Hopper chuckles. “I know a place where we can see real horses.”
Maddie gasps again, more dramatically this time. “Whe?”
I shake my head, laughing. “Your ranch, Hopper. The one you work at every day?”
He smirks at me, then looks back up at Maddie. “Should we get you a horse? Maybe a pony for you, Maddie?”
Maddie squeals, and I gasp, shoving his arm. “Hopper, don’t promise her a horse. She’s two.”
Hopper’s smirk grows. “I never said when I’d get her one.”
Maddie doesn’t care about technicalities—she just throws her arms in the air, ecstatic. “Yay! I wanna hosey.”
I sigh, but I can’t help but smile. Because right now? This feels perfect. Like we’re just a normal family enjoying a festival, without fear, without threats, without someone watching.
We stop at a stand selling apple cider and maple donuts, the smell of sugar and cinnamon wrapping around us like a warm blanket. Hopper reaches up, lifting Maddie off his shoulders and setting her down gently. She darts toward the table, her little hands grabbing one of the tiny sample cups, and takes a big, dramatic sip.
Her eyes go wide, and she gasps as if she’s just discovered the meaning of life.
“It tastes like warm happy,” she announces, her voice bright and full of awe.
Hopper lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he glances at me. “This kid spends too much time with you.”
I shoot him a mock glare. “And you’ve got a problem with that?”
He grins, leaning down to press a quick kiss to my cheek, the heat of it lingering long after he pulls away. “Nope. I love it.”
The casual PDA catches me off guard, and I swear half the town just saw it. By five o’clock, I fully expect the Birchwood Springs rumor mill to have us halfway down the aisle, planning a wedding we’ve never discussed.
Hopper grabs a cup of cider for himself, takes a sip, and nods approvingly. “Not bad.”
Maddie tugs at his sleeve, her eyes wide and pleading. “More, pwease?”
“Of course, pumpkin,” he says warmly, pulling out a few bills and handing them to the vendor before refilling her tiny cup.
As he does, my gaze drifts across the festival. The square is alive with people, laughter, and the occasional squeal from the kids running between booths. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see it.
A figure.
It’s only for a second—a flash of movement near the far side of the square. A man standing too still, his posture unnatural, half-hidden behind a vendor’s tent. He’s wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled up, but it’s not the outfit that sets me off. It’s the feeling.
The way my stomach twists.
The way I can feel his eyes on me.
Watching me.
Watching us.
My breath stumbles, and the once festive sounds around me now feel overwhelming, too loud, pressing in from all sides. My hands clench into fists as I blink hard, forcing myself to look again.
But he’s gone.
Just like that. Like he was never there at all.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until Hopper steps closer, his hand settling against my lower back.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice low and careful.
