The old screen door creaked and slammed shut, boots echoing on the hardwood. You froze in the middle of Kayce’s kitchen, a wooden spoon clutched in your hand.

The oven ticked behind you, the smell of chicken casserole filling the air, golden edges just starting to crisp. A kettle whistled softly on the stove. You had thought you’d have at least another twenty minutes before Kayce came back in from working the horses. No one said a word about company.

And then you heard it—Beth’s sharp voice, cutting through the quiet like a whip.

“Kayce! You ignoring us now? Jesus, you’re worse than Daddy.”

Another voice, deep and steady. Rip. “Maybe he’s out back. Truck’s still here.”

And then John, that unmistakable gravel that filled a room even when spoken low. “He should be answering his damn phone.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. They weren’t just here—they were here. Right outside.

You turned, eyes darting for somewhere to run, but there was nowhere. Not in Kayce’s shirt, hair still tousled from the morning, bare feet on the cool tile. You looked every bit the secret you were.

The kettle whined louder. You fumbled to pull it off the stove, but in your rush, the handle slipped. Hot water splashed onto the counter and over your wrist.

“Shit!” you hissed, jerking back, the spoon clattering to the floor. The tea poured down the cupboards, dripping onto the rug.

That’s when they appeared in the doorway.

Beth stopped dead first, eyes narrowing, mouth curling slow into a wicked smile. “Well. Isn’t this interesting.”

Rip said nothing, though his brows rose just slightly, arms folding across his chest as he took you in.

John just stared, that unreadable weight in his eyes that made you feel smaller than you were.

You stood frozen, clutching a towel against the spill, cheeks blazing hot. “I—uh—sorry, I was just—” You gestured vaguely toward the oven, words tumbling out faster than your brain could catch them. “Casserole. I was making dinner.”

Beth snorted. “Dinner, breakfast, whatever you call it when you’re wearing my brother’s shirt.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet trying to sidestep the puddle of tea, desperate to salvage some dignity. The timer on the oven dinged at that exact moment, shrill and unforgiving.

“Perfect,” Beth muttered, dragging on her cigarette. “Domestic bliss in Kayce’s kitchen. Daddy, did you know about this?”

John’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer her. His gaze stayed fixed on you, quiet and appraising. Not cruel, not kind—just heavy, like he was taking your measure in that long Dutton way.

Rip finally cleared his throat. “Casserole’s gonna burn if you don’t get it,” he said evenly.

Grateful for something, anything, to do, you rushed to the oven, fumbling with the mitt before sliding the dish onto the counter. The smell filled the kitchen—roasted chicken, cream, herbs—and somehow, despite everything, it wasn’t ruined.

But the silence that followed felt louder than any oven timer.

Beth exhaled smoke through her grin, shaking her head like this was the best entertainment she’d had in weeks. “Kayce, Kayce, Kayce…” she muttered, though he wasn’t even there to defend himself.

You stood rooted to the spot, casserole steaming behind you, hands still trembling around the towel. Three pairs of eyes bore into you from the doorway, and the secret you thought you were keeping so carefully had just unraveled into the morning air.

And Kayce? Still nowhere in sight.