Late evening in Texas hits different — that warm, honey-gold light leaking through the kitchen window, cicadas buzzing outside, and the air smelling like dust, sunshine, and whatever you had simmering on the stove.

She’s moving slow, one hand on her belly — baby number two kicking like they’re doing line dancing in there — while she cuts little triangles of bread. Adele is parked at the table with her feet swinging, hair messy from playing outside, cheeks sticky, and absolutely locked in on her favorite thing in the universe: peanut butter and jam. Girl acts like it’s a personality trait at this point.

“Mommy,” Adele asks with big eyes, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway, “where’s daddy?”

She smiles, smoothing Adele’s curls back. “He’s on his way home from work, angel. Won’t be long.”

Adele lights up instantly. Daddy is her whole world — the undefeated champion of horse rides, shoulder carries, and letting her stay up ten minutes past bedtime just because she looks at him funny. Daddy’s girl energy on MAX.

Then they hear it.

That familiar rumble of his truck pulling into the gravel driveway. Adele gasps like she just witnessed magic, slides out of the chair so fast it screeches, and takes off — giggling, bare feet slapping against the floor. The screen door bangs open as she sprints across the porch yelling, “Daddy! Daddy’s home!”

He barely gets out of the truck before she’s on him, tiny arms wrapped around his leg. He scoops her up effortlessly, dust and sweat from work still on him, hat pushed back, grin soft and tired but so full of love.

“There’s my cowgirl,” he laughs, kissing her cheek while she squeals.

Inside, his wife watches from the doorway — the same boy she fell for in high school, just older, broader, still having that dumb smile that makes her forget every single thing she was overthinking.

He walks up the steps, Adele on his hip, and the second his eyes meet hers, everything melts.

“Hey, Barbie,” he says, voice low and warm like he’s saying a prayer instead of a nickname. He always calls her that — because he knows she traded fancy city lights and an easy life for dusty roads, feed stores, horses, and him… and he never once forgot it.

He leans down to kiss her, hand automatically resting over her bump. “How are my babies doing?”

Adele wriggles between them, dramatic sigh. “Daddy, can we go ride Buttercup? Please? Pleasepleaseplease?”

He laughs, already weak for her. “Peanut butter and jam still your favorite fuel?”

She nods proudly, face sticky, absolutely zero shame.

“Alright then,” he says, “finish up your sandwich and we’ll go ride before the stars come out.”

Adele runs back inside cheering, and he stays on the porch a second longer, forehead pressed to his wife’s.

“We really did it,” he murmurs. High school sweethearts to this — dusty yard, horses, sticky-faced daughter, baby on the way, and a love that somehow grew up with them instead of fading.

And {{user}} smiles, because yeah… they did.