Page 137

“I can still cook.”

“You can heat things.”

“Same basic skill set.”

Her body relaxes back against mine.

This is what coming home looks like now. Not a dramatic reunion or a week of trying to fit back into her routine. I come through the door, drop my bag, and start figuring out dinner while Ruby tells me about the client who wanted a tattoo of a slug eating a donut and the artist she’s considering bringing into Black Fern for a guest weekend.

Sometimes she comes with me for part of a run. Sometimes Black Fern is too busy, and she stays here. Sometimes I get home before she’s done at work and end up sitting in the shop while she finishes with a client because I don’t feel like waiting another hour to see her.

We stopped treating any of it like a test a long time ago.

I kiss the side of her neck. “How was the week?”

“Busy.”

“Good busy?”

“Mostly. I booked two more cover commissions.”

I straighten enough to look at her. “Seriously?”

She nods. “One is for a band out of Seattle. The other is an author.”

“That’s great.”

“It is.” Her smile turns a little smug. “And I charged them properly this time.”

“Even better.”

The Hollow North cover opened a door Ruby never planned on walking through. She still tattoos four days a week because that’s the work she loves most, but every so often another band, musician, or author finds the album and asks who created the art.

She says yes when the project interests her and no when it doesn’t. Watching her career expand without swallowing the parts she loves has been almost as satisfying as watching Hollow North grow. I’m not sure I’ll ever tell her that quite so directly because she’d enjoy it way too much, but seeing her build something that’s completely hers makes me stupidly proud.

Mom decides my return is reason enough for a family dinner, but Ruby and I manage to claim Saturday night for ourselves. By Sunday afternoon, that grace period is over, and our house is full of Hales.

Dad is outside at the grill while Mom, Briar, and Ruby move between the kitchen and patio with bowls and platters. Lachlin is sitting on the back steps with Jack on his lap, and Conlin is stretched out in one of the patio chairs talking to Dad.

Jack spots me before I make it outside.

“Uch!”

He slides off Lachlin’s knee with the complete lack of caution expected from a toddler and toddles toward me.

I catch him before he reaches the edge of the patio. “Hey, buddy.”

He wraps both arms around my neck.

The kid gets bigger every time I see him. Not enough that I feel bad about missing it. That was one of the things I had to learn. I don’t need to be here for every new word, every scraped knee, every inch he grows to still be part of his life.

I’m here for plenty, and when I’m not, Briar sends videos that make no sense without explanation while Lachlin sends photos so badly framed that half the time Jack is missing an ear.

Jack pats my shoulder. “Ong.”

Lachlin laughs from the steps. “He’s trying to say song. Thanks to you, his favorite thing to do now is scream at the top of his lungs while pounding on pans with a wooden spoon.”

“Early start for any rock star.”