18. Luke
LUKE
I'm halfway through cooking dinner when Mila's car pulls up outside the cabin. The sound of her tires on gravel has become so familiar I recognize it before I even see her through the window—another detail I've committed to memory without meaning to, storing it away for later when she's gone.
She comes through the door bringing cold air and nervous energy with her, still wearing my flannel she stole weeks ago and never gave back.
"Hey." Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Smells good. What're you making?"
"Stir fry." I gesture toward the stove with the wooden spoon in my hand. "Nothing fancy."
She drops her bag by the door and comes into the kitchen, hovering near the counter instead of sliding up beside me like she usually does. The space between us feels deliberately maintained.
Something's wrong.
"You okay?" I ask, keeping my voice even while my chest tightens with the kind of dread that's been building for weeks.
"Yeah. Fine. Just—" She stops, runs her hands through her curls. "I need to talk to you about something."
The wooden spoon goes still in my hand. I set it down carefully on the spoon rest, turn the heat to low, and force myself to look at her.
"Okay."
She's not meeting my eyes, studying the pattern of the wood grain on my kitchen counter like it contains answers. Her fingers tap against the surface—anxious, uncertain, nothing like the confident woman who reorganized my entire office in a week and made herself essential to my daily life.
"I got a phone call today. Job offer, actually."
The floor drops out from under me. Just—gone. Like standing on solid ground one second and falling through space the next.
I keep my face neutral through sheer force of will. Years of practice being the steady one, the reliable one, the person who doesn't fall apart even when everything inside him is breaking.
"Yeah?" My voice sounds normal. Calm. Interested. "Tell me about it."
She finally looks up, searching my face for something I refuse to show her.
"It's a creative director position in Helena.
New firm started by people who left Patterson after the whole scandal thing blew up.
Vanessa—she was one of the senior designers I worked with—she called and offered it to me directly.
" The words come faster now, like she's trying to get them all out before she loses momentum.
"It's good money, full benefits, my own team.
The kind of position I was working toward before everything fell apart. "
Helena. Two hours away. Close enough to visit sometimes maybe, far enough that this life—our life—would just become something she used to do.
I knew this was coming. Have known it since the first day she walked into my office with Sadie, all nervous energy and big city chaos in a town that was never supposed to be permanent for her.
Every moment since has been borrowed time, something I got to keep for a little while before reality caught up.
But knowing doesn't make it hurt less.
"That's incredible, Mila." I mean it. I do. Even though saying the words feels like swallowing broken glass. "Creative director—that's exactly what you deserve. What you should've had before."
Her expression does something complicated, flashing with disappointment so quick I might've imagined it before smoothing into something carefully neutral.
"It is a good opportunity."
"It's more than that. It's validation after what those assholes did to you." I'm gripping the edge of the counter hard enough that my knuckles go white, but I keep my tone steady. Supportive. "Chance to prove them all wrong, build something real with people who actually appreciate your talent."
"Yeah." She's watching me too closely, like she's waiting for me to say something else. "That's what Vanessa said."
The kitchen feels too small suddenly, the walls closing in. I need to move, need to do something with my hands before they shake. I turn back to the stove, stirring the vegetables that definitely don't need stirring.
"When do they need an answer?"
"End of the month. She said I could take a week or two to think about it."
End of the month. Three weeks. Twenty-one days before she walks out of my life for something better than what I can offer her in this cabin on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.
I've always known she was too much for this place.
Too bright, too talented, too full of potential to waste on administrative work that was only supposed to be temporary anyway.
She needs room to grow, opportunities that match her skill set, a real career instead of freelance projects for local businesses.
She needs more than I can give her.
"You should take it." The words come out firm, decisive, like they're not destroying me from the inside out. "Don't think about—about anything here. This is your career, your future. Everything you've been working toward."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of vegetables sizzling in the pan and my own heartbeat too loud in my ears.
"Just like that?" Her voice is quiet, careful. "You think I should go?"
What I think doesn't matter. What I want—Christ, what I want—has never been part of the equation. Wanting things for myself has always been selfish, shortsighted, the kind of luxury I gave up when Mom died and the ranch needed saving.
I've spent twenty years putting everyone else first. Dad, Dean, the ranch, every guest who comes through looking for an escape. Standing back and making sure the people I love get what they need, even when it costs me everything.
Especially when it costs me everything.
"I think you should do what's best for you." I turn off the burner, the stir fry finished but suddenly the last thing I want to eat. "You're brilliant, Mila. You deserve a position that reflects that. A real career, not just?—"
"Not just helping you with administrative work?" There's an edge to her voice now, something sharp cutting through the careful neutrality.
"That's not what I meant." I finally look at her, forcing myself to meet her eyes even though it hurts. "You've been incredible here, you know that. But this was always temporary. You said it yourself—the ranch's a break from real life, not the destination."
She flinches. Actually physically flinches like I've hit her, and guilt floods through me hot and immediate.
"I did say that," she agrees quietly. "A lot, actually."
The truth of it sits between us, heavy and undeniable. Every comment she's made about this being temporary, about her real life being somewhere else, about here being a bubble—they've all been breadcrumbs leading here. To this moment. To her leaving like I always knew she would.
"So you should go." I'm pulling plates from the cabinet now, moving on autopilot because stopping means falling apart. "Helena's close enough you could still visit sometimes. See Harper and Sadie. And it's a good city—you'd like it there."
Visit sometimes. Like she's just a friend, someone who used to live here instead of the woman I'm in love with. The woman who's been sleeping in my bed for months, stealing my clothes, making me remember what it feels like to want something just for myself.
"Right." She straightens, squaring her shoulders in that way she does when she's made a decision. "You're probably right. It's a good opportunity. I'd be stupid not to take it."
No. The word screams through my head but stays locked behind my teeth. Don't go. Stay here. Choose me. Choose this life we've built even if it's small and quiet and nothing like the career you're supposed to have.
But I can't say any of that. Won't trap her here with my feelings when she deserves every chance that was stolen from her.
"When would you start?" I ask instead, spooning food onto plates I don't want to eat from.
"End of April, she said. That gives me a few weeks to wrap things up here, pack, find a place in Helena.
" She's listing it all out methodically, logically, like she's already made the decision.
"I'll need to let my current clients know I'm transitioning, finish up the bookings system upgrades for the ranch?—"
"Don't worry about the ranch." The words come out harsher than I intend. "I'll figure it out. You should focus on your stuff."
Another flicker of hurt crosses her face before she buries it.
"Okay."
We sit down at the table with food neither of us wants to eat, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down until I can barely breathe. She picks at her stir fry, pushing vegetables around her plate, and I force myself to take mechanical bites that taste like nothing.
This is what loving someone looks like, I remind myself. Wanting what's best for them even when it kills you. Standing back and letting them go instead of being selfish enough to ask them to stay.
I've been doing it my whole life. For Dad, letting him grieve alone instead of demanding attention after Mom died. For Dean, supporting his rodeo career even when it meant more work fell on my shoulders. For the ranch, for the guests, for everyone who's ever needed something from me.
I can do it for Mila too.
Even if it destroys me.
"I'll start packing tomorrow," she says quietly, still not looking at me. "Move my stuff back to my apartment so I'm not—so it's easier when I leave."
The fork stops halfway to my mouth. I set it down carefully, precisely, keeping my hands steady through sheer force of will.
She's leaving. Not in three weeks—now. Moving out, going back to that apartment she barely uses anymore, putting distance between us before the job even starts.
Of course she is. Why would she stay when I've just told her she should go, that this was always temporary, that her real life is somewhere else?
"If that's what you want." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
She finally looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a second I think she's going to say something. Push back, argue, ask me what I actually want instead of what I think she should do.
But she doesn't.
"Yeah," she says instead. "It's probably for the best."