Riley stared out into the dark, quiet for a long moment, like she was lining something up inside herself.
“Final hearing’s in two days.”
The original date had been the Tuesday after the clearing. Diana had gotten it pushed back two weeks to give Riley time to recover, to give all of us time to breathe. Judge Morrison had agreed without argument. Given everything that had happened, no one was in a rush.
“I know.”
Riley’s gaze stayed fixed on the dark stretch of pasture beyond the porch, the quilt pulled tight around her shoulders like armor.
“It’s just a formality now. With Todd in custody, the charges, everything. Diana said it should be straightforward.”
The words hung between us, too neat, too rehearsed. I felt her hand tense in mine, like saying it out loud had stirred something she’d been holding still.
“But it still matters.”
She nodded once, slow.
“Yeah.” A breath in. A breath out. “It still matters.”
The porch swing gave a low creak as we rocked, back and forth, back and forth. An owl called from the treeline, the sound hollow and watchful. In the barn, a horse stamped, then another, leather and wood settling as the night deepened around us.
The cold crept in through the quilt, through the boards beneath our feet. I shifted closer without thinking, letting my shoulder press into hers, grounding us both.
I don’t know how long we sat like that—long enough for the stars to feel fixed, for the quiet to stop feeling tense and start feeling earned—before I finally stood, drew her up with me, and took her hand, leading her toward the edge of the porch.
I turned to her instead. Let myself take her in. Moonlight threaded through her dark hair, turning the edges silver. The scar on her shoulder was still there, faint and pink where the stitches had been, a quiet reminder of how close we’d come to losing everything. Her face was open now—confused, curious, trusting. The look she wore when she didn’t know where we were going but believed I wouldn’t lead her somewhere unsafe.
“What are we doing?”
I held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, like I was bracing myself.
“I had a plan.”
The words came out softer than I’d expected.
“For how I was going to do this.”
I shifted my weight, felt the porch boards creak beneath my boots.
“I was going to take you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Candles, maybe. Wine you’d pretend to like.”
Her brow knit, just slightly. A question forming she hadn’t voiced yet.
“Do what?”
I slipped my hand into my pocket. The small, familiar weight was grounding. I drew it out slowly—not dramatic, just honest—and held it between us.
The velvet box caught the moonlight.
Her breath hitched. Sharp and sudden. Her hand flew to her mouth like she was trying to hold the moment still, afraid it might vanish if she didn’t.
I watched it all—the way her shoulders lifted, the way her eyes shone, the way her pulse jumped visibly at her throat.
I didn’t look away.
“Liam—”
“I know we’re already married.” I opened the box. Gran’s ring caught the moonlight, simple and elegant, the gold worn smooth with fifty-three years of love. “I know we’ve already said the words. But I never got to ask you properly. Never got to do this the way you deserve.”
