Raven
Dad’s already there when I walk in, seated at a corner table, his back to the wall. Old habits. He looks up, scans the room out of instinct, then grins when he spots me.
"Thought you stood me up."
"Not a chance."
I smile and lean into the hug he offers.
When he pulls back, his expression softens. "You look tired."
"I slept half the afternoon yesterday."
A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Good. Wolf better be taking care of you."
"He is."
He gives a satisfied nod before gesturing toward the chair across from him.
"Come on. Sit down and tell me what's been going on."
The menus are more tradition than necessity. Dad flips it open anyway, giving it his full attention. I skim mine just long enough to confirm nothing's changed before setting it back down. I already know what I'm having, and I'm pretty sure he does too.
Marge wanders over before we've even settled on what we're ordering, caraffe in hand.
She's been working here for as long as I can remember, her hair piled high and her lipstick always just a shade brighter than anyone else's.
Without asking, she tops off Dad's mug before setting a fresh cup in front of me.
“Well, look at you,” she says, smiling. “Marriage looks good on you.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I laugh a little, caught off guard. “I think it agrees with me, too,” I reply.
She hums approvingly, then turns her attention to my dad, one eyebrow lifting. “And you’re still breaking my heart, I see.”
He exhales like he’s been waiting for it. “I came here to eat,” he says. “Not to be harassed.”
“Dad,” I say, half laughing, half warning. “Be nice.”
Marge just grins, undeterred. “I can flirt and pour coffee at the same time. I’m talented like that.”
He sighs, long-suffering. “I’m not your type.”
“Give it time,” she says cheerfully, setting the carafe down as the tension eases, just a notch.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
“You want your usual?” she asks him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, resigned.
“And you,” she says, turning to me. “Still trying to convince yourself you don’t want the pancakes?”
“I’ll regret it if I don’t,” I admit.
“Smart girl.” She scribbles something down and gives my dad a look that lingers just long enough to be obvious. “You let me know when you’re ready to stop being stubborn.”
“Won’t happen,” he says.
She laughs like that’s exactly what she expected and moves on.
I watch her go, then look back at him. “You know,” I say gently, “she’s harmless.”
He snorts. “She’s relentless.”
“Mom’s been gone five years,” I say, careful but honest. “She wouldn’t want you alone forever.”
He looks down at his coffee, stirring it one too many times. “I’m not alone,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
I reach across the table and cover his hand. “You can have more than that.”
He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t say anything either. He squeezes my fingers once and lets go.
The food arrives a few moments later, giving us something else to focus on.
“So,” he says once we’re settled. “How’s it been up there?”
“Perfect,” I say. Then I let myself really answer. “The mornings are quiet and slow. There’s no internet pulling at you, no noise competing for your attention. Nothing telling you where you’re supposed to be next.”
I pause, then keep going.
“And at night, the dark feels big. The stars are everywhere. There are so many of them. It feels impossible to take it all in.”
Dad sets his fork down, eyes staying on me. Listening and actually hearing me.
“It’s just Wolf and me,” I continue, my voice steady. “And the quiet. It’s the kind that lets us choose each other without the world demanding our attention.”
I smile, small and unguarded. “I wake up knowing who I am. Knowing where I am. Knowing what matters.” My voice softens. “I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d been editing until there was nothing left asking me to.”
“I don’t pretend to understand how you two found your way to each other or why it had to be hidden.” He hesitates before continuing. “That part still sits wrong with me.”
I don’t interrupt.
“And I won’t lie,” he adds, quieter now. “The age difference. The history he carries. I know exactly what kind of life comes with it because I’ve lived it.”
“I know,” I say softly. “I grew up in that life. I didn’t just watch it from the outside.” I take a breath. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should’ve trusted you with the truth instead of letting you find out the way you did.”
He stays quiet, listening.
“But my heart didn’t come to this with rules,” I continue, steadier now. “It didn’t understand age or history or what was supposed to make sense. It just recognized him.”
I meet my father’s gaze. “Love doesn’t understand boundaries. It doesn’t ask permission. It just shows up and asks you to be brave enough to answer it.”
He lets out a slow breath, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the table.
“I don’t like that you felt you had to hide,” he says. His eyes lift to meet mine. “But I hear you. And I see what this did for you.”
"I did." The words come easily because they're the truest thing I've ever said. "I didn't fall into this by accident, Dad. I didn't let myself get swept away because it was exciting or easy. I chose him knowing exactly who he is."
My voice catches, but I don't look away. "And Samuel chooses me every single day."
I reach across the table, covering his hand with mine. "I know this isn't what you pictured for me, and I know it probably asks more of you than I can fully understand. But you've always taught me to look at how a person treats the people they love."
A smile tugs at my lips.
"That's what I did. I watched him. I watched the way he showed up when I needed him, the way he protected me without trying to change me, and the way he made me feel safe without ever making me feel small."
I squeeze his hand.
"You taught me what kind of man to look for." My throat tightens. "And I found him."
Dad picks his fork back up. The things he might’ve said before remain unspoken, and the tension eases.
We eat for a while after that. Dad works through his plate methodical as ever. I push my pancakes around more than I eat them, cutting off a bite here and there without much thought.
His eyes flick to my plate. Then back to my face. “You’re not hungry?” he asks, tone light, almost offhand.
“Big meals don’t seem to be agreeing with me lately,” I say with a small shrug.
He takes another sip of coffee. “You look a little thinner,” he says.
I force a smile. "I think it's all the walking."
He doesn't look convinced. "You've always walked."
“I know.” I wrap both hands around my coffee mug. “It’s been a weird few months, is all.”
“Just don’t disappear on me,” he says. “I’d hate to have to go after Wolf if you do.
"I'll eat you out of house and home over the holidays. It'll even out."
That gets a quiet grunt, less satisfied this time, but he lets it go.
We drift into lighter ground after that.
He asks if the road’s still rough after the turnoff, if the creek’s running high yet.
I tell him it is, and that Sam keeps meaning to fix the loose board on the porch before winter sets in.
He shakes his head at that and says Sam always did put things off until the last possible minute.
When the plates are cleared and the check arrives, he reaches for it without looking at me, same as always.
Outside, he kisses my cheek, squeezes my shoulder, and steps back like he’s still learning where the lines are. Then he swings a leg over the bike, settles his weight, and brings it to life with a familiar rumble.
I stand there and watch as he pulls away from the curb and disappears down the road, the sound fading until it’s just another part of the town again.
Turning, I walk down the sidewalk to the small market and grab a few groceries for the cottage. On the way back to my car, I walk by the antique store and spot a small lamp in the window.
The bell over the door chimes as I step in. The woman behind the counter looks up from a stack of newspapers and smiles like she’s been expecting someone.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I reply, drifting toward the window. Up close, the lamp is even better. The base is worn smooth in places, the shade soft with age. It tells of a well-loved life lived before it found me.
“Came in yesterday,” the woman says. “I didn’t think it’d last the day.”
I can see why,” I say, turning it slightly, imagining it sitting on the nightstand next to our bed.
She rings it up without comment, wraps the cord carefully, and slides it across the counter. “That one’ll warm a place up,” she says, like it’s a fact.
“I think so too.”
Outside again, I cradle the lamp against my side as I make my way to the car. By the time I reach it, a sudden heaviness settles over me, enough that I stop beside the driver's door. I set the bags on the ground and leave one hand resting against the car, closing my eyes for a slow, steady breath.
Too much time in town, I tell myself. I've gotten used to the quiet of the woods.
After a moment, I load everything into the car, slide behind the wheel, and pull the door shut.
I'm nearly halfway home when I remember the milk. For a second, I consider turning around. The thought alone feels exhausting.
Tomorrow, I decide.
The milk can wait.