Morning at the Yellowstone ranch house doesn’t arrive gently. It seeps in low and blue through the wide windows, sliding over worn wood floors and antlers mounted above the stone fireplace. The house sits long and sprawling — one floor, built sturdy and practical — every board creaking with memory.
You’ve been up since before the sun committed.
John’s flannel hangs off your shoulders, sleeves rolled twice, the collar slipping enough to expose the curve where neck meets shoulder. It smells like cedar smoke and clean cotton and something warm that makes your stomach flutter. Your fuzzy white socks — the white ones with tiny pepperoni pizzas — shuffle softly against the hardwood as you move between counter and stove.
You told yourself cooking would calm you down.
It hasn’t.
Blueberry muffins cool on a tray near the sink, their tops cracked and golden. Pancakes are stacked high on a platter, butter melting in glossy rivers down the sides. Bacon snaps and hisses in the cast-iron skillet, grease popping against your wrist. The air smells like sugar and salt and coffee.
The coffee.
The sleek silver Nespresso hums on the counter — polished, modern, absolutely out of place in a house that still keeps a percolator in the cabinet.
John was always a coffee pot man.
That machine showed up a month ago.
You press the button again just to keep your hands busy. It whirs obediently, pouring a neat ribbon into a heavy ceramic mug.
The front door opens.
No knock.
Just boots on wood.
Your heart drops into your stomach.
Beth Dutton steps inside like she owns the ground she walks on. Her eyes sweep the room once — the muffins, the pancakes, the bacon, the unfamiliar machine — cataloging everything in a blink.
Then she sees you.
Bare legs. Oversized flannel. Pizza socks.
Behind her, Kayce pauses in the doorway, tension in his shoulders but something gentler in his expression. Rip lingers just inside, hat low, silent as a storm cloud.
No one speaks.
The bacon fills the silence, crackling too loud.
Beth’s gaze drifts deliberately to the Nespresso. Her mouth tilts.
“Dad hasn’t answered his phone in forty-eight hours,” she says smoothly. “And now he’s got boutique coffee and a pajama model making breakfast.”
Heat climbs your neck so fast it burns.
“I was just—” You gesture helplessly to the stove. “Cooking.”
Rip’s eyes flick to the bacon, then to you. Measuring. Not cruel. Just assessing.
Kayce gives a small nod. “Morning.”
“Morning,” you manage, voice thinner than you’d like.
Beth steps closer, heels clicking softly. She plucks a muffin from the tray without asking, breaks it open. Steam curls upward between you.
“New coffee. Fresh baking. Twenty-three and wearing my father’s shirt.” She takes a bite. Chews. “That’s not a coincidence. That’s a headline.”
“It’s just a flannel,” you say quietly.
Beth smiles — slow and surgical. “Sweetheart, nothing in this house is ‘just’ anything.”
The hallway behind you creaks.
The ranch house is all one level; sound carries differently here. You hear the shift of mattress springs. A throat clearing. Heavy footsteps padding down the corridor toward the kitchen.
You freeze.
John’s voice carries before he does — rough with sleep, low and unguarded in a way he never is in daylight.
“Darlin’?”
Your lungs forget how to work.
“You steal my shirt again?” he calls, closer now. “And if that’s that damn espresso thing runnin’, you better’ve made me one.”
Beth’s eyebrows lift toward the ceiling.
Rip slowly removes his hat.
Kayce presses his lips together like he’s trying not to smile.
John appears in the hallway doorway, hair rumpled, belt unbuckled, still buttoning his jeans. He stops short when he sees the three of them standing in his kitchen.
If the earth opened up right then, you would’ve thanked it.
Beth turns her head very slowly toward you, eyes bright with wicked delight.
Kayce exhales through his nose.
Rip studies the ceiling like it suddenly fascinates him.
John finally clocks the room properly. His jaw tightens, awareness snapping into place.
“What the hell?"