"Feet off the furniture, you animal," she scolds without heat. "We have guests."
"Mia's not a guest," Sawyer protests, winking at her as she enters from the kitchen carrying a basket of rolls. "She's practically a Walker already."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his casual acceptance. Mia sets the bread on the table and slides into the empty chair beside mine.
"Not officially," she replies with a small smile. "Yet."
The word hangs in the air between us, loaded with promise. I take her hand under the table and squeeze it gently.
"Alright, enough chatter," Ruthie announces, placing the pot roast at the center of the table with a flourish. "Dig in before it gets cold."
Dinner at Walker Ranch has always been controlled chaos—too many people talking at once, dishes passed in every direction, the scrape of chairs and clink of glasses creating a soundtrack I didn't realize I'd missed until now. But something about having Mia beside me makes it all feel richer, more vibrant somehow.
"So, Bradley," Mia says, accepting the mashed potatoes from Hailey, "how's that deck coming along?"
Bradley groans, and Hailey snorts beside him. "Don't get him started," she warns.
"It's fine," Bradley insists, spearing a piece of carrot with unnecessary force. "Structurally sound, which is what matters."
"The railing is crooked," Hailey stage-whispers to Mia. "And there's a mysterious slope that makes marbles roll to one corner."
"It adds character," Bradley argues, but his lips twitch at the corners, betraying his amusement.
Mia's hand finds my thigh under the table, a gentle squeeze that somehow manages to be both comforting and slightly inappropriate given our company. Heat crawls up my neck and across the table, Hailey clears her throat loudly.
"So, Mia," she says with pointed emphasis, "how's the hospital these days? Any exciting cases?"
Mia launches into a story about a patient with mysterious symptoms that turned out to be caused by her pet parrot. Everyone listens, they're not just humoring her; they're invested in her life, her work, her stories.
As she talks, I watch her hands move animatedly, describing test results and differential diagnoses with the same passion she brings to everything. She uses the shorthand names for hospital departments and colleagues without explaining, knowing everyone at the table has heard enough of her stories to follow along.
"And then Laney—you remember, my friend from the ER?—she walks in with the parrot's test results just as Henderson is telling us we're wasting resources," she continues, pausing to accept more pot roast from Ruthie, who's already filling her plate for the second time.
"I'm still eating, Ruthie," she protests weakly.
"You're too skinny," Ruthie insists. "Growing doctors need protein."
"I think I'm done growing," Mia laughs but obediently takes a bite of the fresh serving.
"The vertical kind, maybe," Ruthie says with a wink that makes me choke on my water. "Other kinds of growing are still on the table."
Dad coughs into his napkin, clearly hiding a smile. "The parrot test results?" he prompts, saving us all from wherever Ruthie was heading with that comment.
"Right!" Mia dives back into her story, her free hand gesturing wildly while the other remains firmly entwined with mine beneath the tablecloth.
I watch the others more than listening to the story I already know. The way Bradley nods at the medical details, how Hailey leans forward, elbows on the table despite Ruthie's rules about proper posture. Sawyer's occasional questions that showhe's been paying attention to Mia's previous stories about the hospital.
And Dad, sitting at the head of the table like always, more observer than participant, but his eyes are warm as they move between Mia and me. There's an approval there that I've spent most of my life chasing, now freely given not for any achievement of mine, but simply because I found her.
After dinner, Ruthie shoos us all from the kitchen despite Mia's offers to help clean up. "Go on, all of you."
Outside, she settles beside me on the porch swing.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close as the swing gently sways beneath us. The evening air carries the scent of pine and distant rain, cool enough that Mia nestles against me for warmth. Dad takes his usual chair, cane propped against the railing, while Bradley and Hailey claim the steps.
Ruthie brings out coffee in mismatched mugs, steam rising into the darkening sky. For several minutes, we sit in comfortable silence, listening to the night sounds of the ranch.
"Nice, isn't it?" Dad says finally, looking out over his land. "Having both my boys home."
