She leans into me then. Not much. Just enough to press her shoulder into mine, her forehead brushing my cheek.
“I miss him,” she says quietly. “Even when I’m mad at him. Even now.”
“I know.” I let my arm slide around her back, holding her there. “And whatever this is, you don’t have to figure it out alone.”
She’s quiet a beat longer, then she whispers, “Thanks, Cash.”
And something about the way she says my name, soft, broken, real, makes me want to pull her closer and never let go.
But for now, I just hold her. Because sometimes that’s all someone needs.
But when she pulls back to look at me, her face inches from mine, something shifts.
The air between us crackles, not like before, not like lust lighting up like dry kindling, but slower, heavier. Her lips are parted, her breath catching just a little, and I can’t stop staring at her mouth.
She tilts her head the slightest bit. A question. An opening. My hand’s still on her back, my thumbbrushing the edge of her spine. Her fingers graze my chest, featherlight.
I lean in, just enough to feel her exhale against my lips.
Then a sound outside, boots on gravel, maybe a door creaking, jerks us both back to reality. My body stiffens, heart slamming once in my chest like it’s been caught doing something it shouldn’t.
Avery pulls back slightly, blinking like she’s just come up for air, her lips still parted, her breath still brushing mine. My hand falls away from her back, fingers curling into a fist at my side, like maybe that’ll keep me from reaching for her again.. We don’t move, but we don’t close the distance either. The kiss that almost was hangs between us, heavy and humming.
Avery swallows. “We should probably—”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “We should go and see who was out here. Probably one of the ranch hands looking for me.”
But neither of us moves for another long heartbeat.
And when we do, the space between us feels different. Charged. Like something we can’t ignore for much longer.
Chapter eight
Unsealed
Avery
The envelope is heavier than it looks.
It sits on the kitchen table like it knows it’s about to ruin something, thick cream paper, old wax seal cracked from my thumb. I haven’t opened it since we found it in the west barn, though it’s burned a hole in my thoughts every second since. I slept with it under my pillow like some cursed fairytale letter.
Now Harper’s pacing beside me, muttering under her breath about how she’d rather wrestle a greased pig than deal with emotional letters before coffee. "I swear, if this turns into a Nicholas Sparks moment, I’m dying to know," she adds, shooting the envelope a dramatic side-eye.
Emmy sits on the floor nearby with a plastic pony in each hand, blissfully unaware of the tension stretching across the room like barbed wire.
And Cash leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, silent but present. Solid. Watching me like he already knows this won’t go the way I want.
“I could read it later,” I murmur, not looking up.
“Nope.” Harper stops pacing. “Because if you don’t open it now, you’ll chicken out and spend the next week stress-baking until the ranch is knee-deep in muffins and chocolate chip cookies.”
She’s not wrong.
I take a breath and break the seal. The sound is small but deafening.
Inside is a handwritten letter, two pages, folded once down the middle. my dad’s handwriting stares up at me, familiar and steady, even though it feels like a stranger wrote it. The same looping script that used to label my school lunch bags and appeared on Post-its in the barn with reminders like 'Feed Dusty' or 'Check the fence.'
It hits me like a kick in the chest, how something so small can carry so much history. I glance up once, meeting Cash’s gaze. He doesn’t say a word, but something in his expression softens.
