THIRTY-TWO.
Ever
——————————
Ours.
I tiptoe down the hallway, following the soft thuds and shuffles drifting from the living room, completely clueless about what’s going on. Tobias stayed over last night, but it’s just past eight in the morning and he’s usually out checking one of the pastures by now, not rummaging around inside.
I peek around the doorway and find Tobias sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the entry table, every drawer and cabinet door flung open.
Books, binders, and stacks of loose papers spill out around him in chaotic piles.
He’s flipping through pages with focused intensity, eyes scanning rapidly, completely absorbed.
I straighten and step into the room, but he doesn’t even glance up—just keeps working through the next stack like he’s on a mission.
“Uhh…” I start, voice trailing off. He flicks his gaze to mine and the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth before his eyes drop back down. “Do I wanna know what you’re doing?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he picks up another binder, thumbs through the edges fast enough to blur the pages, then sets it aside. “Have you gone through all these?”
“I wanna say most of them, but definitely not the way you are.” He smiles wider at that, but keeps his attention on the papers in his lap. “What are you looking for?”
Silence again. Whatever it is, he clearly doesn’t want me to know. The secrecy piques my curiosity even more, but I decide not to push.
“Okay, well,” I say, stepping carefully around the mess to head toward the kitchen, “I definitely need coffee before getting into… whatever this is.”
As I pass behind him, I let my fingertips trail lightly across his shoulders.
His muscles tense instantly under my touch, breath catching for a split second before I pull away.
I glance back from the kitchen doorway and catch his eyes already lifted to mine, dark and steady.
I give him a quick wink, then disappear into the kitchen, feeling the weight of his gaze follow me the whole way.
I stop short at the counter when I see the soft green light of the coffee maker already glowing.
I pull out the pot and find it full of fresh, dark coffee, still steaming faintly.
Just to be sure I’m not imagining things, I lift the lid and check the wet grounds inside the basket.
He made me coffee. He’d anticipated my needs before I even woke up, before I’d taken a single step into the day.
The realization settles warm and sweet in my chest, a quiet flutter following close behind.
I reach for a mug from the cabinet, but then my eyes trail down the length of the gleaming counter and land on the sink.
It was piled high with pots, pans, and the random assortment of dishes from last night’s dinner, but now it’s spotless.
I open the dishwasher to find everything loaded neatly, and the drying rack holds the rest—everything propped up perfectly to air-dry.
A quiet creak pulls my attention to the doorway.
I set my mug down as Tobias steps in and closes the distance in a few easy strides.
He slides his hands to my hips, widening his stance so I fit perfectly between his legs.
I tilt my face up, rise onto my toes, and our lips meet in a slow, lazy kiss—no rush, no urgency, just the simple comfort of him being here.
When he pulls back, I rest my hands on his chest, feeling the steady warmth and solidness of him under my palms.
“Have you been here all morning?”
“Jesse and Wyatt are doing the morning rounds,” he tells me quietly.
“So I have you all to myself today?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
His fingers dig into my hips a little harder, tugging me closer until there’s barely any space left between us. “I was thinking we could go do something later.”
“Oo, like what?” I ask, excitement sparking through me.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, but I catch the faint hesitation beneath his usual steady confidence.
“Just like whatever you’re looking for in my house is a surprise?” I tease.
He chuckles, then wraps his arms fully around my back until our bodies are pressed flush together. “I was hoping to find it before having to bring you into it,” he admits.
“I assume it’s something of Linda or Ray’s?” I ask, keeping my tone light and curious, hoping to coax out a hint without pushing too hard.
“Linda’s,” he confirms simply.
“I see,” I mutter, mind already turning. “And it’s a piece of paper?”
“Uh-uh,” he says playfully, shaking his head. “I’m not giving you more than that.”
That’s not going to stop me from trying. “The deed to your house?” I guess, raising an eyebrow. He shakes his head—not a real no, just a general refusal to confirm or deny. “A sale receipt? Oh! Maybe horse documentation? Are we selling a horse?”
Tobias doesn’t give me anything to go off.
Instead, he moves to the refrigerator, pulls out my creamer, and pours a generous amount into the mug waiting on the edge of the counter.
I watch as he steadily fills the rest with hot coffee, then gives it a smooth swirl with a spoon before returning the creamer to the fridge.
I pick up the mug, bring it to my lips, and take a small sip as he makes his way back to me. He leans against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, looking perfectly casual, though his mind seems to be somewhere far away.
“I know it’s somewhere in here,” he says, more to himself than to me. “I’ve seen it before.” He tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling like the answer might be written there, brow furrowed in concentration.
“I can probably help you, you know,” I tease, though I already know he won’t budge. When Tobias gets this determined look in his eyes, he’s unbreakable.
I stir cream into my coffee and lean against the opposite counter so we’re facing each other across the narrow galley kitchen.
I take a slow sip, watching him think, marveling at how handsome he is.
Because no matter how many times I look at him, I never get tired of tracing the strong line of his jaw.
His gaze flicks down to mine, everything else about him perfectly still. I give him a shy grin over the rim of my mug and hold his eyes steady as I take another sip.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he says, voice dropping low and deep, sending a rush of flutters straight through me.
I shrug, playing innocent. “I kinda like the results I get when I do,” I reply slyly.
He shakes his head, but the heaviness in his exhale gives him away. It doesn’t matter what time it is or where we are—I find myself wanting him constantly, like my body has rewired itself to respond to him alone.
“If we get into that now,” he says, eyes flashing down to my lips before trailing slowly over the rest of my body. “I don’t think we’ll make it out of this house.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t take that long,” I counter.
“I think you’re forgetting we lost that strawberry timer,” he says.
I tilt my head back with a sharp laugh, careful not to spill my coffee. “I forgot about that. It’s gotta be somewhere in my room.”
I glance over the clean counters. “Is that what you were looking for? I noticed you cleaned the kitchen quite a bit.”
“I was looking in the kitchen,” he admits, “but it’s not the timer.” His gaze drifts upward, lingering on the cabinets above the stove. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Have those always been there?”
I turn around and follow his line of sight. “The cookbooks?” I ask, glancing back at him. He nods. “They used to be on the counter by the toaster. I didn’t know what to do with them when I was cleaning up, so I moved them up there. I thought they looked nice as decoration.”
“They’re cookbooks?” he repeats, like the word itself is the key to something.
“Yeah,” I tell him. And actually, now that I think about it. I probably could have found a cookie recipe in there instead of looking online.
He pushes away from the counter with sudden purpose and hops up onto the one beside me.
“What the heck are you doing?” I laugh, stepping back to give him room as he finds his balance.
He grabs the books and hands them down to me, so I take them and set them on the counter before he hops back down.
I watch as he flips through the first book quickly, scanning pages before moving to the next.
I set my mug down with a soft clink and flicker my gaze between his focused expression and the books, curiosity burning brighter now.
When he reaches a section near the back of one, he pauses, reaches forward, and lifts out a single piece of paper with gentle fingers.
“That’s what you’re looking for?” I ask, genuinely surprised. A loose sheet tucked inside a cookbook was the last thing I expected.
“I know you’re not exactly a baker,” he says, his tone softening into something warm and endearing. “But I thought you might like to have this since you’ve been trying to bake.”
He passes me the paper like it’s fragile, so I take it with the same care.
When I turn it over and see the familiar, slightly slanted handwriting across the page, my breath catches.
It’s a chocolate chip cookie recipe—my aunt’s handwriting, unmistakable, with her little notes in the margins about how much vanilla to add or when to watch the edges.
I chew my lip hard, trying to keep my emotions from spilling over, but it’s pointless—my eyes are already glossing.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I admit, chuckling softly under my breath as I press my fingers to the corners of my eyes.
Even though this whole house and everything in it was Ray and Linda’s, this feels different—more personal.
A small, cherished piece of my aunt that she kept safe, tucked away where it mattered to her.
And Tobias thought of it, went searching for it just so I could have it. That makes it even more precious.
I’ve been trying to bake lately without really knowing why—something about the process feels peaceful. Measuring, mixing, watching something come together by hand and turn out right at the end. It’s a quiet kind of control I didn’t realize I needed.
“I was thinking we could try it out,” he says softly. I nod, swallowing hard before taking a steadying breath.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words barely making it past the lump in my throat. “If I knew better, I’d say you’re trying to get me to start a business at the farmers market.”
“You could if you wanted to,” he says, completely serious.
I shake my head with a small laugh. “That farmers market definitely does not need more homemade cookies.”
“Maybe something else, then,” he encourages gently. “As long as that means more late-night calls for sugar,” he adds playfully.
I bite down on my lip and glance up at him. His eyes are shining, lips curving into a sly grin. He’s absolutely perfect
“Or…” I start, but the thought crashes into reality before I can finish it. I filter it quickly, shaking my head. “Never mind.”
“Or what?” he presses, his voice low and curious.
“No, nothing,” I say quickly, turning away to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks.
I slide the recipe onto the counter and head straight for the pantry, pulling out flour, sugar, butter, eggs—everything we’ll need. I don’t know what he had planned for today, and I hope it’s not until later, because right now all I want is to make these cookies.
When I have everything laid out on the counter I return to the recipe with every intention of starting, but my mind blanks the moment Tobias presses his chest to my back. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His mouth hovers near my ear, ruffling the loose strands of hair.
“Or what?” he asks again, the words vibrating through me until I melt into his hold.
I shouldn’t say it. We’ve only been dating a few months. I shouldn’t risk putting the thought into the open when I’m not sure he’s standing in the same place I am. But he squeezes me tighter, nuzzles into the side of my neck, and every last shred of restraint dissolves.
“Or you can move in…” The words hang in the quiet kitchen, fragile, too loud. “Or I can move into your place.” I rush to soften it, then decide to backpedal before the silence can swallow me whole. “It was just a thought. Not like a right-now kind of thing. Just… if… I don’t know. Never mind.”
I try to step out of his arms, but they only tighten around me. “It’ll take me three weeks to renovate the master bedroom and bathroom.”
“What?” I blurt, eyes widening as his words sink in.
I twist in his grip, and this time he lets me turn until we’re face-to-face. “Three weeks,” he repeats, like it’s already decided.
“I don’t understand,” I say, but I do. I just can’t quite grasp how we jumped from a suggestion to planning a home renovation.
He smiles—sweet, a little shy, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a way that makes my chest ache. “Only if you want to.”
“Have you been thinking about this for a while?” I ask, curiosity sharpening as I study his face.
“Ever since you dragged me in here and stripped me down to my briefs,” he admits, pulling my hips closer until there’s no space left between us.
I tilt my head back with a soft laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners as the memory flashes through me of the night I invited him in when he was soaking wet and caked in mud. That was the moment I thought I might be falling for him. When I thought this might be more between us.
“I want this place to feel like home,” he continues softly. “Even better if it’s our home.”
My heart stutters, aches, and fills with so much want all at once that I can barely breathe. Every time I think he can’t possibly get better, he proves me wrong. He always seems to be one step ahead in the best ways.
“What do you think?” he asks, patient as ever.
“I would love nothing more,” I tell him, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them.
Maybe this is exactly what I’ve been needing without realizing it—someone to make this house feel less like an inheritance and more like a place we’re building together. Until he said it out loud, I didn’t know how much I wanted that.
“Consider it done,” he says simply, then lowers his mouth to mine.
I grip the front of his shirt and pull him down, kissing him deeper, pouring every rush of love and relief and hope into it until we finally break apart. His forehead rests against mine for a second, both of us smiling like idiots.
“Now,” he continues, a giddy grin spreading across his face, “let’s bake some cookies.”