Then she turns toward the field not far from where we're standing, her voice lifting strong. “Harold! Jett! Look who’s finally home!”
The sound of his name drops like a stone in my stomach.
Movement under the shade of the tractor parked in the driveway catches my attention. A pair of long legs slides out, standing to his full six-foot-four frame. Grease-streaked jeans and work boots. Jett Riggsby wipes his palms on a red rag, his grandfather perched above him in the cab. I look away too fast—too obvious—and nearly lose my grip on the dish when a blur of red and white collides with my legs.
“Storm?”
Her name cracks out of me, barely a whisper.
The dog leaps, paws slamming into my thighs, tail wagging so hard her entire back half wobbles. A watery laugh bursts from my chest as I drop to my knees, and Lydia takes the dish from my hands. My fingers bury into Storm’s thick fur, pressing against the familiar warmth.
For a moment, I’m not here. I’m seventeen again, with headlights cutting through a storm so heavy I couldn't see the river running beside the road. Jett yells at me to slow down. My hands lock tight on the wheel. And then—her. A trembling puppy stumbling through the ditch, rain plastering fur to her small frame.
Fate, Jett said when we scooped her into my Civic.
“She missed you.” Lydia’s voice is soft, full of something I can’t name. “We all did.”
I blink too fast, brushing fur from my jeans as I stand, desperate to swallow the lump climbing up my throat. “I missed you, too.”
I nod at the dish still balanced in Lydia’s hands. “Grams sent this. Said you shouldn’t have to cook while you’re not feeling well.”
Her smile deepens. “Tell your grandma thank you, sweetheart. Jett, stop fussing with that tractor and come say hello.”She squeezes my arm before retreating toward the porch, leaving me stranded in the middle of the yard with nowhere to run.
The last person I want to see after last night is Jett.
And still, my eyes seek him out.
He’s wiping his hands, slower now, the rag twisting between his fingers. His broad chest rises and falls beneath a sweat-damp shirt that clings in all the ways it shouldn’t. Tattoos run down one arm, the black lines stark against his sun-bronzed skin. His hat shadows his eyes, but I know them too well. I can feel the weight of his stare like pressure against my ribs.
Every step he takes is deliberate. Heavy boots. Coiled tension. “Stone” by Whiskey Myers drifts low from the barn, the rough chords flowing out on the breeze. It’s him, this song—hard edges, raw hurt, heavy as the dirt beneath our feet.
“What happened to staying in your lane while I stayed in mine?” His voice is grating, pitched low enough to rattle me.
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
The audacity sparks hot. Fury unfurls sharply beneath my ribs.
“You know what? Fuck this.” I spin on my heel, storming toward the truck. I don’t need his attitude. It wasn’t my choice to come here. And how was I supposed to know he’d be here?
Storm whines at my side, the sound tugging at something inside me I don’t want to acknowledge. My hands fumble with the handle, but before I can wrench it open, his hand clamps down on my arm.
The world tilts.
Terror detonates. My body snaps inward, chest collapsing, breath catching in my throat.
The grip drops instantly. “Shit.” His voice cracks. “Wren, I didn’t mean—
I drag air into my lungs, forcing myself to look at him. He’s frozen, the rag dangling from his fist, hat tipped back, hair mussed. And those eyes. God, those blue eyes. Once my safeplace, now burning steel. His expression fractures, fury breaking through.
“I can’t do this.” It’s barely a whisper that falls from my lips.
I climb into the truck, slam the door shut, and rev the engine. Gravel spits like gunfire as I tear out of the drive, the Chevy shuddering beneath me.
The music cuts. The smell of cattle fades slightly. Dust curls up in the mirrors.
And only one word pulses through me, steady as a heartbeat.
Home.
