But now…
Now, Abigail is threaded through every thought I have.
In such a short time, she has become the reason for it all.
Her laugh. The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking or plays with her sleeves when she’s nervous. The quiet strength she carries even when she doesn’t realize it’s there. The way she fits into this place like the Willow trees around the creek.
She’s part of it now.
She’s family.
Shebelongs.
I picture it without trying to.
Years from now. When the ranch is older—weathered fence posts silvered by sun and snow, the barn doors bearing new scars layered over old ones. The land still breathing. Still alive. Stillours.I picture mornings that start slower. Coffee cooling in our hands while the sun climbs over the mountains like it’s done a million times before. I picture dust on boots that don’t move quite as fast anymore and laughter lines etched deep from lives actually lived.
I see wrinkled hands. Stiffer joints. Gray creeping in where dark hair once lived. But still together. Still choosing each other every single day, not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. Because we’ve already weathered the worst and come out the other side standing shoulder to shoulder.
I see Abigail there, in the fields, on the back of a horse, on the front step with a smile on her face.
I want to grow old with her.
With them.
I want us to be the men who slide a ring onto her finger and mean it with every ounce of our beings. I want to see her beam with pride when she looks down at it—not because it’s big or expensive, but because it’s a promise. Because it says she’s chosen. It says she’s home. With us.
I want her to carry our babies. Iwant—
The thought stills the breath inside my chest. Not just the idea of children, but ofher—rounded and glowing, fierce and soft all at once. I picture small boots by the door. Hands clutching at denim. Little voices echoing through these halls. I picture Beau teaching them how to feed horses, Jasper sneaking them sugar when he thinks no one’s watching, Lincoln patiently explaining the world like it makes sense if you just take the time to listen.
I bark out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, the sound sharp in the stillness.
Jesus Christ.
What would that even look like? The world doesn’t exactly make room for relationships like ours. I mean, we can’t all marry her. Can we? And if Abigail got pregnant—if she carried a piece of us into this world—
I’m having a hard time breathing.
Would each of us be the father? Would it matter whose blood it was? Or would it simply beours?Would love outweigh genetics? Would it matter who the world thought the child belonged to, as long as he or she was safe, protected, and surrounded by people who would burn the world down before letting harm touch them?
The questions pile up faster than I can sort them, each one heavier than the last.
I scrub my hand over my face and push back from the desk, standing abruptly like distance might put some space between me and the way my thoughts are spiraling out of control.
I’m not sure I’m ready to answer any of it.
And yet… I know I want it.
All of it.
Even if I don’t yet understand how.
And that’s enough to leave me standing here, heart pounding, caught somewhere between fear and hope. Between the man I’ve always been and the life I suddenly can’t imagine living without.
That’s when my phone rings.
The sound is sharp and immediate.
