The adult choice.
The end-this-so-everyone-can-move-on choice.
I didn’t say yes because I felt calm about it.
My stomach has been in knots since noon. Tight, restless, buzzing.
The same way it felt right before the fire evacuation. The same way it feels when the letters surface in my thoughts, and I remember that my family is not as tidy as I was raised to believe.
I need clarity.
I need closure.
I need to stop letting my heart yank me in three directions, testing how much strain it can take before everything snaps.
So I shower. I braid my hair. I put on a dress that is soft and familiar and absolutely not seductive, because I’m not trying to seduce anyone.
I’m trying to end a situation.
Though my pulse disagrees.
By the time I walk onto the ranch drive, dusk has settled in that muted, violet way that always makes everything feel a little unreal.
The house lights glow warm against the darkening trees. Smoke from the chimney drifts lazily upward. It looks peaceful.
Which feels like a trap.
I pause and remind myself why I’m here.
To talk. To decide. To move forward.
Not to feel the way my body is already responding to the knowledge that all three of them are inside that house.
The door opens before I knock.
Jesse.
He smiles when he sees me, and my chest tightens in response, instinctive and dangerous. He looks like himself: soft flannel, worn jeans, bare feet as if he forgot shoes exist once he crossed the threshold of fatherhood.
“Hey, Honeybee,” he says.
The nickname still does things to me. That’s part of the problem.
“Hey,” I manage.
His gaze flicks over me, hanging there just a second longer than necessary.
“Come in,” he says gently, stepping aside.
The house smells of dinner and wood smoke. Marshall is at the table, setting plates with methodical precision.
Wyatt stands at the counter, glasses on, sleeves rolled, stirring something on the stove as if this is the most normal evening in the world.
Both look up when I enter.
The air changes.
“Hi,” I say.
