Outside, the wind calmed. Inside, warmth crept back. The brick stayed on the counter, a reminder—but not the end.
We were still standing.
Chapter 12
In With the Good
Austin
Iwoke to the soft sound of Milly humming in the kitchen. I stood there, listening. It wasn’t a song I knew. It was something she made up as she went along, all sunshine and melody. I repaired the window yesterday, and it throws a clean square of light across the floorboards.
Coffee’s already on. Milly’s at the counter with that focused-joy face, her hair looped into a loose braid that keeps losing the argument. There’s a clipboard beside her elbow, a neat stack of forms clipped together. She doesn’t see me yet. I watch the way her shoulders loosen while she reads the day’s list, how her mouth tips up when she checks a box. Courage looks good on her. It always did.
“Morning,” I say.
She glances over, eyes bright. “You’re up early.”
“I heard singing. Figured we were being burgled by a cheerful soprano.”
“Tragic,” she says, pouring a mug and sliding it my way. “The only loot you’ll get is decaf.”
I taste it. Not decaf. Mercy in a cup. “Liar.”
She bumps my hip with hers, light contact thundering in my chest. “We need to be in town by eight. Tents, tables, the wholetraveling circus. Doc Wilson promised to appear, grumble, and then leave before noon.”
“Good. He deserves the afternoon off.”
She taps her list. “We’ll set up triage in the back. Cats on the left, dogs on the right, goats wherever they please because goats. I’ve got Cassie and two 4-H kids for intake. If you run perimeter and keep Mrs. Winslow from interrogating everyone, we might even finish on time.”
“Perimeter is my love language.”
“I thought fixing coffee machines was your love language.”
“Multilingual,” I say.
We eat at the table, and Milly places enough of Sarah’s homemade raspberry jam on her toast to be illegal. She takes a bite, and jam smears along her mouth. My eyes dart to her lips, and before my mind can catch up, I slowly reach up and brush the jam from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. A simple domestic gesture, but Milly freezes and watches my every move, a smirk lifting her mouth just slightly. A moment so boyfriend-coded it should come with a warning label.
Inspector watches from the windowsill, tail sweeping approval or judgment—I never know with that cat. When we head out for the morning check, the air is crisp with that pre-festival feeling, Everwood stretching its arms before the day gets loud.
At the barn, Milly and I walk shoulder to shoulder. The air between us feels almost commonplace. When we both reach for the gate latch, our hands brush, and our fingers tangle over it. Her skin is warm against mine, and my brain does the world’s least helpful math: one touch equals a thousand thoughts. I tighten my hold for half a second, then let go. I cover her fingers with mine. Milly smiles, all sunshine and roses. The metal is cool under our palms, and we open the gate together.
“You know I can open my own gates,” she says, but her voice is smiling.
“I know,” I say. “Sometimes I like being the backup gate.”
“Backup gate,” she repeats, pretending to write it on the clipboard. “Noted.”
Chores go fast when two people pretend they’re not racing. I haul feed; she rolls her eyes and steals half the bag. Sherlock trails us like a foreman with short legs and high standards. When a breeze lifts strands from her braid, I want to tuck them behind her ear and don’t. Discipline, Adams. She’s not porcelain. She’s a wildfire with a license.
“Any dreams?” she asks, nudging my boot with hers.
“Just one where the porch swing was a helicopter.”
“Therapist Milly says you need fewer power tools.”
“Tell Therapist Milly I will not be taking questions at this time. And I’d have to agree it’s the exact opposite. One can never have too many power tools.”
After the rounds, we head back inside.
