TWELVE.
Tobias
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Channel two.
Ever’s been driving me crazy.
Every time I try to close the distance between us, to bring even a hint of playfulness into our conversations, she dodges me like she’s made it her personal mission. Ever since Serena showed up a few weeks ago to check on Aspen, she and Caden have been inseparable. And God damn, I hate it.
The way they lean into each other, laughing at private jokes only they understand, whispering under their breath like the rest of the world doesn’t exist—it grates on me in a way I can’t quite shake.
Caden swears they’re just friends, but I can’t get the thought out of my head that it might be friends with benefits.
The idea twists in my gut every time I see them together.
I pick up the remote and flip the channel to the next baseball game, but my eyes are glazed over.
The nights have been rough lately. Most evenings I sit in silence with my eyes closed, letting the quiet press in until it feels like it’s holding me down.
I’ve been working more than I should, pushing my body and mind to the edge of exhaustion.
I keep telling myself it’s because there’s always something that needs doing, but the truth is simpler.
The more I’m on the ranch, the higher the chance I’ll run into Ever.
And I’d take any excuse, just to be near her.
It’s Saturday, and I’ve made it a point to stay away from the ranch as much as possible.
I’ll have to head there later to make sure everything’s set for Caden tomorrow morning, but I’ve been trying to put some distance between us.
It hasn’t been working well. My thoughts keep circling back to her anyway.
Gravel crunches outside and my eyes fly open.
It’s a truck—bigger than a car, by the sound of it—but no one comes out here to visit me.
I cross to the window and peer through the blinds and recognize the red-and-white truck immediately.
Gladys. I really hate that she named her truck that. It deserves better.
I walk to the front door and pull it open, then kick the screen door wide and click the lock so it stays propped.
I lean against the inside of the doorframe, arms crossed tight over my chest. She’s rummaging through something in the passenger seat, but then her eyes flash up to mine and narrow with recognition.
I’ve seen her glance at this house plenty of times—lingering looks when she thinks no one’s watching—but she’s never mentioned it, so neither have I.
I figured she would have pieced it together from the paperwork she was given when she inherited the place.
But the way she’s staring at me now tells me she didn’t realize I live here.
Her door flies open and she steps out fast, planting her feet in a firm stance as she stares me down.
“You live here?”
“Expecting someone else?”
“Literally anyone else,” she says.
I shrug. She looks the house up and down, taking her time to study the details—the porch railing I rebuilt last year, the fresh coat of paint on the shutters, the flower boxes that are still empty because I never got around to planting anything. Then her eyes land back on me.
“How long have you lived here?”
“It should be in the paperwork.”
“Well, I don’t have the paperwork with me, now do I?” She snaps, but I notice the way her shoulders relax as she takes in the exterior. “It looks nothing like it used to,” she says softly.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask.
She looks at me like it’s the dumbest question in the world. “I figured it was probably time I introduced myself to my one and only neighbor. Imagine my surprise to find you here. You could have told me.”
She’s right, but I honestly thought she already knew.
“You wanna come in?” I offer before I can think better of it.
She looks at me like she doesn’t recognize me—like I’ve just spoken in a foreign language.
So before she can say no, I step back and nod toward the inside. “It’s not the dungeon it used to be.”
“I’d hope not if you’re actually living here,” she says.
I hold the door open wide so she can see inside as she steps up onto the porch. She glances left and right, taking it in, then her eyes land directly on me. She’s not sure of me—I can see that much. And I’m not on the clock right now. This is personal time. Just the two of us.
“Hurry up,” I snap lightly, more to break the tension than anything else.
She steps through the door and pauses just inside as I close it behind her.
The soft click of the latch feels louder than it should, and suddenly my nerves are jumping under my skin.
She’s in my house. Alone. The space that’s always been mine—quiet, simple, untouched by anyone else.
But now it holds her presence, and I have no idea what to do with it.
“It’s really nice in here,” she says softly, as she takes in the room.
I move through the living room to give her space, stopping on the far side so I can watch her study every detail—the worn leather couch, the simple wooden coffee table, the few framed photos and ranch memorabilia on the shelves. She’s careful, like she’s trying to memorize it all.
“Do you wanna sit?” I ask, gesturing toward the couch against the wall. She moves slowly, then perches on the edge of the cushion and looks at the TV.
“You like baseball?” she asks.
I shrug and drop into the armchair off to the side. I’m not sure I trust myself to sit closer. “I played in high school. It wasn’t serious, though.”
It feels strange—almost fragile—like this is the first real conversation we’ve ever had. No sarcasm, no challenge, just… talking. I wonder how long it will take for one of us to slip back into the familiar pattern of trying to annoy the other into submission.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks.
“About three years,” I say.
She nods slowly, her eyes still traveling across the sparse decorations. It’s hard to read her. I can’t tell if she’s curious, uncomfortable, or something else entirely.
“Is this… was this ever part of my aunt and uncle’s property?” she asks. “Because I used to come here as a kid. I didn’t ever ask if I was allowed, but no one ever said anything.”
I lean forward, elbows on my thighs. “Yeah, it was their property,” I confirm, and she sighs, almost in relief.
“Right after your uncle passed, your aunt had me start cleaning it out and fixing it up. She said it wasn’t a priority, but I could tell it meant something to her.
I thought she was planning to section off an acre and sell it to help cover expenses around the ranch, so I pushed to get it done. ”
I pause, watching her face as I speak. “We got permits, had surveyors come out, wrote up a deed, all that. But she never put it on the market. Then one day she brought me here, handed me the keys, and said it was mine if I wanted it.”
“She gave it to you?” Her voice is quiet, no edge, no accusation.
I nod. “When Ray was alive, he didn’t just sit back and let us do the work.
He was out here every day, getting his hands dirty.
When he passed, it put a lot on our shoulders—more than any of us expected.
We were working around the clock. I was sleeping in the barn half the time.
I think your aunt felt bad. After a year of that, we decided to scale back and sold off half the herd and flocks until it is what it is now.
It’s harder to make a profit these days, as I’m sure you’re aware.
But that’s how I ended up here. I thought you might have known. That’s why I never brought it up.”
“I probably should have looked into it more,” she admits, and I nod slowly, gripping my hands together between my knees. “I’m glad you have this place. It sounds like you deserve it.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” I say, and I mean it. I was worried she might be angry about it, that she’d find some way to take it back.
“So this house is separate, then? It’s not my property?”
“No. It’s sectioned off—five acres.”
“Five?” She teases, a small smile tugging at her lips. “That seems a bit much.”
“You’ve got sixty-seven,” I shoot back with a grin. “I’d say that’s fair.” She scoots back on the couch, finally letting herself get comfortable. “It is a lot. I told her not to, but she insisted.”
“You can’t say no when she insists,” she says, and her gaze drifts off, lost in some memory.
I lean back in the armchair, legs spread wide, hands resting easily on the armrests, trying to look more relaxed than I feel.
“Do you like living so close to the ranch?” she asks.
I shrug. “Less the commute the better.”
“But you never get a break,” she presses gently. “It’s like you’re always at work.”
I shrug again, keeping my tone light. “I’d rather be close in case something happens. Just what ranch life requires.”
She stares at me like she doesn’t quite trust the answer—like she’s searching for something beneath it. Maybe she doesn’t want to believe anyone could actually choose this life.
“Do you ever feel like you’re stuck here?” she asks, hesitation threading through the question. I get the sense she might not just be asking about me.
“You get used to it after a few years,” I say.
“You’ve been here a while though, right?”
“Fourteen years,” I tell her. “Since I was sixteen.”
“That’s a really long time.”
I adjust in the seat, feeling the weight of the admission settle between us.
This would probably be the moment to tell her the whole truth—why I’ve stayed, why I never left—but the intimacy of this conversation, the fact that this is the first time we’ve ever really talked without one of us trying to needle the other, makes the words stick in my throat.
“You never thought to go anywhere else?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’ve thought about it—briefly, here and there, especially when I was just starting out. But this is where I want to be. I know every acre, every stall, every animal, every shed. It wouldn’t make sense to just pick up and go somewhere else.”