Chapter One: Finding Ever
“Why, Ever?” Her mother's voice echoes in her mind, laced with concern. Her words looping over and over in her head as she gazes out the plane window. The endless sea of clouds stretching out before her, a vast expanse of white that seems to swallow everything in its path.
Sighing, she leans her forehead against the icy plane window. Her breath fogging up the glass as she stares out at the endless sea of clouds drifting through the pale blue sky.
Why do you think I feel this way?
After all, her name is Ever Pine Green.
Boring old Ever whose dull brown hair does its best impression of a tangled bird's nest. No matter how much she brushes it, ties it, or begs it to behave. Her skin is pale, and freckled always refusing to tan. It just burns at the faintest hint of sunlight, adding blotchy red to the mix.
Then there are her glasses.
Unlike some people, they do nothing for her. They are too large on her small face; the lenses making her eyes look two sizes bigger and not in a cute way.
Meanwhile, her mother, Julia Green, is the textbook definition of a picture-perfect influencer. With her dark, luscious brown hair cascading in perfect waves, deep chocolate eyes that seem to sparkle under any light, and a flawless tan that never fades, she looks like she’s permanently bathed in golden hour.
Her glossy, camera-ready smile could rival any toothpaste commercial, and her wardrobe is an ever-rotating collection of designer pieces that always seem effortlessly curated. She doesn’t just walk—she glides, poised and elegant, as if the world exists solely as a backdrop for her perfection.
Then there’s her father, Liam Green—a high-powered lawyer whose charm is so polished it practically glitters at every cocktail party and client meeting. Even at forty, he’s aged like a man who’s never known a bad day, with a full head of neatly styled brown hair that perfectly complements his sharp, dark green eyes. Eyes so much like her’s. Except his always shines with happiness, brimming with confidence and the unwavering assurance of a man who has never had to fight for his place in the world.
Together, they are the golden couple of their pristine California town—the kind of people who turn heads without trying, who live in a world where the sun always seems to shine. Where everything, from their picture-perfect home to their curated social lives, looks like it belongs on the glossy pages of a lifestyle magazine.
Don’t even get her started on her classmates. Just like her parents, they all seem to have it together—effortlessly perfect in a way that makes her stomach twist. Their bodies are toned and flawless; their hair always falls just right, as if the wind itself knows better than to mess with them. They move through the world with an easy, unshakable confidence, flashing perfect smiles that never falter, like they were born knowing all the right things to say.
They dominate the sports teams, effortlessly racking up trophies and medals, always cheered on by adoring crowds. They ace every social interaction, slipping seamlessly from one conversation to the next, their laughter always light, never forced. Even their mistakes seem charming—quirks, not flaws, the kind of things people find endearing rather than embarrassing.
They glide through life as if they belong in a coming-of-age TV show, where every scene is perfectly scripted, every moment effortlessly aesthetic. Meanwhile, Ever has spent years feeling like an awkward, misplaced extra in the background, always out of sync, never quite belonging.
She had tried everything she could to blend into the background, to become a shadow no one noticed.
Unfortunately for her, luck had never been on her side. In a world full of golden retrievers—bright, friendly, effortlessly adored—a black Labrador stood out like a beacon.
She’d been a target for as long as she could remember. It wasn’t just her classmates who made her life hell—it felt like the entire school had joined in.
Even some of the teachers couldn’t seem to resist an occasional snide remark, a dismissive glance, or a barely concealed smirk when someone knocked her books from her hands or whispered something cruel just loud enough for her to hear.
It wasn’t just teasing, the kind that faded with time.
Day after day, it wore her down, stripping away every ounce of confidence she tried to build. The whispered jokes behind her back. The notes left in her locker, filled with insults that made her stomach twist. The pranks were designed to humiliate, each one carefully calculated to remind her she didn’t belong.
The way people looked right through her unless it was to mock her. The way even the silence, the absence of kindness, gnawed at her self-worth, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.
It had been too much for too long.
She finally reached her breaking point.
It happened the day before she was supposed to return to school after Christmas break. Alone in her room—her sanctuary, the one place she felt safe—she sat surrounded by books that had once been her escape. But not even stories could save her now.
That night, she made a decision.
No more whispered laughter behind her back. No more cruel pranks or empty seats next to hers in the cafeteria. No more feeling like an outsider in her own life.
She swallowed half a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, expecting the pain to finally, finally stop.
Instead of slipping away peacefully, she ended up in the hospital, alive but hollow, her body wracked with pain as they pumped her stomach. The burning in her throat, the raw ache in her gut—it was nothing compared to the crushing weight of failure.
She couldn't even do that right.
The shame that followed cut deeper than any knife. Her parents' disappointment, the pitying looks from the doctors and nurses, the hushed conversations when they thought she couldn't hear.
She survived, but the question lingered: Now what?
Once she was well enough to almost leave the hospital, her parents sat her down and asked her what she wanted.
They looked at her with careful, measured concern, their expressions tight with worry—like they thought if they said the wrong thing, she might shatter. As if there was some magic button that could fix everything, if only they could find the right words.
“A new school?” her mother suggested, voice soft but hopeful.
“A fresh start in a new city?” her father offered, his polished charm dimmed by the unease in his eyes.
“You could finish your senior year at one of the vacation homes,” her mother continued, “somewhere warm, somewhere peaceful.”
“Where do you want to go, Ever?” Her father asks, “Where do you feel happy? Safe?”
Her answer was simple: “The ranch.” Magnolia Blooms.
Her parents hesitated, exchanging a glance. It had been years since she’d last been there, but she didn’t care. That was where she wanted to go.
Every other summer, when she was younger, they’d leave behind the glossy perfection of their California lives and fly to Montana, to her mother’s family ranch. Those summers felt like a different lifetime, but the memories remain, warm and untarnished.
She can still remember the way the sun felt on her skin, how it turned the wheat fields into waves of gold. She remembers running barefoot across endless stretches of land, the towering mountains standing watch over a sky so vast and blue it made her feel both small and infinite.
And the air—it smelled different there. Fresh and earthy, tinged with hay, horses, and wildflowers, a sharp contrast to the salt and pavement of home. The animals moved to their own steady rhythm—cows grazing lazily, chickens pecking at the dirt, the distant neigh of a horse breaking the quiet. There was something grounding about the simplicity of it all, something real.
At the ranch, life slowed down. The days were measured by the rise and fall of the sun, by the work that needed to be done, and the satisfaction that came with it. There was no pressure to fit in, no whispered gossip behind her back, no expectations she couldn’t meet.
There she wasn’t Ever Pine Green—the quiet, awkward girl who never belonged.
Her mother’s childhood friend—the man who had taken over running the ranch after her grandparents passed—Jasper had always been more family than friend. His father’s family had lived and worked on the ranch for generations, staying in one of the workers’ cottages. Jasper grew up there, running barefoot through the fields and learning the rhythms of ranch.
Her grandparents took him under their wing early on, and he became especially close to her mother. By the time he was a teenager, it felt like he was just as much a part of the family as she was. He knew every corner of the ranch like the back of his hand, working alongside her grandfather, and his father, from sunrise to sunset.
When he was 18, his father passed away. Not long after, his mother moved to town to live with her new boyfriend, leaving Jasper at a crossroads. But for him, the decision was easy—he stayed. Ever’s grandparents welcomed him with open arms, treating him like a son as he naturally stepped into the role his father had left behind.
He never left. He was there through every high and low, from droughts to harvests, quietly becoming the backbone of the ranch. He didn’t just keep it running—he made it thrive.
When her grandparents passed, they left 60% of the ranch to Ever’s mom and the remaining 40% to Jasper—a testament to how much he meant to them. But Ever’s mom wanted nothing to do with the ranch, preferring the city’s comforts and conveniences. Without hesitation, she handed over the reins to Jasper, trusting him to do whatever he thought best.
And he did just that. He poured his heart and soul into the land, expanding the ranch beyond what anyone had imagined. He bought more acreage, added new barns and pastures, and built up the livestock until the once modest family ranch had grown into one of the biggest and most respected operations in town.
To her, Jasper was the beating heart of the ranch—a steady, grounding presence who had always been there, just like the land itself.
She remembers him well—tall and broad-shouldered, his weathered skin tanned from years of working under the sun. His face lined with time and hard work, and his deep-set eyes, always kind yet serious, carried a quiet sadness. Though he never let it overshadow his warmth.
Jasper never said much, but he didn’t have to. He was steady, constant—offering a guiding presence without expecting anything in return. Despite whatever burdens he carried, he always welcomed them with open arms, treating them like family.
And Ever? She was his shadow.
As a kid, she had followed him everywhere, eager to help with the chores, to learn, to be useful. They had forged a bond in the quiet moments spent tending to the land, in the rhythmic routine of daily work, in the comfortable silences between them.
She doesn’t know if he’d remember that.
Doesn’t know if he’ll still see her as that little girl who trailed after him with wide eyes and endless curiosity.
But she has to believe that if there was any place in the world that can help her breathe again, it’s The Ranch.
Now, as she sits in the wide leather seat of business class, Ever feels something she hasn't in a long time—anticipation.
It's not quite excitement, not yet, but it's close. A flicker of something light, something almost hopeful, though she doesn't dare hold onto it too tightly.
She's pulled from her thoughts with a jolt as the plane begins its descent. The subtle vibration of the fuselage rattles through her seat, a reminder that her journey is nearly over. The engines shift, their steady hum softening as the aircraft glides downward, the world outside rushing toward her with inescapable urgency.
She shifts, looking down as the landscape approaches. It stretches wide and open—miles of land speckled with evergreens and winding rivers, framed by jagged peaks that pierce the sky. It's a stark contrast to the endless cityscapes she's used to, and for a moment, she just watches, letting the view ground her.
The air inside the cabin, though less stifling than coach, still carries the familiar mix of stale coffee, faint perfume, and the subtle, sterile scent of airplane upholstery. Business class is quieter than economy, the passengers more subdued, but there's still an underlying energy—professionals typing on laptops, flight attendants moving with practiced efficiency, the soft clink of glassware as drinks are cleared away.
Her heart gives a small lurch as the wheels make contact with the tarmac. The sharp screech of rubber against asphalt cuts through the cabin, followed by a heavy jolt that rattles up her spine.
The plane taxis toward the gate at a sluggish pace, and she rolls her shoulders, wincing as tension pulls across her back. Hours of confinement in the seat—even one as spacious as this—have left her body stiff and aching, every movement met with a dull, throbbing protest.
When the seatbelt sign blinks off with a soft chime, there's no frantic rush like in coach. Business-class passengers move with an almost practiced ease, taking their time gathering their things. A man in a crisp button-down closes his laptop, slipping it into a sleek leather bag. A woman in a blazer slides her carry-on from the overhead compartment, tucking a phone between her ear and shoulder as she speaks in hushed, clipped tones.
Ever stays seated, letting the small group trickle out before finally unbuckling her seatbelt and standing. Reaching up, she presses her fingers against the cool metal latch of the overhead bin and pops it open.
Her duffel bag is wedged tightly inside, and it takes a few firm pulls to free it. As she swings it over her shoulder, the strap snags on a strand of her hair, yanking sharply at her scalp. A soft hiss of pain escapes her as she untangles herself, rubbing the sore spot before adjusting the bag into a more comfortable position.
Slowly she moves toward the exit, stepping past the curtain that separates business class from economy. A brief, passing glance beyond it reminds her of the crowded, cramped reality she's leaving behind—just another reminder of the two very different worlds she's always straddled.
Then, she steps through the open door.
The chill of the jet bridge greets her first—a sharp gust of wind slipping through unseen cracks, biting at her skin despite the golden sunlight spilling through from outside. It's crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of jet fuel, but beneath that, something else lingers. Something fresher.
The distant, unmistakable bite of winter clings to the air. Making a shiver trail down her spine as she steps forward, crossing the threshold into the terminal.
Instantly, the world crashes into her all at once.
The hum of announcements echo overhead, crackling through unseen speakers. The steady rumble of luggage carts rolls beneath it, mingling with the murmur of conversations. Faces blur together in the constant movement—business travelers in pressed suits, their rolling suitcases trailing behind them, families reuniting with laughter and warm embraces, weary passengers trudging toward baggage claim with dull, tired eyes.
The sheer volume of it is a jarring shift from the quiet, contained world of the plane.
Slowly, she exhales, pressing her nails into the palm of her hand, grounding herself as the anxiety dissipates. Rolling her shoulders, she steels herself. Then, without looking back, she follows the signs to baggage claim.
Each step is deliberate, the sharp click of her short-heeled boots echoing off the polished tile floor, steadying her as the noise and chaos swirl around her. The hum of conversations, the distant crackle of overhead announcements, and the rhythmic beeping of a cart maneuvering through the crowd—it all folds into the background, muted by her own focus.
Reaching the baggage carousel, she watches as it spins slowly, an endless loop of black bags and colorful suitcases passing by. Some are battered and scuffed, worn from years of travel, while others look pristine, barely used. Her own suitcase finally appears, sleek and unmistakable, its high-end designer logo catching the fluorescent light.
She hesitates for just a second before gripping the handle, pulling it from the moving carousel with a firm tug. The weight of it feels heavier than it should be, like it’s carrying more than just clothes and essentials. With a soft thud, she sets it down beside her, exhaling as she straightens.
A flicker of awareness prickles at the back of her neck. She isn’t imagining the subtle glances—quick, assessing looks aimed at her expensive luggage. A brief wave of self-consciousness washes over her. Maybe she brought too much. But if they think this is excessive, she can’t imagine what they’d say about the two trunks already waiting at the ranch.
Those trunks hold more than belongings. They hold remnants of a life she’s not sure she wants to remember.
Shaking off the thought, she snaps back to the present and steps away from the carousel. The smooth fabric of her duffel bag brushes against her fingertips, the sensation grounding her as she moves.
Now, she just needs to find Jasper.
Her nails pick absently at the strap of her bag as her pulse quickens, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.
Her gaze flits over the sea of travelers. A middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and a bright yellow sundress stands nearby, laughing warmly as she embraces someone. A young man in a faded band t-shirt and ripped jeans scrolls through his phone, his spiky black hair making him stand out. An older gentleman in a crisp white shirt and neatly knotted tie strides past with a straight-backed elegance, his polished shoes clicking against the tile.
A teenage girl rushes by, long, straight blonde hair streaked with hot pink, her oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder as she hurries toward baggage claim. Further ahead, a tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties moves through the terminal with an easy stride. His shaggy beard and unruly brown hair, paired with a worn flannel and faded jeans, give him a relaxed, outdoorsy look.
But none of them match the picture her mother sent. Or the man she remembers from her childhood.
A small frown tugs at her lips as she shifts on her feet, exhaling softly. Maybe he’s waiting outside?
With that thought, she adjusts the weight of her bag on her shoulder and starts toward the automatic doors. The wheels of her suitcase roll smoothly against the tile, the quiet sound accompanying her as she steps into the unknown.
Just as she reaches the exit doors, a sharp exchange of voices cuts through the hum of the airport, low and urgent. Something about it makes her pause mid-step. The scent of stale coffee and worn leather lingers in the air, mixing with the faint floral notes drifting from flower shop.
Glancing to her left, her gaze lands on two men standing near a row of chairs, locked in what looks like a tense argument. Both have dark blonde hair and striking blue eyes-so similar in their sharp features that they could easily be mistaken for twins.
The first man is rugged - his jaw scruffy, his build broad and solid, with a presence that feels both imposing and unshakable.
Everything about him speaks of rough edges and long, hard days. He taps his booted foot impatiently, arms lying at his sides flexing beneath the stretched fabric of his worn leather jacket. That clings to him just enough to hint at the strength beneath.
In his right hand, his phone is clenched so tightly that his knuckles are white. The tension in his grip draws her gaze to the faint outline of a pack of cigarettes pressing against the fabric of his jeans pocket. Even from where she stands, she can catch the scent of him -leather, smoke, whiskey. The kind of smell that lingers, raw and unpolished, just like the man himself.
His sharp gaze flickers with frustration, his shoulders stiff and jaw locked. A low growl rumbles from his throat as he mutters something under his breath, something about not knowing what she looks like.
The second man is the opposite in every way.
Leaner, clean-shaven, his hair styled perfectly, every strand in place. The kind of effortless perfection, that takes actual effort. He leans lazily against the wall, one hand tucked into the pocket of his dark, fitted jeans. Unlike his companion, there's nothing tense about him. His posture is loose, easy, like he's in on a joke no one else knows.
Confidence drapes over him as effortlessly as the well-worn high school football jacket hanging off his shoulders. It's faded patches a quiet testament to its past. The fabric of is loose, untucked shirt shifts with his movements. Offering fleeting glimpses of the muscle beneath.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement as he watches his companion's frustration grow, clearly entertained by the tension brewing in the air.
Tilting his head slightly, his smirk deepens. “Did Jasper even send a picture?”
The scruffy man’s response is immediate, sharp, and clipped. “No.”
At the mention of Jasper’s name, her chest tightens.
They must be here for her.
Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, her fingers fidget with the hem of her shirt, twisting the fabric between her fingertips as she gathers herself. The weight of the moment settles heavy in her stomach, her nerves curling tight, but she forces herself to take a slow breath.
Then, with as much confidence as she can muster, she steps forward.
The noise of the airport seems to fade to a distant hum as she lifts her chin, shoulders back, gaze steady. Her pine-green eyes—dull, tired, empty—meet theirs through the veil of her dark lashes, unreadable but unwavering. “I’m Ever.”
A pause. A heartbeat of silence. “I think you’re looking for me.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the space between them like a blade.—————————————————————
Arriving ten minutes early, Tate and Avery had stationed themselves near the airport’s sliding glass doors, their gazes sweeping over the constant flow of travelers pouring in from the arrival gates. The air buzzes with activity—the steady hum of conversations, the rhythmic clatter of rolling suitcases over polished tile, and the distant chime of gate announcements punctuated by the occasional roar of a plane taking off outside.
The scent of disinfectant lingers in the air, sterile and sharp, but beneath it, the sweeter aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries drifted over from a café tucked in the corner. Fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting a cool glow against the muted tones of the airport’s décor. Everything about the place is cold and impersonal, designed for efficiency rather than comfort.
They stand side by side, one with his arms hanging loose, the other’s hands in his pockets, their expressions unreadable. As the scheduled landing time ticks past, Tate’s sharp blue gaze grows more focused, his stance shifting slightly, booted feet planting more firmly against the tile. The glass doors slide open with a soft hiss, allowing another wave of travelers to spill into the terminal.
Businessmen in pressed suits, exhausted families herding restless children, college students with overstuffed backpacks—all moving with purpose, some in a hurry, others taking their time. Their eyes subtly track each girl who emerges from the security checkpoint.
They have little to go on—just a name and a few vague details.
Not that he was particularly eager to find her. In fact, Tate had already decided he probably wasn’t going to like her. The fact that she was coming from California only fueled his assumptions.
He could picture her now—some preppy little valley girl, fresh off a plane from California, all sunshine and designer boots. Probably here to reconnect with nature and find herself on what she imagines is her mother’s quaint, Pinterest-perfect, cottagecore ranch.
She’d last maybe a week. Two at most.
The second she realizes that actual farm work wasn’t an aesthetic slow-living fantasy—when she found herself ankle-deep in mud and horse shit instead of posing in a cute flannel for an Instagram post—she’d be gone.
Avery, standing beside him with an almost lazy confidence, holds most of the same opinions—but he doesn’t necessarily see them as a bad thing. As long as she pulls her weight and looks cute enough doing it, he isn’t going to complain.
Tate exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders back as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Gritting his teeth, he checks his phone again.
At first, he had been checking every few minutes, but as the time stretched on, impatience begins to gnaw at him, shortening the intervals. Every thirty-five seconds now. A relentless, agitated rhythm. As if staring at the time would somehow make it move faster. Or, better yet, make her magically appear.
The screen is blank. No messages. No updates. His grip tightens around the device, jaw clenching.
Avery, in stark contrast, leans lazily against the wall, hands stuffed into his pockets, his posture the picture of boredom.
“She should be off the plane by now—unless the flight was delayed,” Tate mutters, his sharp blue eyes locked onto the constant stream of travelers flooding through the terminal.
Avery barely lifts his head, the corners of his mouth twitching with a smirk. “Only now, huh?” He drawls, slow and easy. “Then why the hell have we been standing here for the past ten minutes?”
Despite his teasing, his gaze sweeps the crowd more intently, his smirk fading just a little. Could be her… could be her… His eyes flicker from girl to girl, assessing, dismissing. Is it possible she dyed her hair blonde? He frowns slightly as a group of young women pass by, their laughter ringing through the terminal. None of them quite fit the vague image in his head.
“We aren’t going to find her like this,” he finally says, a hint of protest lacing his voice.
Tate ignores him, his fingers drumming a restless beat against his phone case. Where the hell was she?
Avery exhales through his nose, pulling his hands out of his pockets, to rest at his sides. He briefly considers an alternative approach—maybe just start walking up to every brown-haired girl that fits the bill.
Wouldn’t be the worst idea.
Not for him, anyway. He wouldn’t mind chatting up a few pretty strangers, even if it led to some awkward encounters.
Tate, though? Yeah. Tate would probably kick his ass for it.
A lot of these girls don’t have glasses. Which brings up the fact that the girl, who is from California, might wear contacts. The vague description they were given was already barely enough to go on. If she ditched the glasses for contacts, then they had even less. At that point, they were just shooting in the dark.
Honestly, Avery was more surprised that his brother had come here with nothing—no picture, no real way of identifying the girl they were supposed to pick up. Just a name and a vague description that could fit half the girls in this damn airport.
He smirks to himself, side-eyeing his brother, who is still glued to his phone, checking the time like it held all the answers.
Yeah. This is going to be fun.
“She’s late,” Tate mutters under his breath, jaw tight.
Avery smirks, not even glancing over. “And you have no patience.”
Tate barely acknowledges him, too focused on his own silent process of elimination. No… no… no… maybe? No.
He’s working off an assumption—that the girl might resemble her mother when she was younger. There’s an old picture of her in the main house, a framed memory collecting dust on the fireplace mantel. If she looks anything like that, then—
“We will,” Tate grumbles, cutting through his own thoughts. “We have an idea of who we’re looking for, even if we don’t exactly know what she looks like.”
Avery exhales sharply, unimpressed. “Are you sure Jasper didn’t send you a picture? Wouldn’t hurt to check, right?”
Tate’s answer is immediate. Flat. Certain. “No. He didn’t.”
Avery turns to face him fully, eyebrows lifting. “Then how the hell are we actually supposed to find her?”
Tate shoots him a look. Sharp. Irritated. “Shut up and just keep looking.”
Avery rolls his eyes, about to suggest something actually smart—maybe asking the desk for help, maybe calling Jasper—when a voice, barely above a whisper, cuts through the hum of the airport.
“I’m Ever. I think you’re looking for me.”
The noise of the terminal fades into a dull hum as they turn their attention downward.
A girl stands before them.
But she isn’t what they expected at all.
Tate had pictured some sun-kissed, air-headed girl strutting through the airport in something pink—probably a dress, definitely not suited for March in Montana, or working on a ranch. He swore he could hear her high-pitched voice gushing about “the simple life,” snapping pictures for Instagram, twirling in front of some picturesque background with a #CountryGirl caption.
She’s simple in a way that throws him off.
His sharp gaze sweeps over her small frame, assessing, calculating. Pale skin, untouched by the sun, freckles scattered across her cheeks like someone had carelessly flicked a paintbrush against her face. Her brown hair—long, slightly wavy—already looks like it's lost a battle with the Montana wind, and she’s only just arrived.
There’s a quiet fragility about her, something delicate, almost untouchable. Her deep green eyes—striking but hollow—reflect the weight she carries. Behind her oversized glasses perched on her small nose, they seem even larger, almost too big for her face, giving her a vulnerable, doe-like look.
Cute, He thinks before he can stop himself. The kind of cute that sneaks up on you—the kind that makes you want to look a little longer than you should.
But the glasses don’t hide the cracks in her gaze, like glass under pressure—fractured but not shattered.
Her outfit is modest but carefully put together—no trendy, city-girl nonsense. Just practical, effortless sophistication. Fitted pants hug her curves, flattering without being too tight. A soft green shirt complements the pale glow of her skin, the color subtle but intentional. Over it, she wears a medium-length tan coat, well-tailored, expensive but understated. The fabric moves with her, smooth and effortless, the hem skimming just above her hips, subtly drawing his gaze downward.
Brown leather—sturdy, well-worn, yet undeniably stylish. Not the kind of flashy, designer nonsense he expected, but the kind of boots that were actually meant to be walked in. The low heel adds just enough height to give her a little lift, but not enough to hinder working in them.
A white scarf is wrapped loosely around her neck, the soft fabric catching the light, giving her a polished yet effortless look. It’s a small detail, but it suits her—simple, refined, just a touch delicate.
His gaze flickers to her hands—clenched tightly around the strap of her bag and the handle of her suitcase. Slender fingers, neatly trimmed nails, clear and unpolished.
Nothing flashy. Nothing sentimental. Just bare skin, unadorned.
She doesn’t scream high-maintenance. She doesn’t drape herself in obvious wealth. No excessive makeup, no over-the-top accessories, no desperate attempt to be noticed.
Well… except for the luggage.
That? Yeah, that at least, lives up to his expectations.
Designer. Expensive. The kind of thing someone from her background would have.
“Ever Green?” He questions, skepticism lacing his voice as he takes in the girl standing before him.
The soft hum of the airport surrounds them—the steady clatter of rolling suitcases, snippets of conversations, and the distant crackle of an overhead announcement. The sterile lights cast a dull glow over the bustling crowd, but the girl in front of him stands out—not because she demands attention, but because she seems to be trying to avoid it altogether.
She barely lifts her chin as she answers, her voice so soft it almost gets lost in the noise.
The single word is fragile and hesitant.
Tate’s frown deepens. His sharp gaze flickers over her, his mind doing somersaults to process the stark contrast between what he expected and what he’s actually seeing.
Her posture is stiff, shoulders drawn in like she’s bracing for something. There’s no confidence in the way she stands, no excitement at being here. Just an eerie hollowness in her eyes—the look of someone who’s seen too much and felt even more.
He exhales sharply, dragging a rough hand through his hair.
This was not what he’d prepared for.
He steps forward, the heels of his scuffed and beaten boots thudding heavily against the tiled floor. The moment he does, her shoulders go even stiffer, her fingers white-knuckling the handle of her suitcase. Instinctively, she shrinks back, her frame curling in on itself, as if bracing for impact.
He glances at Avery, who—despite the ever-present smirk—hasn’t quite masked the flicker of surprise in his own gaze.
He sighs under his breath, already bracing himself for the headache ahead. “Well, this is going to be interesting.”
Folding his arms over the front of his sleeveless rocker tee, he levels her with a steady, assessing gaze. "I'm Tate," he says, his voice flat- not exactly unkind, but far from welcoming.
“And I’m Avery,” his brother adds, stepping in smoothly, the usual easy charm slipping into his tone. “Nice to meet you.”
She shifts uncomfortably. Her gaze dropping to the floor, her fingers twisting in the strap of her bag. “Nice to meet you, too,” she murmurs, barely loud enough to hear.
He watches her closely, something tightening in his chest.
The weight in her eyes… It unsettles him.
Too much like looking into a goddamn mirror.
The thought unsettles him more than he’d like to admit. Clearing his throat, he refocuses. “We work for Jasper,” he says, his tone sharp as he studies her reaction. “He sent us.”
She gives a small nod—barely a movement.
He exhales through his nose again. He’s pretty sure this is the most he has ever sighed in one moment, and the longer he stands there, the more impatient he feels. “If you’re ready, let’s head out. It’s a long drive to the ranch.”
Before she can respond, Avery steps forward smoothly, reaching for her bag.
"Here, let me grab your bags," he offers, with a grin that is effortless, easy-like he's used to charming his way through life.
Pressing her lips into a thin line, she hesitates-just for a second -before taking a small step back. "I'd rather keep hold of my things. Thank you, though." Her fingers tighten around the suitcase handle, like she's afraid someone might rip it away from her.
Avery shrugs, unbothered. “No problem.”
Tate however clicks his tongue, a muscle feathering in his jaw. Her refusal pisses him off.
Why? He’s not sure. Maybe because it feels like an insult, like she doesn’t trust them.
Or maybe because it confirms what he already assumed—that she’s just another privileged little snob who thinks she’s too good for the people Jasper sent to pick her up.
“Let’s go,” he snaps, turning sharply on his heel. His long strides cut through the crowd, not bothering to check if either of them follow.
Avery falls into step beside him, his eyes flicking back to Ever, who trails behind them, her eyes fixed on the floor. “Hey, Tate, slow down,” Avery says, his voice low and even. “We don’t want to lose her.”
A sharp huff escapes his lips as he slows his pace. He refuses to look back, though.
His gaze remains locked on the exit, jaw tight, strides measured. The long, winding drive back to the ranch unfolds in his mind like a preview—the endless stretch of open road, the hum of tires against pavement. As well as the weight of the inevitable awkward small talk that Avery will initiate. Which he will not want to participate in. But Avery will drag him into.
And at the back of his mind is the nagging feeling that he actually might end up liking the girl.
A lot more than he ever thought possible.
Ever watches Tate's broad back as he moves with sharp, deliberate strides. His long jean clad legs eat up the distance, every motion clipped, every shift of his shoulders practically vibrating with irritation. His rigid posture and clenched fists tell her everything she needs to know: being here with her is a burden he didn't ask for and clearly doesn't want.
Her fingers curl tighter around the strap of her bag and the handle of her suitcase, knuckles blanching as she fights the familiar urge to shrink. To fold in on herself until she’s small enough to disappear. It’s second nature by now. A survival mechanism buried so deep, it’s practically muscle memory.
The instinct whispers in her ear, as insistent as ever.
Make herself easier to tolerate.
But this time, she doesn’t. She won’t.
Because underneath the flicker of anxiety, something heavier, more permanent, anchors her to the spot—a bone-deep exhaustion that leaves no room for diplomacy. She’s too tired to play peacekeeper, too drained to smooth things over.
It’s just another fight she can’t bring herself to care about.
Avery falls back to walk beside her, chuckling softly, clearly amused by whatever has his brother so wound up. His easy grin is disarming, his blue eyes warm with something that feels like understanding-or maybe a softer kind of pity.
He leans in slightly, giving her a clear view of his crisp white shirt, which clings just enough to his chest. The dipping V-neck reveals a sliver of toned skin, the fabric loose and untucked, shifting with his movements.
Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, he pats her shoulder lightly. The warmth of his palm lingers just a second too long. "Don't mind him," he says, his tone edged with amusement. "He's just an asshole. You'll get used to it."
Her lips twitch—just barely—an exhale slipping from her nose in a sound that could almost be a laugh. Almost. She opens her mouth, as if to respond, but the words stick in her throat, tangled up with old hesitation and frayed nerves. Instead, she nods faintly, nibbling on her lower lip.
Avery doesn’t seem to mind the lack of response. If anything, it makes him more determined to fill the silence. He falls into step beside her, his easy strides matching her tentative pace, effortlessly picking up where the conversation left off like they’ve known each other for years.
His voice is smooth, warm—too smooth, like the kind of voice that could sweet-talk its way out of any situation. He talks about nothing in particular: the long drive ahead, the unpredictable weather, the horses on the ranch that like to bite if you don’t give them a treat fast enough. It’s harmless, lighthearted filler—but it’s also a lifeline for the negative thoughts in her head.
She barely listens, letting his words blur into background noise. Her mind drifts, her brain too tired to really catch onto anything. Though for the first time in a long time, the idle talk doesn’t feel quite so suffocating. Avery’s presence is almost comforting in its persistence, like a soft hum on an old record, steady and unbroken, filling up the space that might otherwise feel too lonely.
As she steps through the airport’s exit doors, the cool March wind greets her, crisp and sharp against her skin, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth. It mingles with the faint tang of jet fuel that still lingers in the air—a strange blend of wild and industrial.
The scent stirs old memories—happy ones. Sunlit afternoons running through fields, fresh-cut grass sticking to her jeans, dirt under her nails. Memories untouched by pain.
Her steps become a little lighter as they cross the parking lot, the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot filling the quiet space between them. For a fleeting moment, she almost forgets the tension hanging heavy in the air—almost.
Tate comes to a stop behind a black GMC Sierra, its paint dulled by years of wear, and pops the tailgate. The hinges groan in protest, the sound harsh against the peacefulness of the nature. She slows beside him, watching as he reaches for her suitcase, the realization settling in her chest like a stone.
Her fingers tighten instinctively around the handle, hesitation flickering across her face before she can stop herself. An old reflex—hold on, stay in control, don’t give too much away.
His eyes meet hers, sharp and assessing. One brow arches, his light blue eyes darkening with unmistakable irritation. His voice drops lower, edged with impatience. “Are you going to let me take it? Or do you just like being difficult?”
Hesitantly she opens her mouth to respond—to say that she was going to let him take it—but the words don’t come.
Before she can say anything, Avery steps in, clapping a hand on Tate’s shoulder with an easy, practiced calm. His voice is light, but there’s an undertone of warning beneath the playful words. “Relax, man. Take a breath.”
Tate exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he yanks the suitcase from her grasp and tosses it into the truck bed like it weighs nothing. The tailgate slams shut with a loud crack that echoes across the parking lot.
Whimpering, she flinches, her fingers twitching at her sides. The sound hits harder than it should—a reminder of moments she’s worked hard to forget.
Avery shakes his head, smirking in mock exasperation. “There’s that winning personality of yours. Makes the girls’ knees shake.”
Tate ignores him, walking up to the driver's door and yanking it open, climbing in without a word. The door shuts with a solid thud, and a second later, the truck’s engine groans to life. It sputters briefly before catching, settling into a deep, steady hum.
Rolling down the window, Tate pulls a cigarette from his pocket and flicks his lighter. The flame briefly illuminates his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. The scent of burning tobacco mixing with the smell of his leather coat and the faint sweetness of sun-warmed grass. He takes a slow drag, releasing the smoke in a lazy exhale that swirls and fades into the clear Montana air.
She hesitates, watching him for a moment, Avery’s earlier words echoing in her head. Knees shake?
She isn’t sure how it is for other girls, but hers definitely do—for two very different reasons.
She shoves the thought aside and moves toward the passenger door, her pulse ticking a little faster. Avery falls into step beside her, his easy grin unwavering.
Her stomach tightens with the realization. She’s about to be wedged between two insufferable—and undeniably attractive—men for at least the next hour and a half. A strange mix of dread and reluctant anticipation coils low in her gut.
Reaching for the door handle, she pulls it open—and freezes.
Bright brown eyes stare up at her, wide and eager, and for a moment, everything else fades into the background.
“A dog,” she breathes, her voice quiet, tinged with wonder.
Sprawled across the front seat, a black-and-white border collie watches her with unmistakable excitement. His tail thumps wildly, the sound rhythmic and steady, like he’s been waiting for her all along. He lets out a happy whimper, his eyes sparkling with almost humanlike joy.
The tension in her chest loosens, unraveling with each beat of the dog’s tail against the seat. Her dark green eyes soften, lightening in a way that feels unfamiliar but welcome. A slow, genuine smile tugs at her lips—hesitant at first, but real. Warmth spreads through her chest, filling spaces that have felt hollow for too long. It’s a kind of comfort she hasn’t known in months—maybe longer.
Animals have always been her solace, the one thing in her life that made sense. As a child, she begged her parents for a pet, but they never budged. Instead, she found sanctuary at the local animal shelter, pouring her heart into every dog and cat she could. They became her companions on the loneliest days, their unconditional love offering a refuge nothing else could.
Leaving them behind had been hard, but she knew she needed this change—a chance to breathe again.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice soft and tender as she opens the door and reaches out. Her fingers sink into the dog’s thick, silky fur, gently scratching under his chin. The collie leans into her touch, his eyes half-closing in bliss, his tail wagging so hard it shakes his whole body. A lump rises in her throat—unexpected and unwelcome.
“Can I scooch in?” She asks, her voice barely above a whisper, the question more for the dog than for the men.
Before anyone can answer, the dog scrambles up and over, launching himself onto Tate’s lap with unrestrained enthusiasm. Tate grunts, his head snapping back against the seat as the dog plants both front paws on his chest.
“Jesus, Haus,” He grumbles, using the dog’s nickname as he tries to shove him off, though it’s half-hearted at best. “Get off.”
The collie, of course, ignores him completely, his tail wagging even harder as he licks at Tate’s jaw with unshakable determination.
Avery lets out a bark of laughter, slapping his leg in delight.
Even Ever can’t help it—a small, breathy chuckle escapes her lips. It’s light, fleeting, but it feels good, like the first crack in a heavy wall that’s been holding her in for far too long.
Sliding into the cab, she places her bag on the floor at Avery’s feet and settles onto the worn leather seat. Immediately the dog shifts onto her lap, sprawling across her legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His warmth is immediate and grounding, and the steady weight of him is reassuring and comforting. She runs her fingers through his thick fur, slow and deliberate, letting the sensation settle something deep inside her.
As Avery slides in next to her, shutting the door behind him, she glances at Tate; her eyes seem to glimmer as she asks, "What’s his name?” Her voice is still soft, but this time there’s a thread of excitement laced through it.
Tate’s eyes flick toward her, cigarette balanced between his fingers. Smoke drifts lazily from the open window, curling into the air, mingling with the scents of wild sage, sun-warmed cedar, and the faint metallic tang of the nearby river. His expression is unreadable for a moment, something flickering in his gaze—a hesitation she can’t quite place.
“Bacchus,” he finally murmurs, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. His voice is low, the kind of voice that sticks with you long after it’s gone. He exhales through the side of his mouth, the smoke trailing into the air.
Leaning over her, Avery scratches behind Bacchus’s ear. “You’re supposed to be on the floorboard, not her bag,” he teases, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
Instantly his tail starts to furiously wag again, thumping against Tate’s chest. Tate catches his tail mid-swing with one hand, scowling. “Can you not get him all riled up? I have to drive.”
Avery raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Right, right. My bad.”
Exhaling sharply, Tate lets his eyes slip shut for a brief second, as if gathering the last shreds of his patience. With one final drag of his cigarette, he flicks the ash out the window, letting his arm hang out, as he shifts the truck into gear. The tires crunch against the gravel as he eases them out of the parking spot, his movements smooth and practiced.
With one hand on the wheel, he spins it effortlessly, backing out in a clean arc. There’s something about the way he does it—so sure, so in control—that makes Ever’s pulse tick just a little faster.
As the truck rolls toward the exit, he notices her watching him. Flicking his eyes up to the rearview mirror, his gaze meets hers for a brief, charged moment. Gasping, her eyes widen and cheeks redden, before shooting down to stare at the floor.
Noting her reaction, he smirks as he pauses at the stop sign to letting some traffic by. Exhaling a shaky breath, she absently strokes Bacchus’s fur. Her gaze wandering as the cool Montana air filters in; for the first time in a long time, she’s excited about life. Especially in this place, that always felt more like home than her real one ever did.
The drive is unexpectedly nice. An hour and a half of winding roads, stretching through Montana’s wide-open landscapes, passing endless fields of golden grass and rolling hills that seem to go on forever. The mountains rise in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow even in early spring. The sky is a vast expanse of blue, dotted with soft clouds that drift lazily across the horizon. It feels different from the suffocating gray skies she’s grown used to—lighter, freer.
Avery talks the entire time.
He jumps from topic to topic without pause, telling stories about ranch life, the best places to get a burger, and once launching into an unnecessarily detailed explanation of how to avoid hitting a deer at night. His voice is warm, filling the quiet space between them with an ease that makes it hard to be annoyed—unless you’re Tate.
Tate keeps his eyes on the road, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, his jaw tight. His only responses to Avery’s chatter are the occasional grunt or sharp exhale, clearly wishing his brother would shut up.
Ever sits quietly between them, calm, her eyes fixed on the passing landscape. She answers Avery now and then with soft, measured words, but mostly she just listens, letting the steady hum of the truck and his voice wash over her. Bacchus still curled up on her lap, his head resting in the curve of her arm, occasionally shifts, letting out a content sigh.
As they draw closer to town, something shifts in her. It’s subtle—a slight straightening of her spine, a flicker of anticipation in her chest. The landmarks feel familiar, stirring long memories she's thought of for years.
“Ennis,” Avery announces, smiling brightly. “Home sweet home!”
Smiling softly Ever leans forward a little, her eyes sweeping across the town as they roll in. It’s a mix of old and new—some places she recognizes instantly, like the old general store with its faded red sign and the small café on the corner that she remembers getting pancakes at once with her grandparents. But other places are different. There’s a modern coffee shop where an old gas station used to be and a boutique with wide glass windows that looks wildly out of place in such a small town.
It feels both strange and comforting—like stepping into a memory that’s just a little out of focus.
They pass a park with a creek running through, kids running around, their laughter ringing out in the cool air. She finds her smile growing, pressing her hand against Bacchus’s back as if to steady herself.
Suddenly, Avery slaps the door excitedly. “Pull over!”
Tate glances at him, brows furrowing. “Why?”
Avery points across the street. “We’ve got to take her to Sugar Tits!”
Ever blinks, her head snapping toward the building in question. It’s a small candy shop with a bright pink sign and cartoonish lettering. She balks at the name, heat rushing to her face. “Sugar… what?”
“It’s called Sugar Teats,” Tate corrects dryly, already turning into a parking spot with a sigh.
Avery grins wickedly as he hops out of the truck, turning to offer Ever his hand. “Everyone knows what it’s really supposed to be,” he says with a cheeky smile and a wink.
She hesitates, her eyes darting from his outstretched hand to the shop’s sign. Despite herself, a laugh bubbles up—quiet but genuine. She takes his hand, Bacchus jumping out before her.
“Come on,” Avery says, his eyes twinkling with delight. “You’re not officially in town until you’ve had a sugar high from this place.”
Tate leans back in his seat, rubbing his temple. “Like you need sugar,” he mutters.
As soon as her feet touch the ground, Bacchus scrambles back into the truck, this time leaping into the floorboard with a thump. Tate had moved her bag to block off her spot on the seat—clearly a preemptive strike against him. Circling twice, he plops down with a huff, his head resting on his paws.
Much to her surprise, Avery doesn’t let go of her hand. Instead, his grip tightens slightly as he begins leading her toward the candy shop, his long strides forcing her to take several quick steps to keep up. His hand is warm and rough, calloused from years of hard work—a stark contrast to her smaller, softer one. The contact is… surprisingly comfortable, but it also stirs something in her she isn’t used to.
Her cheeks flush before she can stop them, warmth spreading like wildfire across her face. She raises her shoulders, tucking her chin down as if her scarf might somehow shield her from the rising blush. Thankfully, Avery is too caught up in the moment to notice—or if he does, he doesn’t show it.
The shop is as quaint as its name is ridiculous. Painted pastel pink with striped awnings, it looks like it belongs in an old-fashioned postcard. A small bell above the door jingles as Avery swings it open. The scent of sugar, caramel, and freshly made fudge wafts out, wrapping around her like a warm blanket.
“After you,” Avery says, holding the door open with an exaggerated bow. His grin is wide and playful, eyes glinting with mirth.
With his urging, she steps inside, glancing around. Instantly her smile grows as she takes it all in. It’s charming; the walls are lined with shelves filled to bursting with jars of brightly colored candies, homemade chocolate bars, and bins of every kind of gummy imaginable. Strings of twinkle lights hang from the ceiling, giving the space a soft, golden glow.
Avery steps in behind her, his boots-still well-worn but noticeably cleaner than Tate's-tapping lightly against the hardwood floor.
Leaning down, he whispers near her ear, his breath warm against her skin, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "Go crazy-it's on Tate," he snickers, holding up a credit card between his fingers. The embossed name Tatum Ulysses Morris gleamed in the soft light.
Her brows shoot up in disbelief, and she lets out a soft scoff. "He's going to kill you."
“Maybe.” He grins, shrugging with zero remorse. “But I have a feeling if you bat those pretty eyes at him, he’ll get over it.”
Gasping, her eyes widen in shock, heat rushing to her cheeks once again as her entire face lights up with a mixture of surprise and flustered embarrassment. “W-What?” she stammers, barely managing the word.
Seeing her reaction, he bursts out laughing—a deep, carefree sound that echoes through the cozy shop. Flashing her another playful wink, he walks around her to browse the nearest display of chocolates.
Still processing his words, she stands there for a moment, her heart fluttering in an annoyingly unpredictable rhythm. She’s not sure if her heart is going to make it if they both keep acting like this.
From the moment they step inside the candy store, Avery feels it—that prickling sensation crawling up his spine, the weight of a familiar stare burning into his back. The air inside smells like aged wood, caramel, and chocolate, but the tension wrapping around him smells distinctly like trouble. He doesn’t bother looking. He already knows who it is—Dakota.
Suppressing a groan, he focuses on the shelves lined with colorful rows of candy, his fingers tracing lazily over the neatly stacked boxes. Of course, it had to be today. The day she works. Dakota always seems to linger just close enough to remind him of their history but never far enough for it to fade completely.
Picking up a box of chocolate-covered caramels, he ignores the subtle click of her boots on the hardwood as she abandons the counter. She strides toward him with purpose, her heels tapping a deliberate rhythm, like a predator stalking prey. Another employee takes her place at the register, but Dakota has eyes only for him—and Ever.
Their history goes all the way back to high school, when they first started hooking up. For him, she was just a casual fling, a fun time. Naughty and wild, in all the right ways. But over the years, he'd come to realize that for Dakota, their arrangement meant something more.
The irony wasn't lost on him—he'd slept with half the town, yet Dakota still clung to the idea that they had something special. It was almost...amusing to him, the way she'd always tried to hold on, even when he'd made it clear he wasn't interested in anything serious.
Her voice comes like honey dripping off a knife, thick with saccharine sweetness. “Who’s she?” Dakota asks, leaning in, her perfectly manicured nails tapping the display shelf. The scent of her cotton candy perfume lingers in the air between them.
Avery tosses the caramels into the basket he’d picked up without missing a beat. “Ever,” he says casually, his voice steady. “She’s staying at the ranch for a while. Her mom owns it.”
Dakota’s eyes narrow as she turns her gaze on Ever, her smile tightening. Ever, who is thankfully lost in thought as she scans the wall of nostalgic candies—sour straws, wax bottles, and bubblegum cigars—doesn’t notice the attention right away.
But Dakota’s glare is sharp and unrelenting, her brown eyes flicking over the younger girl like she’s sizing her up, dissecting every detail. Finally, Ever senses it. Her head lifts slightly, her eyes catching Dakota’s out of the corner of her vision. The instant they lock eyes, Ever’s pulse quickens.
Her body reacts on instinct—shoulders tensing, eyes darting down and away, her fingers tightening on the strap of her own basket. It’s a feeling she knows too well: being judged, dismissed, or worse—targeted. The same feeling that haunted her back home.
Avery notices immediately. His smile vanishes, replaced by a tightness in his jaw. In one easy movement, he steps to the side, positioning himself squarely between the girls, his body an unspoken shield. He rests his hand casually on the shelf, his posture relaxed but his tone anything but. “You need something, Kota?” he asks, his voice light but edged with steel.
Dakota’s smile remains, but there’s a flicker of irritation in her eyes. She crosses her arms, tapping her nails against her elbow. “Just curious,” she says sweetly, her gaze shifting over Avery’s shoulder toward Ever.
Avery raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning—this time far less amused. “Curiosity satisfied?”
The tension hangs for a beat too long before Dakota finally turns, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder with a practiced flourish. “Enjoy your candy,” she calls, her heels clicking as she retreats toward the counter.
Ever stands frozen, her lips pressed into a thin line, staring after Dakota. The air feels heavier now, thick with something unspoken, until Avery’s voice cuts through it.
“Are you good?” His voice is softer, lacking its usual teasing edge.
She nods, though the tension in her posture remains. “Yeah,” she says quietly, though it sounds more like a question than an answer.
Avery watches her for a moment before his grin returns, warmer this time. “Don’t mind her,” he says, nudging her gently with his elbow. “She’s just mad because I banged and didn’t bag.”
She blinks, caught off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaping her lips. Well now she knows what kind of guy Avery is.
“C’mon,” He urges, steering her toward the gummy bears. “Let’s get you something sweet. Tate’s paying, remember?”
The reminder makes her smile return. Falling in step with him, she follows him, her footsteps lighter now, the unease slowly fading with each step.
Tate sits in the driver’s seat of the truck, the window cracked just enough to let the smoke drift out. It’s his third cigarette since they parked, and his patience is wearing thin. He taps his thumb on the steering wheel, watching the entrance of the store with a scowl. How long does it take to buy some damn candy?
He flicks the ash from his cigarette, taking a long drag, the nicotine dulling some of his irritation. He checks the clock—only 12 minutes have passed since they went in. Still, it feels like a lifetime.
He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the bell over the door chimes, signaling someone leaving. Out come Avery and Ever, both smiling like—well, like kids in a candy store. Avery’s laughter echoes through the open air as he strolls toward the truck, a bag full of candy in one hand and her hand firmly clasped in the other.
His jaw tightens around the cigarette, his mood darkening. His eyes lock on their intertwined fingers, and a wave of irritation rolls through him. Avery, grinning, drags her over to their side of the truck, dropping her hand only long enough to open the door for her with a dramatic flourish. “Your chariot awaits, m’lady,” he teases with a wink.
She laughs softly, her face glowing with a happiness Tate hasn’t seen yet.
Pressing his lips into a thin line, he stubs out his cigarette. Before she can climb in, he picks up her bag from the floor and places it on his lap.
She hesitates for a second before sliding into the seat beside him, careful not to step on Bacchus, who’s curled up on the floorboard at her feet. Once she’s settled, he hands her the bag with a gruff, “Here,” his fingers brushing hers for just a second.
“Thank you,” she whispers shyly, clutching the bag to her chest. Something about the way her eyes sparkle, lighter than they were earlier, makes Tate’s irritation falter. At least the candy stop wasn’t a total waste. It’s nice to finally see her happy. The realization does something strange to his chest.
His good mood disappears just as quickly as it had risen when Avery slides in next to her, also making sure not to step on Bacchus, pulling something from his pocket—a small piece of plastic that catches the light.
Tate’s eyes zero in on it immediately.
“Thanks for the sweets, big brother!” Avery announces, holding the card up with a triumphant grin.
Tate stares at him, momentarily stunned. “You son of a bitch!” he growls, reaching over Ever to swat at his younger brother.
Avery laughs, holding up his arms to shield himself. “Hey, hey! It was for a good cause!”
Tate doesn’t relent, batting at him again. “My credit card? You couldn’t use your own damn money?”
“I left it at home!” Avery protests, trying to duck away. “Besides, you’ve got plenty!”
Ever giggles softly, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as her shoulders shake with laughter. Bacchus, ever in tune with her mood, perks up from the floorboard and lets out a few excited barks, his tail thumping against the console. The sound of her laughter bubbles up again, light and airy, filling the cab with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of tension.
Tate’s eyes flick to her, his grip on the wheel loosening as a rare smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He leans back in his seat, exhaling slowly through his nose. “You’re lucky she’s laughing,” he mutters at Avery without looking over. “Otherwise, you’d be walking home.”
Avery grins like a man with nothing to lose, tossing Tate’s credit card back at him. Tate snatches it midair, his reflexes sharp. “Worth it,” Avery says, leaning into his seat with an air of victory.
Tate shakes his head, but there’s no real heat behind it. His gaze flicks down, catching Ever bent over to pet Bacchus, her soft laughter still lingering in the air. One hand gently scratches behind the collie’s ear, while the other rests absentmindedly on Avery’s thigh. His chest tightens in an unfamiliar way—something softer, something dangerously close to fondness. Maybe this ridiculous candy run wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Just as he’s about to put the truck in reverse, both men notice her hand placement.
Avery’s eyes dart to Tate, a slow, wicked grin curling at the edges of his mouth. His brow quirks as if to say, You thinking what I’m thinking? It’s a silent, loaded exchange—an unspoken image flashing through both their minds, far less innocent than the moment playing out before them.
Tate clears his throat, his jaw tightening, but Avery? He doesn't miss a beat. Never one to let an opportunity slip by, he reaches down and gently runs his fingers through Ever's hair, his touch slow and deliberate.
Ever gasps softly, her breath catching. The sound is barely audible, but both men hear it.
A strange warmth rushes through her body, unfamiliar and all-consuming. It makes her skin tingle and her pulse quicken. Heat blooms low in her belly, a languid sensation that coils and hums beneath her skin. It awakens something inside her that she doesn't fully understand but can't ignore.
Her hand stiffens, and she instinctively pulls it back from Avery's thigh. Her wide eyes flick upward, meeting his. There's a question in her gaze-uncertain, unsteady-as if she's struggling to process what just happened.
Avery notices. Oh, he definitely notices. His grin deepens, eyes darkening with something far more dangerous than mischief.
“Sorry, Ever,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, more velvet than teasing. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her cheeks burn crimson as she straightens quickly, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. “I… I-It’s fine,” she stammers, her voice barely steady, though her racing pulse betrays her.
Tate’s eyes narrow. His jaw tightens, and his fingers grip the steering wheel a little harder than necessary. His face flushes—not from the heater, but from the silent exchange and having been caught caring about her. His tone turns deadly calm, eyes locked on the dashboard. “Shut up, Avery Ambrose,” he growls, dragging out his brother’s middle name like a threat.
Avery’s grin only grows wider, his eyes dancing with glee. “Oh, what are you gonna do if I don’t, Tatum Ulysses?” He leans back, savoring every syllable, his voice dripping with mockery.
Tate’s ears burn red now, the tips of them matching the heat in his face. “You’re so dead when we get home,” he mutters, shifting the truck into reverse with a bit more force than necessary.
Avery stretches out, arms behind his head, entirely too pleased with himself. “Bring it, Ulysses.”
Tate clenches his jaw. “So dead,” he grumbles under his breath, halfheartedly, the threat losing its edge.
From the corner of his eye, Avery notices Ever sinking deeper into her seat, hiding her flushed face behind her scarf. He chuckles softly, finding her shyness endearing.
Knowing that Tate was secretly worried about her only makes the moment sweeter. Tugging her scarf a little higher, a small smile plays at her lips. She isn’t used to being treated like this— it’s nice.
As Tate pulls into traffic the truck falls into a comfortable silence, the hum of the engine blending with the soft tap of Bacchus’s snoring. Outside, the sky darkens for a moment as a cloud drifts in front of the sun.
Ever pulls her bag up higher onto her lap, resting her chin on it so she can keep watching the passing landscape. Each curve and rise of the land tugs at her heart, pulling her back into long-forgotten childhood memories. Familiar barns, winding fences, and open pastures blur together like fragments of a dream slowly coming back into focus. As they go her eyelids grow heavier with each passing mile, the excitement and exhaustion creeping up on her.
Tate keeps his eyes on the road, his cheek resting against a fisted hand while his other hand taps idly on the steering wheel. His earlier irritation has melted into something calmer, more relaxed. The steady hum of the engine and the gentle sway of the truck only add to the stillness.
Meanwhile Avery stretches out beside her, his head tilted back and eyes closed, a contented smile playing on his lips as if life couldn’t get much better.
She desperately fights sleep, her head dipping slightly before snapping back up. Tate notices, making him chuckle. His fingers still their tapping as he switches hands, freeing his right one to reach over. Gently his fingers slide into her soft hair, lightly scratching at her scalp. The soothing touch sends a shiver down her spine, and before she knows it, a soft, contented purr escapes her lips.
She’s too tired to care, too far gone to be embarrassed by it.
Tate’s lips curl into a soft smile, his voice low and warm, nothing like his usual gruff tone. “Go to sleep, Doll. You’ve got all the time in the world to see the scenery.”
That’s all it takes. With a soft sigh, she gives in. Her eyes flutter shut, and the tension that’s been gripping her for months melts away. The steady rhythm of the tires on the road lulls her into the most peaceful sleep she’s had in a long time.
The next thing she knows, the truck jolts gently as the smooth asphalt gives way to the crunch of dirt beneath the tires. She stirs, a soft whimper escaping her as she blinks herself awake.
Cracking her eyes open, she peers ahead, her breath catching in her throat. The ranch stretches out before her, bathed in the soft glow of the late afternoon sun. The house stands tall and proud, its white siding gleaming in the fading light. The wraparound porch, lined with rocking chairs and hanging flower baskets, looks exactly how she remembers it.
Her heart stumbles, then quickens, a flutter of emotion surging through her chest.
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