Which meant it was just the two of us.
We sat across from each other at the table, and I realized this was the first time Riley had cooked for just me. Not familydinner with Mia. Not a quick meal grabbed between shifts. Just this. The two of us, sharing food she'd made with her own hands.
Something about it felt different. More intimate than it should be.
“You didn’t have to do this.” I worked on assembling a taco, noticing my hands were finally steady.
"I know." She shrugged, reaching for the salsa. "I wanted to."
We ate in comfortable silence, the kind that doesn't need filling. Outside, the last light faded from the sky, and the kitchen grew warm with the heat of the stove and the presence of another person.
I watched her from across the table. The way she tore a tortilla cleanly instead of ripping it. The way she tasted the salsa on the tip of her finger before adding more, adjusting without comment. Every movement had purpose—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Even sitting still, she looked ready, like part of her was always tracking what came next.
She’d swept the barn floor without asking. Cooked dinner without waiting for gratitude. Stepped neatly into the empty spaces I’d been pretending weren’t there, handled them, moved on. No announcement. No expectation of credit.
I’d thought I knew what I wanted in a partner. Someone softer, maybe. Someone who needed me in ways that made my role clear. Someone who would slide into the life I’d built without testing its edges, without forcing me to look too closely at the cracks.
Riley wasn’t any of that.
She was sharp lines and careful pauses. A woman who guarded her silences the way other people guarded their hearts. Stubborn enough to meet me head-on, steady enough not to bend just because it would be easier.
She didn’t need me. She didn’t need anyone.
And yet she was here—choosing to stay, choosing to show up—quietly, deliberately, like it mattered.
After dinner, she washed and I dried, standing side by side at the sink the way my grandparents used to. Our arms brushed with each pass of the towel.
"Thank you." I slid the last plate toward her, meeting her eyes for a brief second. "For tonight."
She glanced at me. Something crossed her face—quick, unreadable. That was rare. I paid attention to details, to micro-expressions most people missed, but that look didn’t settle into anything I could name. "You'd do the same for me."
She was right. I would.
The realization landed with a weight that surprised me, solid and unmistakable. There was no hesitation in it, no condition attached.
And I had no idea what to do with that.
What if I want this to be real?
The thought surfaced unbidden as I watched her dry her hands on the dish towel, as the kitchen settled into quiet around us.
What if I want her to stay? Not for the will, not for custody, not for any of the logical reasons we'd listed in that firehouse kitchen. What if I want her to stay because she sweeps barn floors without being asked and makes tacos from scratch and looks at me like I might actually be enough?
The thought should have terrified me.
It did.
But not as much as the thought of letting her go.
CHAPTER 9
Riley
Saturday morning on the ranch,the air crisp and carrying a promise I didn’t trust yet.
I leaned against the pasture fence, coffee warming my hands, watching Liam teach my sister patience the way he did with horses—slow, deliberate, without forcing anything.
They were in the round pen with Honey, the mare who wouldn’t let anyone close. Liam stood near the center, relaxed and unhurried, while Mia faced the horse from a careful distance. His voice carried on the breeze, steady and calm and certain in a way that made something ache in my chest.
