But for a few seconds longer, several sets of experienced eyes stayed on the fireworks crates.
Law had barely turned away from the fireworks when he noticed his father standing a few yards back from the porch.
The older man had a glass of iced tea in one hand, posture relaxed, watching the yard the same way he used to—quiet, patient, missing nothing.
He’d seen the whole thing.
Law walked over.
His father’s gaze moved across the yard once more, lingering briefly where the teenagers were now packing dirt around the mortar tube under Lincoln’s supervision.
“You boys move fast,” his father said finally.
Law followed his line of sight.
Winter had already drifted back toward the edge of the lights. Micah crouched beside one of the younger kids, sayingsomething that made the boy laugh. Boston had resumed talking—loudly—to one of Law’s brothers.
Rip still stood near the fireworks crates, arms crossed, watching.
Most of the yard had already gone back to eating and talking like nothing had happened.
“Occupational habit,” Law said.
His father took a slow sip of his tea.
“Most people freeze.”
Law glanced at him.
The older man’s eyes moved across the operators again—measuring, evaluating the way he had his entire career. After a moment, he nodded once, like he’d just confirmed something to himself.
“Is he the one?” his father asked, gesturing toward Sage.
Law followed the motion without meaning to.
Sage stood near one of the tables, head bent slightly as he listened to something Micah was saying, the lantern light catching in his hair.
“I think so, yeah.”
His father’s brow lifted slightly. “You trying to cushion it for my benefit?”
As a retired general, the man had never believed in easy answers.
Law huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, sir. He’s the one.”
“Does he know?”
“Not yet.” Law met eyes the exact shade of his own.
His father reached out and gripped his shoulder, the pressure brief but firm.
“Don’t leave it too late.”
Noise from the yard pulled his attention away, and his father turned as Law’s mother stepped out onto the porch carrying a tray of cookies.
Dinner had long since dissolved into the slow, easy rhythm of a summer night.
The grills had gone quiet. Plates had been cleared away. Somewhere near the firepit, someone had stacked driftwood and scrap logs into a bonfire that now burned bright against the dark Tennessee sky, sparks drifting upward like lazy fireflies.
