Chapter 5LARK #2
I squeeze his hand gently. “What do you think about it all? How are you doing?”
He shrugs again, but this time, it’s slower. More thoughtful. He’s quiet for a long stretch, and I let him be. Let him sit with it, let him figure out what he actually wants to say. Finally, he shifts in his seat, scratching the back of his head before meeting my gaze again.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s weird, I guess.” He pauses, picking at a stray thread on the table runner. “I mean, I never thought about having a dad before. Not really.” He glances up at me. “It’s always just been us, you know?”
I nod, my throat tightening. “I know.”
He looks back down, still picking at the tablecloth. “So I guess it’s just…a lot to wrap my head around.”
I exhale softly, reaching for my water glass, taking a slow sip to steady myself. “I get that.” And I do. God, do I. “And you don’t have to figure out how you feel all at once, okay? There’s no right or wrong way to feel about this.”
Hudson nods, but I can see the wheels still turning in his head. He’s chewing on this, dissecting it in that quiet, careful way of his.
A beat of silence.
Then—“What if I don’t like him?” His voice is small, hesitant.
I blink at him, surprised, my chest aching at the uncertainty in his tone. “Then you don’t like him,” I say simply. “And that’s okay.”
His brow furrows. “Yeah, but…what if he doesn’t like me?”
The question guts me. I feel it in my ribs, in my heart, in every single cell of my body. I reach across the table and cup his cheek, making him look at me.
“Hudson,” I say, my voice firm but gentle. “That is not going to happen.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer before nodding, but I don’t think he fully believes me yet.
I tilt his chin up a little more, making sure he’s really hearing me. “Anyone who doesn’t like you is a damn fool, Hudson.”
He smirks. “You always say I can’t say that word.”
I arch a brow. “Well, I can say it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“When you turn thirty-five, you can say it.”
He snorts at that, shaking his head, but the tension in his shoulders eases just a little. “You’re not even thirty-five.”
“Damn straight. I still got some youth left in me. Now, go take a shower before dinner,” I tell him, ruffling his hair as I stand.
“Fine, fine,” he says, dragging himself up from the chair. He heads for the stairs, pausing on the first step. “But if you’re making crap with vegetables, I’m gonna complain.”
I roll my eyes. “Go.”
I listen for the sound of the bathroom door closing upstairs before blowing out a long breath, pressing the heels of my hands against my temples.
Jesus . Okay. That could’ve gone worse. I glance at the clock.
Shit. How is it already this late?
I rush through the kitchen, wiping down the counters, straightening up the stack of mail I keep meaning to go through.
I swap out the hand towels, light a candle, then check on the chicken parm baking in the oven.
Hudson’s favorite. I even made the garlic bread from scratch because, if nothing else, at least dinner can be something easy tonight. Something good.
I toss a quick salad—because, despite his complaints, the kid actually eats his vegetables—and pull out a Coke from the fridge for him, setting it on the table.
Then the doorbell rings.
I freeze, looking down at myself. Jeans. A simple gray sweater. I tug at the hem, run a hand through my hair. It’s fine. It’s not like I need to look nice. Why should I care about looking nice for Boone? It’s not like we’re dating. We’re barely even friends again. At most, we’re…co-parents? Maybe?
I don’t have time to figure it out.
I walk to the door, take a deep breath and pull it open.
Boone stands there, broad and solid, all muscle shaped by years of ranch work and sharpened by the military.
Roping, riding, hauling, fixing—every inch of him speaks to a life spent working with his hands and never backing down from anything hard.
Dark jeans that hang low on his hips, a flannel stretched across his chest, the white T-shirt underneath pulling snug over the kind of muscles you don’t get in a gym but by living life hard, by working the land.
His jacket is worn, the kind meant to cut the cold, but it does nothing to hide the strength underneath.
His hands are rough, capable—the hands of a man who knows how to mend fences, break horses, pull calves in the dead of winter.
His jaw is dusted with freshly trimmed scruff, the kind that makes him look just enough like trouble.
And when his eyes meet mine, sharp and unreadable, it’s damn near impossible not to remember every single way those hands used to feel on me.
He looks good.
A little too good.
Which is, in fact, not good.
His mouth quirks up just slightly. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back, stepping aside and nudging Hudson’s duffel bag out of the way. “Come in.”
He steps inside, eyes sweeping over the space.
The shoes kicked off by the door. The half-empty glass of water on the counter.
The framed pictures on the bookshelf—Hudson at five years old, missing his front teeth; Hudson and Cade in their baseball uniforms, arms slung over each other’s shoulders; me and Hudson at the beach last summer, sun-drunk and smiling.
“It smells good,” Boone says, his voice easy but careful.
I pull the dish from the oven, setting it on the counter. “Chicken parm. Hudson’s favorite.”
He nods, taking it all in. “Nice place you’ve got.”
I glance at him, then back at the food in front of me. “Thanks. Want anything to drink?”
Boone leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “You got Diet Coke?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know I do.”
Of course I do.
Diet Coke has always been our thing. The thing we grabbed from the corner store on hot summer afternoons, condensation dripping down our wrists as we sat on the tailgate of his truck.
The thing we snuck into the movie theater, stuffed in my purse next to a bag of Twizzlers we definitely didn’t buy at the concession stand.
We’d pass one back and forth, parked under the stars after a long summer day.
He always grabbed one for me without even asking, like it was second nature .
Guess some things never change.
I grab a can from the fridge and toss it to him. He catches it one-handed, a little surprised. “Nice arm, Westwood.”
I huff out a laugh. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
His lips twitch, but his eyes soften. He lowers his voice. “You talked to him?”
I nod, pressing my fingers against the countertop. “I did.”
“And?”
I exhale. “He seemed okay.”
Something releases in Boone’s posture. It’s subtle, but it’s there—the way his shoulders drop slightly, the way he exhales like he’s been holding something in without realizing it.
“That’s good,” he murmurs.
I turn toward the stairs. “Hudson! Dinner!”
There’s a pause, then the familiar thud thud thud of his feet pounding against the floorboards as he takes the stairs two at a time.
A second later, he’s in the kitchen, his damp hair sticking up in places, his Nike sweatpants slung low, his T-shirt a little too big, like he’s mid-growth spurt again.
His gaze flicks to Boone, guarded but curious.
Boone clears his throat, stepping forward. “Hey. Your mom said she…um, talked to you.”
Hudson nods but doesn’t say anything.
Boone hesitates, then sticks out his hand. “I’m Boone.”
Hudson glances at me, then back at Boone, before reaching out and shaking his hand. “Hudson.”
Boone grips his hand, testing his grip. “Damn, kid,” he says, shaking his fingers out after. “Strong handshake. You trying to break my hand or what?”
Hudson cracks a small grin, eyes sparking with amusement. “I dunno. Maybe.”
Boone chuckles. “Alright, I’ll keep my guard up next time.”
And just like that, the air in the room shifts.
Lighter. Easier .
Something inside me unclenches, something I didn’t even realize I was holding onto.
We all settle at the table, and I keep my eyes on Hudson, watching him closely. Trying to read between the lines, to see if there’s any hesitation, any uncertainty hiding beneath the surface. But he just looks…normal. Like any other night.
Boone turns to him. “Your mom tells me you like baseball.”
Hudson snorts. “ Likes is an understatement.”
Boone lets out a real laugh at that—unfiltered, unguarded. It takes me by surprise.
“Alright,” Boone says, resting his elbows on the table. “So, tell me—who’s the best player in the league right now?”
Hudson doesn’t even hesitate. “Easy. Mookie Betts.”
Boone raises an eyebrow. “Not Ohtani?”
Hudson rolls his eyes. “Ohtani’s obviously great. But Betts is more versatile. You can put him anywhere, and he’ll be one of the best players at that position. Plus, he’s got the best baseball IQ in the game.”
Boone nods slowly, like he’s considering. “Not a bad argument.”
Hudson grins. “I know.”
Boone leans back. “Alright, what about best pitcher?”
“Spencer Strider,” Hudson says immediately. “That fastball? Unhittable.”
Boone lets out a low whistle. “Alright, alright. Kid knows his stuff.”
Hudson smirks. “Told you.”
And I realize then that I’m smiling. Just watching them, something warm building in my chest.
We make it through the rest of dinner with Hudson and Boone talking baseball like they’ve been doing it their whole lives. Like this isn’t their first real conversation. Like there aren’t twelve missing years sitting between them.
I let them talk, let them build whatever this is, only cutting in to remind Hudson to actually eat in between all his talking.
When he’s done, he pushes his plate back and stands .
“Put your dish in the sink,” I tell him automatically.
He rolls his eyes but listens, dropping it in with a clatter.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and glance at Boone. “Why don’t you show him your baseball card collection?”
Hudson’s whole face lights up. He turns to Boone, eyes shining with excitement. “Oh, you’re gonna love this.” He’s already halfway to the stairs when he calls back, “Come on!”
Boone laughs, glancing at me, almost like he’s asking for permission.
I nod, giving him a small smile, tilting my head slightly. Go.
He does.
And I turn back to the sink, running the water, rinsing the plates, cleaning the counters—doing anything to keep my hands busy, to keep my mind from spiraling.
I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect this.
I didn’t expect Hudson to look so… happy. To take to Boone like it was easy. Like it wasn’t something he had to think about.
I didn’t expect Boone to be this natural with him, like he’s been doing this his whole life instead of just learning how to be a dad in real time.
I’d braced for something awkward, something stilted. A night full of painful silences, of half-hearted attempts. But it wasn’t like that.
It was good .
And I want it to stay good. Hudson is my whole world. My greatest love, my greatest joy, my greatest responsibility. And I have spent the last twelve years doing everything I could to make sure his world is safe and full and steady.
Letting Boone in means taking a chance. I just have to hope that I’m taking the right one.