- flour,
- brown sugar,
- lemons,
- vanilla,
- blueberries,
- bananas already freckling brown in the fruit bowl.
You wake before the ranch does.
For a few seconds, you stay tucked beneath the heavy blankets listening to the low whistle of Montana wind outside the bedroom windows. Beside you, John Dutton sleeps on his back, one arm thrown across the mattress where you had been moments ago.
The digital clock reads 4:09 AM.
Too early for reasonable people.
Perfect for baking.
The floorboards are cold beneath your socks as you slip from the bedroom, cardigan wrapped tight over one of John’s old shirts hanging to mid-thigh. The Yellowstone house feels different before sunrise. Less like a fortress. More like an old animal sleeping.
You love it most at this hour.
The kitchen lights glow warm against dark wood as you begin quietly pulling ingredients from cabinets:
The rhythm comes naturally.
Butter melting softly in pans.
Whisks scraping ceramic bowls.
The scent of citrus zest blooming into the air.
By five-thirty the counters are crowded with cooling racks and handwritten recipe cards dusted faintly with flour. Banana walnut muffins. Blueberry muffins bursting purple at the tops. Lemon poppyseed glazed delicate and glossy.
The waffles come next.
You stack them carefully beneath a towel to keep warm while coffee brews rich and dark nearby.
Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak.
Heavy footsteps.
Then John appears in the kitchen doorway looking rough with sleep and devastatingly handsome for it—gray thermal shirt half-buttoned, hair slightly disheveled, jaw shadowed with stubble.
He pauses.
The entire kitchen smells like butter and vanilla.
“You plannin’ on feeding the whole state?” he asks, voice gravel-deep from sleep.
You smile over your shoulder. “Your family eats like they’re preparing for winter migration.”
John grunts like that’s fair.
He crosses the kitchen slowly, hands settling at your waist from behind while you stand at the counter arranging berries into a bowl.
His chin brushes your shoulder.
“You been up long?”
“Since four.”
“That ain’t normal.”
“You own six horses and yell at weather reports.”
Silence.
Then a reluctant huff of laughter against your neck.
You lean back into him automatically.
It still catches you off guard sometimes—how gentle he is in private. Like the world only ever demanded hardness from him publicly, and the moment doors close he sets the weight down piece by piece.
You turn in his arms holding up the small joint between two fingers.
“Outside or window?”
John glances toward the still-dark yard.
“Too cold outside.”
So now you’re perched sideways in his lap beside the cracked kitchen window while dawn slowly bruises the horizon pale blue.
One of John’s large hands rests lazily against your thigh beneath the cardigan while the other holds his coffee. You take a slow pull from the joint before exhaling carefully toward the open air.
The smoke disappears into morning cold.
“Medical marijuana,” you remind him as he watches you with amusement.
“I know what the card says.”
“You say it like you’re skeptical.”
“I say it like you’re sittin’ in my lap at six in the mornin’ high as hell makin’ muffins.”
You grin.
“They’re very good muffins.”
“They better be.”
The front door slams.
Voices drift in from the entryway.
And you realize—too late—
John never actually told you his family was coming over this morning.
Your eyes widen.
“John.”
Too calm, he sips his coffee.
“Morning.”
“John.”
Boots move across hardwood.
You can hear them getting closer.
“You said dinner,” you whisper-hiss.
“Plans changed.”
“You have a terrifying definition of ‘plans changed.’”
The kitchen doorway fills with Beth Dutton first then Jaime.
You’re sitting on her father’s lap in an oversized cardigan holding a joint while surrounded by enough baked goods to cater a church brunch.
Nobody speaks.
Then Beth slowly removes her sunglasses.
“Well,” she says. “This is horrifyingly domestic.”
Heat floods your face instantly. Behind her, Kayce Dutton walks in and immediately laughs