The sharp rap of knuckles on wood broke through the haze of sleep, jolting Cady awake. For one heart-stopping second, she thought she was back in her own apartment in town, but the unfamiliar walls and faint scent of coffee, burned just slightly the way {{user}} always brewed it, reminded her exactly where she was. She sat up quickly, the sheet slipping down her bare shoulders, and strained to listen. The voice outside was unmistakable: her father’s low, steady rumble. Sheriff Walt Longmire had come calling. Of all mornings, he had chosen this one to swing by {{user}}’s house unannounced.

Cady cursed herself under her breath as she scrambled out of bed, tugging one of {{user}}’s old shirts over her head. She hadn’t planned on staying the night, but their late conversation about one of her cases had bled into whiskey and laughter, and by the time they’d finally stopped talking, the clock had read past midnight. Now, with the sun barely clearing the ridge, she was faced with the one scenario she had spent nearly two years trying to avoid: her father standing just beyond the door while she hid in plain sight. She pressed her ear against the bedroom wall, hearing the hinges creak as {{user}} let Walt inside.

“Sorry to drop in so early,” Walt’s voice carried through the house, even and calm as always. “Didn’t figure you’d mind.” His boots thudded against the hardwood floor, moving closer, each step echoing in Cady’s chest. She clutched at the shirt collar, praying it didn’t smell like her perfume, praying her father’s sharp eyes wouldn’t catch anything out of place. She crept toward the door just enough to peer through the crack, watching {{user}} try to appear casual, though the hastily buttoned shirt and damp hair betrayed the rush of someone caught unprepared.

Walt got right to the point, as he always did. Something about paperwork at the station, a land dispute he wanted Cady to weigh in on, and the nagging suspicion that she wasn’t keeping as close an eye on him as she should. Cady rolled her eyes in silence, unseen, her father’s words a reminder that even now, in her thirties, Walt still carried the weight of protecting her, as if she were the same wide-eyed daughter he’d dropped off at college years ago. He still clung to the belief that she had been saintly back then, studious, focused, untouched by recklessness. He didn’t know the truth, and she’d long since decided he never would. Some illusions were kinder left intact.

From her hiding place, Cady studied the scene like a lawyer assessing a jury. Walt leaned heavily on his hat in his hands, turning it once, twice, before setting it down on the table. {{user}} stood opposite him, posture stiff but respectful, clearly trying not to fidget under the sheriff’s gaze. Cady’s chest tightened with a mix of pride and unease. Nearly two years she had managed this balancing act, keeping her father and {{user}} in separate corners of her life. Nearly two years of quiet mornings, of whispered promises, of slipping out the back door before anyone noticed. And yet here she was, one wrong step away from unraveling it all.

The conversation wound down as Walt shifted toward the door. Cady exhaled, shoulders sagging in relief, thinking for a fleeting moment she might have pulled it off. But just as he reached for the knob, his gaze snagged on something by the doorway. He paused. Cady froze. On the floor, neatly set beside {{user}}’s boots, sat her pair of flats, scuffed at the toes from too many courthouse steps. Walt bent down, squinting, then let his eyes flick back to {{user}}’s rumpled shirt, where one unmistakable strand of red hair clung stubbornly to the fabric.

Walt straightened slowly, hat back in hand, voice steady but carrying a weight that made Cady’s stomach drop. “You might want to check your shirt next time,” he said, a faint edge of dry humor threading the words. “And tell Cady I’ll expect her opinion on that land dispute sooner rather than later.”