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She bit into a cookie. The chocolate was still warm, soft at the center, and the butter and brown sugar hit her tongue together. She closed her eyes because some things were too good to experience with your eyes open.

"Oh my God," she said.

“Mmm-hmm,” Mary Sue said, warm satisfaction wrapped around the sound.

Sage was still in Mary Sue's arms. She was aware of this — aware of the warmth along her left side, the solid presence of this woman who had just told her to call her Mama and meant it completely. She hadn't had this since Felicity. And even with Felicity — who she loved, who she would love until she died, who had saved her life in every way a life could be saved — this was different. Felicity had been fierce but fragile. Felicity had been running too, always looking over her shoulder, always one bad night away from breaking. She'd held Sage together while quietly falling apart herself, and Sage had known it, had always known it, and had loved her more for it and been terrified by it in equal measure.

Mary Sue Ellen was not running from anything or anyone. Ever.

Mary Sue Ellen was a fixed point. An immovable object. The kind of woman who didn't bend in storms because she'd decided decades ago that bending was not something she did. When Mary Sue said, call me Mama, God help anyone who stood in the way.

Sage ate another cookie. Let herself be held. Let the tears dry on her face without wiping them away.

And thought, quiet and wondering, So this is what it feels like.

Mary Sue stood first.

Smoothed her apron. Looked at Cal with an expression that contained years of unsaid things and then said exactly one of them.

"Walk me out."

She didn’t wait. She was already sliding out of the booth, straightening into Mary Sue Ellen, Proprietor — the softness of the last few minutes folding away behind steel. But her hand lingered on Sage’s shoulder as she rose, giving it one firm squeeze. I meant every word.

Cal followed, unfolding from the booth in one easy motion as the seat seemed to sigh in relief.

He stepped up beside her. She turned. And in the space of a heartbeat, his arms were around her. He lifted her clean off the floor — four, maybe five inches — seven-foot-four of Cal Meridian cradling five-eight of Mary Sue Ellen like she weighed nothing at all. Which, to him, she didn’t.

“Put me down this instant, Cal Meridian!” Her voice cracked like a whip, sharp and furious, but her arms were already locked around his neck and her face was buried in his shoulder. No real bite. Just a mama pretending she didn’t need holding.

He set her down gently, careful as always.

Mary Sue straightened her apron again, cleared her throat, and pointedly ignored the three tables of customers who were suddenly very interested in their coffee.

Cal turned toward the door, automatically shifting so his body was between them and the room, between them and the exit, between them and anything that might be waiting outside. He didn’t think about it anymore. Hadn’t in years.

He passed the counter.

The tip jar sat where it always sat — a large mason jar with a hand-lettered sign that read TIPS: Because Mary Sue doesn't pay us enough (Mary Sue's handwriting, Mary Sue's humor). It was half-full of bills and coins, the accumulated gratitude of a lunch rush.

Cal’s hand went to his back pocket. The motion was smooth, practiced, as he had been executing this maneuver for a year and had refined it to an art form.

Mary Sue's head snapped up.

“Annie!” Mary Sue’s voice cut through the diner like a rifle shot. Annie Townsend nearly dropped a plate. “Stop him!”

Annie looked up, saw Cal, saw the thick fold of hundreds already sliding out of his pocket, and froze.

Too late.

The bills dropped into the tip jar with a soft rustle. Cal’s hand was already retreating, smooth as a card trick, like nothing had happened.

Annie stood frozen, plate in hand, looking from the jar to Mary Sue with the expression of a woman who had witnessed this exact sequence before and still hadn't developed a defense against it.

Mary Sue’s hands landed on her hips. Jaw set. Eyes blazing. Pure righteous fury.

Cal tipped his Stetson. One finger to the brim, the gesture easy and warm and just barely edged with the smugness. He had won this battle with his mama and would win it again next time and they both knew it.

"Mama," he said.