The dishes clatter softly as I stack them beside the sink. Paige promised to wash them later, her voice carrying that new brightness she wears like a second skin since Jake agreed she could stay.
Arms wrap around me from behind—gentle, certain, claiming.
"Come to my bed tonight." Jake's voice is low against my ear, his chest warm and solid against my back. "Sleep with me. Actually sleep."
I lean into him without thinking, my body remembering what my mind kept forgetting these past weeks. "Yes."
The word comes out simpler than I expected. No negotiation. No careful calculation.
"Good." His lips brush my temple. "You look exhausted."
"I haven't slept properly in weeks." The confession escapes before I can soften it. "Maybe longer."
His arms tighten around me. He doesn't say anything, just holds on like he's anchoring us both to something solid.
Later, his bedroom wraps around us like a promise kept. The sheets smell like cedar and leather and him—familiar in ways that make my chest ache with relief.
Jake traces a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch impossibly gentle for hands that rope cattle and break horses.
"You're so beautiful." He says it like a fact. Like something obvious and undeniable.
I shake my head against the pillow. "I feel terrible. I'm sure I look worse."
"You don't." His fingers continue their slow path along my jaw, my neck, the curve of my shoulder. "You're pregnant, Adison. Carrying our child. That has its own beauty."
The words settle into my chest like something warm taking root.
"Our child." I test the phrase, watching his face in the dim light. "Do you want a boy or a girl?"
"Doesn't matter." His answer comes immediately, without hesitation. "Healthy. Happy. That's all I care about."
"I think I want a girl." The admission surprises me as it leaves my mouth. "I don't know why. Maybe because I'd understand her better. Know what she needs." I pause, feeling the truth of it. "But I'll love either fiercely. That's not negotiable."
Jake's smile softens the hard lines of his face. "I know you will."
"What do you think she'll be like?" I ask. "Or he. What talents might show up?"
"Maybe your astronomy." His hand finds my stomach, resting there with careful reverence. "Your brilliance. That way you see patterns other people miss."
"Or your steadiness." I cover his hand with mine. "Your patience. The way you stay calm when everything else is chaos."
"Some combination we can't predict." Jake's voice carries wonder I've never heard from him before. "Half you. Half me. Something entirely new."
The conversation drifts toward harder territory without warning.
"Where will we raise them?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "This baby. Where will they grow up?"
Jake's expression shifts. Something hopeful and stubborn settles into his features.
"Here." The word lands with conviction. "The ranch. This is where I belong, Adison. Where our baby can grow surrounded by land and sky and honest work."
I hesitate. The conversation we need to have isn't small enough for tonight.
"That needs more than one conversation." I choose my words carefully. "There's a lot to consider."
"I can't survive New York." Jake's voice roughens with something close to desperation. "I tried. You saw what it did to me. The suffocation. The walls closing in." His hand tightens against my stomach. "I can't abandon what my family built. Four generations worked this land. Everything a child needs exists here."
"Manhattan has things too." I counter gently, unwilling to yield completely. "Schools with resources we can't replicate. Culture. Opportunity. A world beyond this valley."
"Schools teach facts." Jake shakes his head slowly. "This land teaches character. Teaches work ethic. Teaches a person who they really are."
"Both matter." I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath my fingers. "Neither of us is wrong. We just want different things for our child."
"I want our child to know where they come from." His voice drops. "To feel connected to something real. Something that doesn't change based on trends or markets or what strangers think."
"I want our child to have choices." My own voice softens. "To see what exists beyond any single place. To decide for themselves what kind of life they want."
We debate gently, neither yielding, our words growing slower as exhaustion pulls at both of us. Somewhere between his argument about mountain air and my counterpoint about museums, sleep claims us mid-sentence.
Morning arrives in his arms.
Sunlight spills through the curtains, painting everything gold. Jake stirs beside me, his body waking with the dawn the way it always has.
"Keep resting." He starts to rise, voice rough with sleep. "You need it."
I catch his hand. Refuse to release him.
"Stay." The word comes out more desperate than I intend.
He rises anyway, wearing only boxers, and I see his body's response to waking beside me. The evidence of his desire is impossible to miss.
"I've missed having you." I say it plainly, without shame. "Missed this. Missed us."
His voice roughens to something almost broken. "I've missed all of you. Your body. Your hunger. The way you look at me like I'm the only thing that matters."
I pull him back for a kiss that threatens to become more. His mouth opens against mine, and for one suspended moment, we're back in simpler times—before Manhattan, before silence, before the distance that nearly destroyed us.
Then I release him with a laugh that surprises us both.
"My hormones could trap you here all day." I warn him, watching the conflict play across his features. "And you have a ranch to run."
Jake exhales slowly, visibly gathering his control. He dresses while I watch—jeans, work shirt, boots—each movement is practical and efficient.
But he pauses at the door. Looks back at me tangled in his sheets, carrying his child, finally where I belong.
"Tonight." He promises. "We continue this."
"Tonight." I agree.
He leaves, and I stay wrapped in warmth and certainty.
This cowboy belongs to me. This life we're building—complicated and imperfect and entirely ours—belongs to both of us.