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“Kind of swamped,” I say, not looking up.

He doesn’t take the hint. I hear the low thud of his boots across the floor, the soft exhale through his nose.

“Well, too bad. You’re coming with me.”

I finally glance up, squinting like I’ve been dragged out of a dream. “For what?”

His grin is annoyingly smug, like he knows I’m not really going to fight him on this.

“I’m working,” I protest, gesturing toward the screen like it matters more than the ache behind my ribs.

“Mya.” His voice drops an octave. “Trust me.”

Those two words. They unravel me.

With a sigh, I push back my chair and stand. “Fine. But if this is another trip to the barn to show me how cute the goats are now that you’ve named them after Disney characters⁠—”

“It’s not,” he chuckles, already leading me out.

The drive is short. Tense. He doesn’t say much, and I don’t ask. We pull up in front of a gate I’ve never noticed before, nestled between rows of trees still bare from winter. He hops out and unlocks it manually, then drives us down a gravel road that crunches like shattered glass beneath the tires.

We stop in front of a farmhouse.

Not some quaint little Pinterest cottage with ivy on the porch and flower boxes under every window. No, this place is big. Bigger than I expected. Two stories tall with a wraparound porch that looks like it used to be the stuff of storybooks—before time got its hands on it.

The white paint is peeling like sunburnt skin, cracked and curling at the edges. One of the shutters hangs a little crooked. The porch railing is chipped, like someone once gripped it too hard too often. The gravel driveway is uneven, the steps worn smooth from years of feet and seasons and weather. The windows—tall and wide—are smudged with dust, but behind them I can almost see what this place was… and what it could be again.

It’s beautiful, in the way things are when they’ve endured.

A house with bones. With stories.

“What is this?” I ask, heart in my throat again—but this time, it’s not fear. It’s something else. Something dangerous.

Fletch rounds the truck and opens my door. “Come on.”

I let him help me down. His hand stays wrapped around mine, warm and grounding, even as my pulse spikes like it’s trying to escape my chest.

“Seriously, where are we?”

He leads me up the steps. Unlocks the door. Opens it with a creak and a soft, proud smile.

“I bought it,” he says simply. “At auction. Needs work, but it’s ours.”

The word hits me like a brick

Ours.

I step inside on instinct, like the house has pulled me in by the hem of my sweater.

The air smells like old wood and dust and something faintly sweet—maybe pine, maybe memory. The hardwood floors stretch out beneath me, wide-planked and honey-colored beneath the grime. They’re scuffed and worn in all the right places, the kind of wear that says people lived here. Danced barefoot here. Argued and laughed and probably cried here. The kind of floors that hold echoes.

To my left, there’s a brick fireplace with a carved wooden mantel, aged but sturdy, like it’s been waiting its whole life for Christmas stockings and hot cocoa and two boys in matching pajamas squealing about Santa. I can already see a soft rug in front of it, maybe a blanket or two—something thick and oversized and perfect for curling up on a winter night.

The ceiling above is tall, with thick, exposed beams running across it—weathered and bold like they’ve held generations of secrets. They feel like arms, stretching out to hold the house together. To hold us, maybe, if I let them.

And the kitchen… God. It’s all potential and charm, with cabinets that need sanding and a sink that probably leaks, but there’s a wide, open space in the center. Big enough to cook a holiday meal. Big enough to sway to some old love song while dinner simmers and toddlers bang spoons on the floor.

Big enough to be ours.