“A lot. I’m practically broke now,” she laughed. “But it was worth every penny."
"Steph—"
"I can make money playing small venues, writing songs for other artists, maybe teaching. But I can do it from here. From home. I already have three gigs booked at places within driving distance. Small, intimate venues where I can play my music, not Stevie Wilson's."
"Our home," I corrected, bringing her hand to my lips.
"Our home," she agreed. "Though I need to get my stuff from storage. It's not much—just my guitars, some clothes, my notebooks."
"We'll get it all. Make room for whatever you need."
"I don't need much. Just you. Just this."
As we drove through the darkness toward the ranch, toward our life, she told me everything about LA, about the lawyers, about closing that chapter completely.
"No regrets?" I asked as we pulled through the ranch gates.
"Only one."
My heart clenched. "What?"
"That it took me so long to figure out what really mattered."
I lifted her hand to my lips. "You're here now. That's all that counts."
"I'm here now," she repeated, like a vow. "And I'm never leaving again."
When we pulled up to the ranch, Poet was at the fence, whinnying like she'd known Stephy was coming. The horse was practically dancing, tossing her head, making sounds I'd never heard her make.
"Hey, pretty girl," Stephy called out, jumping from the truck. "I told you I'd come back."
I watched them reunite—Stephy's arms around Poet's neck, the horse nuzzling her like she was checking she was real. This was right. This was how it was supposed to be.
The storm was rolling in the way Texas storms do—slow at first, a distant flicker on the horizon, then building heat in the air like a secret. We sat on the porch swing with two glasses of whiskey, our legs tangled, her head against my shoulder, the whole world dipped in that honey-gold light right before the sky breaks open.
This had always been our thing—storms. Watching them gather, feeling the electricity hum through the air, the promise of something wild and unstoppable moving toward us. Tonight it felt different. Like the storm wasn’t a threat but a celebration. A welcome home.
“You hear that?” I murmured, brushing my thumb along the inside of her wrist, right where her pulse fluttered. “Sky’s talking to us.”
“It sounds like it’s saying ‘I missed you,’” she whispered, her breath warm against my neck.
I turned my head and kissed her temple, slow and lingering. “Storm has good taste.”
She laughed softly, then went quiet again, watching the horizon where lightning stitched the clouds together. The wind picked up, lifting a strand of her hair across my lips. I tucked it gently behind her ear.
“I love you,” she said, barely audible, like it was a secret just for me and the night.
“I love you more,” I murmured back, letting my hand slip to the curve of her thigh. “And you should know something.”
“Mm?” she asked, tipping her face up toward mine, eyes glowing in the storm’s light.
“You’re gonna marry me soon.”
She froze—not afraid, just…full. Her breath caught, her eyes went soft, and something in her expression opened like a door.
“Oh,” she whispered, almost breathless. “Am I?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out low, certain, steady. “Didn’t figure I needed to ask. Feels like we’ve both known for a long time.”
