"I told you I was coming back," she said, voice thick with emotion.
"You're early," was all I could manage.
"Turns out I'm impatient too."
I pulled her close, probably too hard, definitely too desperate, but she just held on tighter. She smelled like road dust and coffee and home, and I buried my face in her hair, breathing her in like I'd been suffocating without her.
"You're home now," I said, the words coming out ragged, broken. "You're actually home."
"I'm home," she agreed, pulling back enough to look at me. Her hands framed my face, thumbs wiping away moisture I hadn't realized was there. "I'm home, and I'm never leaving again. The papers are signed, the apartment's empty, everything I own is in that car, and I am exactly where I belong."
"Say it again."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
She laughed, the sound bright as morning. "I'm home, Wyatt Blackwood. Home to stay. To build that breeding program. To have Sunday dinners with your family. To wake up in our cabin and drink coffee on the porch and probably argue about fence placement and definitely make up after." Her voice dropped, went serious. "To love you for whatever time we're given, because I've wasted enough of it being scared."
I kissed her then, right there on the side of the road where anyone could see. Kissed her like I was drowning and she was air. Like I was lost and she was the map home. Like we were eighteen and eighty all at once, with our whole lives ahead and behind us.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she laughed again. "You're going to have to help me unload the car."
"Later," I said, already pulling her back. "Everything else can wait."
"The ice cream in my cooler can't."
"You brought ice cream?"
"Blue Bell. Cookies and cream. Thought we could eat it on the porch tonight and talk about the future."
"Our future."
"Ours," she agreed, and the word sounded like a prayer answered.
We stood there under the brutal Texas sun, neither of us willing to let go yet. The ranch stretched around us—the cattle in the east pasture, the barns needing paint, the house where Mom was probably already planning a welcome home dinner. The creek glinted in the distance, witness to our beginning, our ending, our beginning again.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, her hand finding mine, fingers interlacing like they were meant to fit together.
"That some things are worth the wait," I said. "That broken things can heal stronger. That home isn't just a place but a person, and mine just pulled up in a truck full of boxes and melting ice cream."
"Very poetic for a rancher."
"You inspire me."
"I love you," she said simply. "I loved you at eighteen, and I loved you through all the years between, and I love you now. Different but the same. Deeper. Truer. Without conditions or fear."
"I love you too," I said, the words feeling bigger than language could hold. "Always have. Always will."
A truck honked as it passed—Jimmy, grinning and waving, probably already spreading the news that Ivy was back. By dinner, everyone would know. By tomorrow, the whole county would be talking.
Let them talk. Let them see that sometimes love wins. Sometimes people find their way back. Sometimes the story thatseems over is just paused, waiting for the right moment to continue.
"Come on," I said, grabbing my discarded shirt and hammer. "Let's get your ice cream in the freezer, then I'll help you unpack."
"Actually," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, "I thought maybe we could christen the homecoming first. The ice cream's in a pretty good cooler."
"Woman, you're going to be the death of me."
