The house is quiet in the warm, drowsy way it only gets late at night.

Not silent.

Just softened.

The windows are cracked open enough to let cool Montana air drift through the bedroom curtains, carrying the smell of rain-damp earth and pine from outside.

Your skin still feels warm.

So does John’s hand where it had been resting against your waist only moments ago before you reluctantly slipped from the bed.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” you ask while tying the robe around yourself and your six month baby bump, Wyatt Bear.

John is sprawled back against the pillows looking thoroughly content in a way he’d deny under oath. One arm behind his head, hair slightly disheveled, expression heavy-lidded and calmer than it’s been all week.

“Tea’s fine,” he murmurs.

“You’re seventy years old emotionally.”

“Tastes good.”

“You like anything with honey.”

“That’s because you keep buyin’ good honey.”

You grin to yourself and disappear into the kitchen.

The entire house still carries traces of intimacy—warmth lingering in the air, music low somewhere in the background, the bedroom door left half-open behind you.

You’re reaching for glasses when headlights suddenly sweep across the front windows.

You freeze.

A vehicle door slams outside.

Then another.

Your eyes widen instantly.

“Oh no.”

John’s voice carries faintly from the bedroom. “What.”

“You have visitors.”

A pause.

“At this hour?”

You peek through the curtain and immediately regret gaining vision.

“Oh my God.”

“What.”

“It’s your children.”

Silence.

Then from the bedroom:

“…Hell.”

You nearly choke laughing.

Outside, multiple figures are approaching the porch carrying bags, drink trays, and what unfortunately appears to be confidence.

The front door swings open before either of you can stop them because apparently the Dutton family treats knocking as a loose suggestion.

Beth Dutton enters first, mid-sentence.

“—if this wine sucks I’m blaming Kay—”

She stops.

The room stops.

You are standing barefoot in a robe with flushed cheeks and very obviously post-romantic dishevelment holding two empty drinking glasses like you’ve been caught in a crime scene.

Behind Beth, Kayce Dutton immediately clocks the situation and physically starts backing up.

“Nope,” he says instantly. “We can leave.”

Beth’s eyes narrow slowly.

Then widen with horrifying realization.

“Oh my God.”

You bury your face in your hands immediately. “I’m going to pass away.”

From the hallway, John appears wearing jeans and absolutely nothing else except the expression of a man seconds away from homicide.

Beth points aggressively between both of you.

“EW.”

John deadpans: “Get out.”

“You people are DISGUSTING.”

“You walked into my house.”

Kayce is already trying not to laugh.

Too late.

The second he sees John shirtless and visibly annoyed while you stand there clutching your robe like a scandalized Victorian widow, he fully loses composure.

“I told you we should’ve called first,” he mutters.

Beth is still spiraling.

“No because now I have to live with this image forever.” She points at John. “You’re somebody’s father.”

John looks unimpressed. “That’s generally how children happen.”

Kayce actually wheezes laughing at that.

You slide slowly behind the kitchen island in embarrassment. “I hate this family.”

Beth immediately points at you next.

“And YOU—” she says accusingly, though she’s visibly fighting laughter now too, “—you answer the door glowing like a romance novel.”

“I DIDN’T ANSWER THE DOOR. YOU INVADED THE PROPERTY.”

Rip enters last carrying pizza boxes.

He takes one look around.

Processes everything instantly.

Then slowly hands the pizza to Kayce.

“I’m gonna wait outside.”

“COWARD,” Beth yells after him.

John rubs a hand down his face with exhausted patience.

“What do y’all want.”

Beth finally lifts the wine bottle triumphantly. “Family night.”

“At midnight?”

“It’s called spontaneity.”

“It’s called trespassin’.”

You’re still red-faced laughing when Kayce notices the coffee table.

Candles still lit.

Your abandoned robe belt draped over the couch.