Finn sat there for a moment longer, then looked out over the farm—the rows running clean to the tree line, the barn’s familiar red, the workshop with its newer roof that he and Boyd had put on the second summer. Three years. Three years of work that had also been recovery, that had also, gradually, become just life.
He thought about the restaurant. The number on the prize sheet. The way the recipe had become something real between them, built in the kitchens, assembled from different directions.
He thought about the kiss. No cameras. No noise. No one else.
It had been real. Nothing fake about it. She'd made sure of that. That was the point.
"You should tell her how you feel," Boyd said.
"I’m not even sure if we’re dating."
"Start with that question. Make it a statement. Tell her you want to date her."
"And when she’s ready to leave?"
"You’re future-casting. Decide what you want right now and go after that. You know as well as every man and woman on this ranch that tomorrow is not promised. So grab what you want today. And if that’s her, hold her tight and don’t let go until she makes you. And even then, there's room to negotiate."
Boyd left him with that, boots quiet against the dirt as he headed back toward the barn, like he trusted Finn to do what he always did: sit with it until it made sense.
Finn didn’t move right away. He stayed where he was, the empty crate solid beneath him, the rows stretching out in front of him in clean, deliberate lines. He let his gaze track them the way he always did, following the order of it, the intention. Every plant in its place. Every inch of soil accounted for.
It hadn’t always been like this. When the farm had first been folded into the program, people came and went. They did the work while they were here, did it well enough, but no one stayed long enough to see it through. Crops went unharvested. Windows were missed. Soil that should have been turned sat fallow. Things rooted without direction, or not at all.
It hadn’t been neglect. Just… absence. No one to carry it forward.
Finn had fixed that. He had stayed. Paid attention. Made the next right decision, and then the next, and then the one after that, until the place held together because he did.
The rows in front of him were proof of it. Consistency. Presence. Follow-through. That was what made something thrive.
His gaze shifted, unfocused now, seeing something that wasn’t there.
Ivy, in the greenhouse, putting her camera down.
Ivy, at the stove, arguing about butter like it was a structural necessity.
Ivy, at her door, saying What if I want it to?"
If she stayed, he knew what to do with that. He knew how to build something that lasted. He knew how to show up, day after day, and tend it until it took root and held.
If she left?—
His jaw tightened.
He knew what that would feel like, too. Like a field that had been carefully prepared and then left empty. The structure still there. The work still done. But nothing growing where something should have been. Rooted, with nowhere to go.
He let that sit for a moment, the weight of it, the truth of it. Then he shook his head once.
Boyd was right. That was tomorrow. This was today.
Finn looked back out at the rows, at the life he had built here with time and attention and the refusal to walk away from something just because it might not last forever. He could do the same with her.
He stood, brushing his hands against his jeans, the decision settling into place the way it always did once he’d worked it through. He wasn’t going to plan for her leaving. He was going to choose her staying. And if she didn’t…
He would deal with that when it came.
For now, he knew exactly what he wanted. He picked up the crate and headed back toward the barn. He had work to do.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
