing Mia's overstuffed duffel on top of my more sensible rolling suitcase.
Inside, the house smells like home—wood smoke, fresh bread, and the rich aroma of Ruthie's famous pot roast. Voices and laughter spill from the kitchen, a familiar chorus that now includes Mia's distinctive laugh. I deposit our bags at the foot of the stairs and pause to absorb the moment.
Six months ago, I brought Mia here shattered and grieving. I watched her cry, held her while she broke apart. And now she's here laughing in my family's kitchen like she was born to it.
"You coming or what?" Bradley's voice carries from the dining room. "Some of us are starving."
I follow the sound to find the long oak table already set, mismatched plates and well-worn silverware laid out with Ruthie's precise care. Bradley sits at his usual place, Hailey beside him looking more relaxed than I've ever seen her. Sawyer lounges in a chair across from them, boots propped on another seat until Ruthie swats them down with a dish towel.
