“You were twenty-two when Mom and Dad died. You were just figuring things out.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No,” I agree softly. “But it’s the truth.”
Caleb meets my gaze. “You’re not too much, Jane. You never were. We were just”—he exhales—“scared. Scared men get loud.”
My breath catches. That's Tex’s line. Caleb must have heard it that night on the porch.
“I know,” I say. “I’m learning.”
Caleb nods sharply, which is the Cutter version of an emotional breakdown, and squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll do better.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “We all will.”
The trucks leave after dark.
Boone is the last to go, lingering on the stoop, looking at me with that complex expression he wears when he’s feeling things he can’t name.
“Text the group chat,” he says.
I laugh. “I always do.”
“He’s... not terrible,” he says so quietly I almost miss it.
Coming from Boone, that’s high praise.
“I’ll tell him you said that.”
“Don’t you dare.”
I grin. “Love you too, Boone.”
“Love you, sis,” he says over his shoulder as he walks to his truck.
When the last taillights vanish down the drive, I exhale for what feels like the first time in hours.
Tex approaches from behind, wrapping his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. “You survived.”
“We survived.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Come inside. The fire’s still going.”
We settle on the couch together, his arm around me, my head on his chest, the fire crackling. The cabin feels quiet in that way it does after chaos: warm, settled,ours.
I trace patterns on his shirt, lost in thought.
“Tex?”
His hand strokes my hair. “Yeah?”
“What did you think the day you first saw me?”
He pauses. I expect something soft and romantic.
Instead, his voice rumbles with amusement: “That you were going to be a hell of a lot of trouble.”
I snort. “Rude.”
