Last night plays through my mind as I wait. Skye had come back from the movies with Vanna, laughing about how bad the movie was. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly messy, and my chest tightened at the sight of her. I'd been cleaning up the kitchen, getting ready to close up and head home.

  "Did you two have fun?" I'd asked.

  "It was terrible," she'd said, dropping onto a barstool. "The monster was basically a guy in a rubber suit. And Vanna nearly peed herself laughing."

  "I'm heading to the hospital tomorrow morning," I'd said before I could allow myself to overthink it. "Dropping off the hats. If you wanted to come..."

  I hadn't finished the sentence, suddenly unsure. But she'd nodded immediately.

  "I'd like that," she'd said quietly. "What time?"

  And just like that, it was set. Now I'm pulling warm muffins from the oven, my ears straining for the sound of her footsteps on the front porch.

  The timer dings. The muffins are perfect—golden brown tops with blueberries peeking through like tiny jewels. I set them on a rack to cool just as there's a knock at the door.

  My heart does a stupid little jump in my chest. I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, take a deep breath, and head to the front door.

  Skye stands on my porch, morning sunshine catching in her hair. She's wearing jeans and a simple blue sweater that brings out flecks of color in her hazel eyes. Her hair's pulled back in a neat ponytail.

  "Hi," she says, smiling up at me. "Your directions were good. I found it without getting lost."

  I step back to let her in. "Come in. Muffins just came out of the oven."

  She follows me inside, looking around curiously. "Your place is beautiful, Buck. Not what I expected."

  "What were you expecting?" I ask, leading her to the kitchen.

  "I don't know. More..." she gestures vaguely. "Motorcycle parts on the coffee table? Modular furniture? Definitely not all these plants and books."

  I laugh, feeling more relaxed. "The plants were Grandma Sadie's idea. Said a home needs living things besides the person who lives there." I pour coffee into the two mugs I'd set out. "Cream and sugar, right?”

  "Yes, please," she says, moving to the window. "This view is incredible."

  "Best part of the place," I agree, handing her the mug. "Muffins should be cool enough to eat if you want one."

  “How about if I want three?” she jokes.

  “You’re welcome to ‘em. As many as you’d like.”

  She settles at the kitchen island, wrapping her hands around the mug. "Did you build this place?"

  "Nah," I say, placing a warm muffin on a plate in front of her. "I bought it about ten years ago. Was a wreck then. I fixed it up little by little."

  "By yourself?" she asks, taking a bite of muffin and moaning with pleasure. If she only knew what that sound does to me…

  I shrug, pleased by her interest. "Mostly. Ford helped with the kitchen design—he's good with spatial stuff. Griff helped with the roof." I sit across from her with my own coffee. "We work well together, the three of us. Always have."

  I watch her enjoy the muffin, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  "These are just as good as the ones from the other morning," she says, breaking off another piece. "Maybe better."

  "I added just a tad more vanilla," I tell her. "I’m always tweaking them."

  "So, the hats," she says, changing the subject. "How many are we taking today?"

  "Twelve," I answer, nodding toward the paper bag on the counter. "Not my best month, but not bad."

  "Can I see them?"

  I reach for the bag and slide it toward her. She peers inside, then carefully tips it, letting the tiny hats spill onto the counter. They're different colors—blue, pink, yellow, green, purple—each one small enough to fit in her palm.

  "They're beautiful, Buck," she says, touching one with a fingertip. "All these different colors."

  "The staff likes variety," I explain, feeling oddly vulnerable. "And it keeps it interesting for me. Same hat over and over would get boring."

  She picks up a yellow one with a small pom-pom on top. "How long does each one take?"

  "Couple hours, usually." I watch her handle my creations with such care, and something in my chest expands. "Ready to head out soon? The NICU nurses change shift at nine, and I like to catch Norma before she leaves. She’s my favorite."

  "Sure," Skye says, carefully placing the hats back in the bag. "Just let me finish this amazing muffin first."

  As we eat, I try not to stare at her—at the way the sunlight plays across her face, at the small scar near her eyebrow I hadn't noticed before. When she catches me looking, I don't look away. And neither does she.

  "Ready?" I ask when our plates are empty.

  She nods, standing. "Ready."

  I grab the bag of hats and my keys. As we head out to my truck—a big black Ford that Skye eyes with appreciation—I feel a quiet kind of happiness settle over me. This thing between us may be temporary, complicated by my feelings and Griff's and Ford's, but right now, in this moment, it feels just right.

  The hospital parking lot is half-empty when we pull in. Mountain View isn't a big hospital—just three floors of beige brick with windows that reflect the surrounding peaks. I park in my usual spot near the east entrance, close to the NICU wing.

  Skye's quiet beside me, maybe a little nervous. I understand that. Hospitals have a way of making people feel out of place, but for me, this place has become a kind of sanctuary over the years.

  "You come here a lot?" Skye asks.

  I nod, grabbing the bag of hats from the back seat. "Once a month, like clockwork. Been doing it for about five years now."

  We walk through the sliding doors into the antiseptic brightness of the hospital. The smell hits immediately—that clinical scent that smells like sickness and worry. But there's something else too, something hopeful about a place where lives begin and sometimes, against the odds, are saved.

  I lead Skye past the information desk with a wave to the volunteer who recognizes me. The NICU is on the second floor, down a hallway lined with photographs of babies who once fit in the palm of a hand.

  "These are all preemies?" Skye asks, slowing to look at the pictures.

  "Yeah.” I point to a photo of a dark-haired boy in a superhero costume. "That's Ryan. Born at twenty-six weeks, weighed less than two pounds. I’ll never forget meeting him."

  Her eyes move across the wall of miracle children. "It's amazing what they can do for these babies now."

  The double doors at the end of the hall require a security badge. I press the intercom and a woman's voice answers, warm and familiar.

  "NICU, this is Carol."

  "It's Buck."

  There's a buzz, and the door unlocks. I hold it open for Skye, guiding her into a small room where we're met by a nurse with short silver hair and bright eyes that crinkle when she sees me.

  "Well, well, if it isn't my favorite knitter," she says, hands on her hips. "And you brought a friend this time."

  "Norma, this is Skye. Skye, this is Norma Thomas, head nurse of the NICU and the reason I started making these hats in the first place."

  Norma's eyes appraise Skye with open curiosity. "About time this big lug brought someone along. I've been telling him for years that knitting is more attractive to the ladies than he realizes."

  I feel heat creep up my neck. "Norma⁠—"

  "Oh hush, Buck. Let me have my fun." Norma winks at Skye. "He gets so flustered. It's adorable."

  Skye laughs, her eyes darting between us. "I can see that."

  Norma leads us to a washing station, where we scrub our hands and arms meticulously. "So how did you two meet?" she asks as we rinse off.

  Before I can answer, Skye jumps in. "My car broke down in town. Buck and his friends own the bar where I've been staying."

  "Ah, Devil's Pass," Norma nods. "Buck's burgers are legendary around here."

  "And his muffins," Skye adds. "I had one this morning that nearly made me cry."

  Norma's eyebrows lift, and I catch her giving me a meaningful look. "Is that so? Well, he's been holding out on me. Never offered me a muffin, and I've known him for years."

  I dry my hands on a paper towel. "I’ve brought you muffins a million times. You always told me you can’t eat them and to stop bringing them or you’d ban me from the hospital."

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about," Norma waves dismissively and then starts laughing. "Now, let's see what you've brought us this time."

  I hand over the paper bag of hats. Norma peers inside, then empties them onto a clean counter, examining each one with approving nods.

  "Beautiful work as always, Buck. We have three new arrivals this week who could use these right away." She selects a pale green hat. "This one's going straight to baby Lila. Born yesterday at twenty-nine weeks."

  Skye's face softens at the mention of the newborn. "Can we... see them?" she asks hesitantly.

  Norma glances at me. "Absolutely! Two of our little ones need some holding time. Their parents can't be here until evening."

  She leads us into a room where we put on sterile gowns over our clothes. The fabric drowns Skye's smaller frame, making her look even more delicate next to me.

  "Anything I need to know before we go in?" she asks quietly, watching me tie my gown.

  "Norma will show you but there’s nothing to it. They're tiny, but not as fragile as they seem."

  The NICU itself is dim and quiet, with soft beeping from monitors and the occasional gentle alarm. Six incubators line the walls, each containing a tiny baby. Norma leads us to two incubators in the corner.

  "This is Evan," she says, gesturing to a baby that can't weigh more than three pounds. "And this is Marie."

  Norma explains how to hold them, though I already know the drill. She lifts Evan from his incubator, a bundle of wires and tiny limbs, and places him carefully against my chest. Despite all the times I've done this, the weight of him—so light it's barely there—still surprises me.

  I watch as Norma helps Skye with Marie, showing her how to support the baby's head and avoid disturbing the various tubes and monitors. Skye's face changes as she holds the infant—a softening, something so deeply feminine and beautiful that I can't look away.

  We settle into rocking chairs side by side. The babies make small sounds against our chests, their bodies rising and falling with impossibly tiny breaths.

  "They're so perfect and complete, just… smaller," Skye whispers after a long silence.

  I nod, gently rubbing Evan's back in small circles. "That's what always gets me. All those fingers and toes, the eyelashes, everything's there. Just needs time to grow."

  Skye's eyes are fixed on Marie's face. "I always assumed I’d have children," she says so quietly I almost don't hear her. "It was part of my plan, you know? Get a good job, find the right person, then have a baby by thirty."

  Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. "You've still got lots of time," I say gently.

  She nods, a small smile touching her lips. "I know. It's just... when my parents died, something changed in me. I realized how quickly it can all fall apart. How nothing's guaranteed." She strokes Marie's cheek with one finger. "And then Daniel... I thought he was the one I'd have children with. And you know how that turned out."

  "Life has a way of taking detours," I say. "Doesn't mean you won't get where you're going."

  She looks up at me then, her eyes searching mine. "Did you ever want kids?"

  The question catches me off guard, though I should have expected it. "Yeah," I admit. "With my ex-wife. We tried for a few years, actually. Didn't work out—the kids or the marriage."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. Things happen the way they're meant to." I adjust Evan slightly as he squirms against my chest. "These little ones fill that space for me now. Not the same, but it’s still something real."

  We sit in silence after that, each lost in our own thoughts, the weight of tiny lives in our arms grounding us in the moment. Norma checks in periodically, adjusting a monitor or jotting notes on a chart. At one point, she catches my eye across the room and gives me a thumbs-up while nodding toward Skye. I pretend not to notice.

  After about an hour, Norma returns to take the babies. "Time’s up," she explains. "They both need to be fed."

  Carefully, we hand the infants back. Watching Skye reluctantly release Marie, the tenderness in her movements, a thought flashes through my mind—what she might look like holding our child. The image is so vivid, so unexpected, that it knocks the wind out of me. I turn away, pretending to adjust my gown, needing a moment to compose myself.

  "Thank you for the hats, Buck," Norma says as we prepare to leave. "And Skye, it was lovely meeting you. Come back anytime."

  "I'd like that," Skye says, her voice warm. "Thank you for letting me hold Marie."

  Outside in the hallway, Skye is quiet, thoughtful. I give her space, understanding that holding those tiny lives can stir up emotions you didn't know were there.

  "Thank you for bringing me," she says finally as we reach the truck. "It was... I don't have words for what it was."

  "I know," I say simply, because I do. "That's why I keep coming back."

  The drive back from the hospital is quiet, but it's a comfortable kind of quiet. Skye gazes out the window while I keep my eyes on the mountain road. Something shifted between us back there, holding those tiny lives. I can feel it in the way she sits beside me now, relaxed and open, like we've known each other for years instead of days.

  "Are you hungry?" I ask as we pull into my driveway.

  Skye turns to me, a small smile playing at her lips. "Starving, actually."

  "I've got steaks in the fridge," I say. "And some fresh vegetables from the farmers' market."

  "You cook me lunch and I may never want to leave," she says lightly, but something in her voice catches and makes my heart thump harder against my ribs.

  "That a promise?" I ask, keeping my tone casual even though the question isn't casual at all.

  Her eyes meet mine, steady and clear. "Cook for me and find out."

  Inside, I move around the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator while Skye explores my living room. I can see her examining the bookshelves, the artwork, the small treasures I've collected over the years.

  "You have a first edition Hemingway," she says. "Ford would be jealous."

  "That was a gift," I reply, slicing red peppers into thin strips. "I'm more of a Twain man myself."

  She appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a glass of water I gave her earlier. "Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?"

  "Life on the Mississippi," I correct. "Though The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn's a close second."

  She watches me work, her eyes following my hands as I season the steaks with salt, pepper, and herbs. "Need help?"

  "Nah, I've got it. But come keep me company."

  She slides onto a stool at the island, chin propped on her hand. "Where'd you learn to cook?"

  "Grandma Sadie again," I say, heating oil in a cast-iron skillet. "She believed every man should know how to feed himself properly."

  "Smart woman."

  "The smartest." I lay the steaks in the hot pan, the sizzle and aroma filling the kitchen immediately. "What about you? Do you cook?"

  She laughs, the sound warming me more than the stove. "I try. Nothing fancy. My mom was the cook in our family. She tried to teach me, but I was always more interested in books than recipes."

  "I know you miss her," I say quietly.

  Skye nods, a shadow crossing her face. "Every day. Both of them. It still doesn't feel real sometimes."

  I understand that feeling. When Grandma Sadie died, it took me months to stop reaching for the phone to call her. "Grief's not linear," I say. "That's what my therapist told me after my divorce. Said it's more like weather—sometimes stormy, sometimes clear, but always changing."

  "You saw a therapist?" She seems surprised.

  "For about a year," I confirm, flipping the steaks. "Best thing I ever did for myself. Helped me understand why my marriage failed, why I kept falling into the same patterns." I glance at her. "Why does that surprise you?"

  "I don't know." She takes a sip of water. "You just seem… like you've got it all figured out."

  I laugh at that. "Not even close. Just better at hiding the mess than most."

  Lunch comes together quickly after that—perfectly seared steaks, pan-fried vegetables, crusty bread from the local bakery. We eat at the small table by the window, watching the birds play in the birdbath in the back yard.

  "This is incredible," Skye says, cutting into her steak. "Seriously, Buck. You've been hiding your talents."

  "The bar menu doesn't exactly lend itself to fine dining," I say, pleased by her reaction.

  "You could change that," she suggests. "Add some specials, expand beyond bar food. I bet people would love it."

  "Maybe," I allow. "Been thinking about it, actually. Ford's been pushing for a menu upgrade for a while."

  We talk easily through lunch, about books and food and travel. She tells me about her trip through Europe after she finished college—the cathedrals in Italy, the beaches in Greece, the cafes in Paris. I share stories about motorcycle trips through the Southwest, about the year I spent working as a cook in New Orleans before coming to Flounder Ridge.

  The conversation flows, intermingled with pauses and lingering glances.

  "Thank you again for today," she says, setting down her fork. "For sharing that part of yourself with me. It meant a lot."

  "Thank you for wanting to see it," I reply. "Not everyone understands."

  "I do," she says simply.

  Our eyes hold across the table, and something electric passes between us. I reach for her hand, almost without thought. Her skin is soft against my calloused palm, her fingers curling around mine with gentle pressure.

  I’ve never wanted a woman more than I do right now.

 

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