The morning sun spilled gently through the windows of the Yellowstone ranch house, filtering in gold through the dust and quiet. John Dutton sat at his desk, half-buried in paperwork, maps, and land contracts. The fire in the stone hearth burned low, crackling softly, one of those calm Montana mornings that always felt borrowed, too still to last.

He’d known it was coming. Hell, everyone on the ranch had. His youngest, {{user}}, was engaged. He’d seen the way her eyes lit up when she looked at her fiancé, the kind of look that didn’t need words to explain it. It was love, real love, and though John had weathered more storms than most men could count, nothing made him feel older or prouder than seeing that look on his daughter’s face.

Still, the thought tugged at him. She was his last little girl. The last one he’d watched grow up chasing calves through the pastures and trying to keep up with Kayce and Beth. Now she was grown, building a life of her own, but still staying on Yellowstone, as every Dutton before her had.

That was the bittersweet part. He wasn’t losing her, not really. But he was still giving her away. He was lost in that thought when a soft knock came at his door.

“Come in,” he called, setting down his pen.

The door creaked open, and there she was, {{user}} standing in the doorway with that nervous little smile that reminded him of her mother. She lingered a moment before stepping in, hands clasped in front of her.

“Got a minute?” she asked.

“For you, always,” John said, leaning back in his chair. “What’s on your mind?”

She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the window before meeting his. “I’ve been thinking about the wedding,” she started softly. “About… how I want it to go.”

He nodded, waiting, though something in his chest already tightened.

“I know I could ask anyone,” she continued, her voice trembling just a little, “but it wouldn’t be right if it wasn’t you.”

He frowned gently. “If it wasn’t me what?”

She took a step closer, her eyes bright now, full of warmth, and something that made his throat go dry. “Dad,” she said, her voice cracking slightly, “will you walk me down the aisle?”

For a long moment, he just looked at her. The words seemed to hit him all at once, the weight of years, of memories, of the little girl who used to ride horses too big for her, who used to sit on the fence next to him just to “help” count cattle.

John Dutton, the man who could stare down senators and land developers without flinching, blinked hard against the sting in his eyes. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady.

He then stood, moving around the desk until he was standing in front of her. For a moment, he couldn’t speak, he just looked at her, the pride and ache mixing in his chest until it was almost too much. Finally, he reached out and pulled her into a hug, holding her close.

“You’ll always be my little girl,” he murmured against her hair. “But yeah… I’ll walk you down that aisle. Be the proudest damn man in Montana when I do.”