The kitchen at the ranch smells like butter, cinnamon, bacon grease, and peaches simmering low on the stove.

It smells alive.

You stand barefoot in front of the counter wearing one of John’s old button-downs, sleeves rolled past your wrists and a black MasterChef apron tied around your waist. Your hair’s loosely pinned up, though strands have escaped from the humidity and the constant motion of cooking. The ranch house windows are cracked open enough to let in cool Montana morning air—and the faint trace of smoke curling from the joint balanced carefully between your fingers.

John notices the smell before he notices the joint.

Not because he’s naïve. Because he’s too distracted watching you move around his kitchen like you’ve always belonged there.

“You’re making enough food for an army,” he says from the island.

You glance over your shoulder. “Your family looks emotionally repressed. That usually means big appetites.”

He snorts into his coffee.

On the stove, bacon crackles beside sausage links while a tray of spinach and sun-dried tomato quiche cups cools near the window. There are blueberry muffins already stacked beneath a dish towel, banana muffins beside them because “some people don’t like blueberries, John, we live in a society.”

He still doesn’t know what that means.

The French toast batter sits waiting in a wide bowl between you both.

“Hand me the cinnamon.”

John reaches for the wrong spice deliberately just to watch your expression change.

“John.”

“What?”

“That’s paprika.”

“You survived.”

You narrow your eyes at him before taking a small drag and passing the joint over casually. “Here.”

Now that catches him off guard.

John Dutton looks at it like it personally insulted his livestock.

“You smoke often?”

“Medical card,” you reply easily, whisking batter again. “Sleep issues. Nerve pain sometimes. Anxiety.”

“You’re twenty-three.”

“And yet my nervous system didn’t care.”

That earns a reluctant grunt from him.

Still, after a second, he takes it.

You watch carefully while turning bread into the batter.

John inhales once.

Then immediately coughs hard enough to make you bark out a laugh.

“Christ alive.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze. “You hit it like it owed you money.”

He glares while setting it down. “Tastes like burned alfalfa.”

“Give it a minute.”

And annoyingly enough—it works.

Not dramatically. John doesn’t suddenly become mellow and philosophical. He just… loosens around the edges. The permanent tension between his shoulders eases. His expression softens into something less sharpened by responsibility.

By the time he’s stealing strawberries off the cutting board ten minutes later, he understands why somebody signed paperwork for this.

“You put vanilla in this batter?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

“Taste it.”

You slide the spoon toward him.

John tastes it obediently, then points toward the skillet. “Needs more cinnamon.”

You stare.

“…That was a test.”

“I know.”

“You passed.”

“Goldie, I’ve negotiated billion-dollar land disputes.”

“Yes, but this is brunch.”

That finally drags a real laugh out of him—low, rusty, warm enough that it settles somewhere unexpectedly soft in your chest.

For a while, the kitchen turns easy.

You direct; he follows.

“Flip those.”

“They’re burning.”

“They’re caramelizing.”

“They’re black.”

“They’re rustic.”

He shakes his head but obeys anyway, broad hands surprisingly careful while plating food under your supervision. Every so often he steals pieces before they reach serving trays. You smack his wrist with a spatula twice.

The peach mimosas are your favorite part.

Fresh peach purée from fruit brought from Bellvine sits glowing gold in champagne flutes. You garnish them with thin peach slices while John watches from his seat at the counter, looking almost unfairly comfortable there.

Domesticity looks strange on him.

Heavy.

Earned.

“You learn all this at that cooking camp?” he asks eventually.

You brighten instantly. “MasterChef junior summer camp, age twelve.”

“You were one of those kids?”

“One of the finalists, thank you.”

“Hell.”