Judge was at the door before I was, tail wagging.
"Hey, buddy." She crouched down to greet him, scratching behind his ears. "Miss me already?"
He leaned into her like she'd been gone for weeks instead of hours.
"Ready to put me to work?" I asked, stepping aside to let her in.
"Let's see what you found first." She headed straight for the kitchen, Judge trailing behind her, where I'd left everything spread across the counter. She picked up the package of capers, eyebrows raised. "You actually found these. I'm impressed."
My house was small—nothing fancy, nothing impressive. But watching Lacey move through the space with that confident ease, I wished I had more to offer her.
"Okay," she said, laying out ingredients on the counter. "I'm making chicken piccata with roasted vegetables."
"Yes, ma'am." I washed my hands at the sink. "What do I do?"
She handed me a cutting board and vegetables. "Would you chop these, please? Not too small—about like this?" She demonstrated with her hands.
I started cutting, and she moved beside me to season the chicken. Our shoulders brushed, and the domestic intimacy of it—standing in my kitchen, cooking together like we'd done this a hundred times—settled something in me I hadn't known was restless.
"You're good at this," I said as she worked.
"I love cooking." She glanced at me, vulnerability flickering in her expression. "But past guys—including my dad—seemed to expect it of me. Like it was something I should do because I'm female, not because I chose to." She paused, focusing on the chicken. "It took the joy out of it. I stopped making the things I loved because no one even noticed the time or care I put in."
"I notice."
She looked up, and something shifted in her eyes. She touched my face, leaned up to kiss my cheek. "It's nice to have someone to cook for again. Someone who understands what it means to me."
I was beginning to understand her better. The gentle way she handled animals, the patient guidance she gave her students, the love and care she poured into this meal—she was a nurturer at heart, a caretaker.
Those were gifts, and she deserved someone who saw them. Who saw all of her.
We worked together, falling into an easy rhythm. She directed, and I followed. When she needed something, I handed it to her. When the pan needed stirring, I took over while she prepped the next step.
Judge stationed himself by the stove, hoping for scraps. He'd positioned himself between us like he belonged there. Like he'd already decided Lacey was part of his pack.
"Your dog is shameless," Lacey said, laughing as he gave her his best pitiful look.
"He knows a soft touch when he sees one."
"I'm not a soft touch."
"You're petting him right now."
She was. "Fine. I'm a soft touch for dogs."
"Just dogs?"
She looked at me, and heat flared between us. "We'll see."
Dinner was incredible. The chicken was tender, the lemon-caper sauce bright and rich—better than any restaurant I'd been to in Fort Worth.
I'd started a fire in the small fireplace that afternoon. Now it crackled in the background, casting warm light across the room. Outside, the January darkness pressed against the windows, but in here it was warm.
We took our time with the meal. I'd opened a beer for myself, poured her a glass of white wine I'd picked up at the store. We ate at my small table, Judge begging between us, and talked about everything and nothing—her week at the clinic, a call I'd handled about loose cattle, the way the stars looked different out here than they had overseas.
"This place is small," I said eventually, looking around. "Two bedrooms, though the second barely fits a desk. Yard's too small for Judge to really run."
"It's yours, though," she said. "That matters."
