A heartbeat. “I want.”
And God help me, that simple sentence felt like a promise neither of us had to say out loud.
Owen appeared in the doorway. "Y'all coming in for dessert, or are you gonna sit out here making moon eyes at each other all night?"
I shot upright, heat crawling up my neck. ”We're not—" I started.
"We'll be right in," Stephy said, laughing.
Owen winked and disappeared.
"Your uncle is not subtle."
"None of them are. Fair warning—they're all planning our wedding already."
"Just the wedding?" She stood, offered me her hand. "Maggie was discussing baby names earlier."
I ran a hand over my face. Mortified and secretly pleased. “Jesus.”
She giggled. ”That was actually one of them."
We went back inside to pie and coffee and more stories. Stephy helped clear plates, got into an argument with Clay about the best Willie Nelson album, let Hunter explain something about engines that went completely over her head, but listened anyway.
This was what she'd been missing in LA. Not just safety, not just protection, but belonging. Real, messy, complicated, wonderful belonging.
"Thank you," she whispered again as we walked back to her cabin later, the family's goodbye hugs still warming her. "Thank you for all of this."
"Always," I said, meaning it. "Always, sweetheart."
She squeezed my hand, and we walked home through the Texas night, the sound of family laughter still echoing behind us.
Chapter 9
Stephanie
The guitar case sat in the corner of the cabin for days before I could look at it.
Not my guitar—that was still in LA, probably being cataloged by my team as an "asset" or boxed up by someone who didn't know it was the same one I'd bought with tip money when I was sixteen. This was the one Clay had brought, still sporting the price tag from Austin, still smelling like a guitar store—wood polish and new strings and possibility.
It was Tuesday morning, two weeks since Liam had brought me to Texas. The breakfast dishes were done, Poet was grazing happily in the pasture, and I'd run out of excuses.
The case opened with that familiar click that hit me right in the chest—sharp, clean, unmistakable. Any guitarist would recognize it in their sleep.
Inside was a gorgeous Martin acoustic.
Golden wood, warm and glowing in the morning light spilling through the cabin windows. Clay had chosen perfectly—classic lines, no unnecessary flash, the kind of instrument made for people who worked, not posed.
It was beautiful enough to make my throat tighten.
I lifted it out of the case slowly, careful like it might bite or shatter or disappear if I breathed wrong. The weight settled into my arms—familiar, grounding, terrifying, comforting. All the conflicting pieces of who I used to be.
I sat on the edge of the couch and rested the guitar in my lap.
For a long moment, I didn’t even try to play. I just… held it.
Then muscle memory took over.
My left hand slid to the tuning pegs, fingers adjusting instinctively. The low E was sharp. The A was flat. D and G were a mess. B was nearly perfect—go figure. High E was just barely off.
