Ends of the Earth—Ty Myers

You step through the doors of Hawthorne House for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

Your worn-out cowgirl boots echo against marble floors as you pass the grand staircase, the weight of every stare wearing on you. You can feel them—Grayson, Jameson, Xander—all wondering what you’re doing here. And him.

Nash Westbrook Hawthorne.

The study smells like cedar and memories that you can’t wait to drown with whiskey. It’s too warm, too quiet. You sit in the far corner, pulse steady on the outside, chaos underneath.

Nash is already there. Leaning against the mantle like he owns it, like he isn’t the reason you haven’t been back in years. His eyes flick to yours, just once—but it’s enough.

The rest of the Hawthorne family fills the room with quiet tension, their eyes flickering between you both, waiting for what happens next. Your back is to Nash as the lawyer clears his throat.

“This portion was written by Tobias Hawthorne.”

He unfolds the letter.

“To Nash Westbrook Hawthorne, my eldest grandson—who spent his life chasing roads and running from the things that scared him most—I leave two things: $250,000, and the ring he never had the guts to give her. Maybe now he’ll stop running.”

Your throat tightens.

“And to the girl who once loved him—with her whole, stubborn heart—I leave the same: $250,000, and a second chance. I trust you’ll know what to do with it.”

The letter ends. Silence floods the room. You rise to leave.

Then—

“{{user}}.”

Nash’s voice is quiet, almost a breath behind you.