“Character is just another word for flawed,” I say, and immediately regret it.
What kind of monster crushes a child’s Christmas spirit?
But Lucy just tilts her head, considering. “Or maybe it’s another word for interesting. Perfect is boring.”
I blink at her. “How old are you?”
“Ten and three-quarters. Almost eleven.” She wriggles out of Walker’s arms. “Anyway, are you staying for dinner? We’re having leftover chili because Dad forgot to defrost the chicken again.”
“I didn’t forget. I made a strategic decision to prioritize?—”
“He forgot,” Lucy stage-whispers to me.
I watch them together. Their easy back-and-forth twists something in my chest. This is the exact opposite of what I do for a living. I watch families fall apart. I document the wreckage of love gone wrong. I divide assets and custody schedules. All day long, I help people untangle the mess of promises they couldn’t keep.
But this. This is something else.
Walker moves around the kitchen with practiced ease. He heats up chili while Lucy sets the table with mismatched plates. He asks about her day without checking his phone. He listens to her rambling story about the cookies and Patty June and some drama with the chickens, like it’s the most important thing in the world.
Because to him, it probably is.
He’s fully present. Not performing for anyone, not checking boxes on some parenting checklist. Just… here. With her. I get the feeling they aren’t changing a single thing on my behalf, and I love that.
“You can sit here,” Lucy announces, pulling out a chair for me. “This is the good chair. It doesn’t wobble.”
“Thanks.” I lower myself into the seat, feeling distinctly out of place in my designer heels and silk blouse.
Everything about me is wrong for this room. I’m too put together, too cynical, and just too much. Walker sets a bowl of chili in front of me, and our fingers brush when I reach for the spoon. Heat shoots up my arm, and I jerk back like I’ve been burned.
His eyes meet mine, dark and knowing. “Careful. It’s hot.”
He’s not talking about the chili. I know it, and he knows I know it.
“I can handle the heat,” I hear myself say.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I bet you can.”
“Dad.” Lucy’s voice is thick with preteen disgust. “Can you not be weird in front of our guest?”
Walker laughs, and the sound does something dangerous to my chest. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ll try to contain myself.”
We eat dinner while the storm rages outside. Lucy tells me about her school and her best friend, then rolls right into a story about the new calf born last week. Walker watches me with those steady eyes. He’s not pushing, not prying, just observing. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
Good luck, bro. I’ve spent thirty-one years trying to figure myself out, and I’m still not there.
After dinner, Walker carries a half-asleep Lucy to bed. I stand at the window, watching the rain lash against the glass and wondering how the hell I ended up here. Stranded on a ranchwith a man who looks at me like he can see past every wall I’ve built.
“She likes you.”
I turn to find Walker in the doorway, his massive shoulder leaning against the frame.
“She doesn’t know me.”
“Kids are good judges of character. Better than adults.” He crosses the room to stand beside me at the window. Not too close. But close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “She’s not wrong about the tree, by the way. The star is crooked. But she put it up there herself, so it stays.”
I don’t know why that makes my throat tight. It shouldn’t. It’s just a tree.
“You’re a good father,” I say quietly.
