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And so do I.

The thing no one tells you about recovery is how damn still everything feels. Like the whole world has sprinted ahead while you’re stuck dragging leaden limbs through molasses. And if I sit too long in the quiet, my thoughts spiral into places Reese keeps telling me to avoid.

So I don’t sit. I move. I do. Because if I don’t, I’ll drown in the what-ifs.

I’ve been back on the ranch a couple of weeks now. Mornings are for hospital visits, afternoons are for work—slow and steady—and evenings are for pretending I’m not exhausted. Reese side-eyes me like she’s two seconds from staging an intervention every time she catches me lifting feed bags or reorganizing the barn storage.

“You’re supposed to be recovering,” she said yesterday, arms crossed, bump out, and scowl firmly in place.

I told her, not so politely, that if she didn’t let me keep busy, my brain would eat itself alive. I didn’t miss the way her eyes softened before she handed me a clipboard and muttered something about not lifting anything heavier than a goat.

Today, while she’s in town checking in on Simply Reese, I take full advantage of the quiet. The tacos are a peace offering, really. A bribe wrapped in foil and carnitas and maybe a little desperation. Because the guys—my guys—are holed up in the barn-turned-studio and I’ve barely seen them.

The barn used to smell like hay and horses. Now it smells like coffee, cords, and ambition. The space is fully converted—recording booth in the back, couches and coffee tables up front, mismatched rugs layered like soundproofing patchwork. It’s still rustic, but now it hums with electricity.

Literally and metaphorically.

Balancing three containers and a bottle of homemade lemonade, I nudge the barn door open with my hip. The guys are filtering out of the recording booth, flushed and loose-limbed like they’ve just exorcised something through the mic.

Fletch sees me first. His mouth curves slow and soft, the kind of smile that used to make me forget how to breathe. Now it just makes my ribs ache in that familiar, traitorous way.

“Looks like someone brought lunch,” he says, voice warm enough to melt the frost still clinging to the spaces between us.

Carson whistles low, eyeing the containers. “If this is what recovery looks like, I think I’m in love.”

Benji flops onto the couch with a groan. “God bless you, woman. I was about five minutes from chewing on a guitar string.”

I set everything down on the table, peeling back foil to release the heavenly scent of seasoned meat and warm tortillas. “Figured you’d be too deep in genius mode to remember food exists.”

“We remembered,” Carson mutters, mouth already full. “We just didn’t want to leave mid-take.”

Fletch’s gaze lingers on me like he’s trying to read between the layers. “You okay?”

I nod, too quickly. “I’m fine. Tacos, remember?”

Benji wipes his hands and leans back, pointing a chip at Fletch. “You should’ve seen him this morning. Wrote two songs back-to-back like a man possessed. And get this—none of it was trash.”

That gets my attention.

I blink, turning to Fletch. “You write songs now?”

He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “I guess.”

“You guess?” My brows shoot up. “I thought Benji and Thorin wrote the songs.”

“They do,” Carson says around a mouthful. “But something shifted after… y’know. Fletch just started writing. Like, really writing.”

Fletch won’t meet my eyes. He’s fiddling with a bottle cap like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing on the planet. “They’re not all about you,” he says under his breath, like he’s trying to convince himself more than me.

My stomach swoops, because I didn’t ask. But now that he’s said it, I can’t help but wonder. And hope. And maybe hate myself a little for both.

I study him for a beat longer, but he doesn’t look up. So I sit on the arm of the couch, pop a taco in my mouth, and try to chew around the sudden lump in my throat.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s charged. Like we’re all pretending not to see the live wire sparking under the table.

“Mind if I hang out a while?” I ask, nudging the tray of empty plates on the coffee table with my hip. “The house feels a little… close right now.”

It’s not a lie. I love the ranch. I love the twins. I even love the laundry-scented chaos of folding onesies in between bottle sterilizations and late-night NICU updates. But being cooped up inside the same four walls with nothing but the ghost of who I was three months ago and the worry of who I need to become? It’s a lot.