He laughed. "True."
We moved around each other easily, falling into a rhythm that felt natural. He cooked. I poured coffee. We didn't talk much, but the quiet was punctuated only by the sizzle of bacon and the occasional brush of his hand against mine when we passed each other.
When breakfast was ready, we sat at the small kitchen table Ray had built decades ago, and I looked across at Wyatt—at this man who'd been patient when I needed patience, who'd given me space when I needed space, who'd shown up when I asked him to without making me feel weak for asking.
"What?" he asked, catching me staring.
"Nothing," I said. “It’s just, this is nice."
His mouth curved. "Yeah. It is."
We ate in comfortable silence, and when we were done, Wyatt helped me clean up without being asked. I went and reluctantly changed out of his shirt into my scrubs.
"I should probably head out," he said eventually, leaning against the counter, doing up the buttons on his shirt. "I need to head to the brewery.”
I nodded, even though part of me wanted him to stay. "I've got to get to work too.”
Wyatt reached for me, pulling me close, and I wentwillingly, my arms looping around his neck. "Last night," he said against my hair. "That was?—"
"Perfect," I interrupted. "It was perfect."
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hand coming up to cup my face. "You're perfect."
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. "Stop."
"Never."
He kissed me one more time, slow and thorough, and then he pulled away with visible reluctance.
"I'll see you soon," he said.
"Yeah," I agreed. "You will."
I walked him to the door and watched as he climbed into his truck, gave me one last look through the windshield that made my stomach flip, and drove away.
When the dust settled on the driveway, I closed the door and leaned against it, a smile spreading across my face.
I'd done it.
I'd chosen something for myself. Something good. Something that didn't require me to shrink or apologize or explain.
And it felt damn good.
I pushed off the door and headed back to my bedroom, pulling on my socks and boots. I grabbed the truck keys off the hook.
But for a second, I stood in the middle of my house and let myself accept that it was mine.
The strength. The choice. The certainty that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.
“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered before I headed out.
Epilogue
Tessa
The late afternoon sun slanted across the kitchen table where I sat with a mug of coffee, reviewing supply orders for the clinic. Outside, I could hear the steady rhythm of Wyatt working in the barn, the clang of metal on metal as he fixed something that had probably been broken for weeks.
