The low rumble of your Harley echoed beneath you, a familiar vibration in your bones as the cool air tugged at the hem of your open jacket. You trailed behind your mom’s old Ford Mustang, its brake lights glowing dimly in the misty afternoon, leading the way into Forks, Washington—your new home.

It still felt surreal. Just days ago, you'd been weaving through the dry heat of Austin traffic, sun glaring off cracked pavement. Now, everything was soaked in green and shadow. The road narrowed as your mom turned down a gravel path flanked by towering evergreens, their limbs knitting overhead like they were closing you in. The deeper you went, the denser the forest became—an ancient hush settling over the world around you.

Then, through the trees, a clearing appeared. The first thing you saw wasn’t the house, but a sizeable standalone garage off to the right—painted a deep forest green, with wide barn-style doors that looked like they belonged on some storybook homestead. Just beyond it, the house came into view.

It was a one-story structure, built low and wide, its silhouette settled comfortably against the landscape as if it had always been there. Weathered cedar shingles stained a warm honey-brown covered the exterior, while white-trimmed windows caught the filtered forest light, glowing softly like watchful eyes.

This was it. Your new beginning, hidden beneath the pines.

Your mom’s Mustang veered gently toward the garage, its tires crunching across the gravel before coming to a stop a safe distance from the barn-style doors. You, meanwhile, eased off the throttle and eyed the generous space between the house and the garage. With a bit of quick judgment, you angled your bike toward the front side of the garage—close enough for convenience, far enough not to be in her way. Practical while also granting Easy access for when it came time to move the Harley inside.

The engine rumbled down to silence beneath you. You lowered the kickstand, slid off your helmet, and paused.

Surrounded by the hush of towering evergreens, the air thick with moss and mist, you couldn’t help but stare. The trees seemed endless, a living wall of green stretching into the gray sky, swaying gently in rhythm with the wind. It was nothing like Texas. It was quieter here. Wilder.

You started peeling off your gloves when you heard the faint click of a car door opening, followed by the familiar sound of it shutting with a solid thud. You didn’t need to look—your mom’s footsteps were soft but sure. By the time you were tugging off the second glove, her shadow spilled across you.

“What d’you think, kiddo?” she asked, her voice tinged with the soft drawl she never quite lost. There was hope in her eyes, gentle and a little nervous.

You turned slightly, catching her expression. Swinging your leg over the bike, you let your boots hit the gravel and hung your helmet on the handlebar. From this angle—tucked beside the garage—you couldn’t really see much of the house. It sat farther back, partially obscured by the structure’s corner and the trees curling in around the clearing.

You laid your gloves gently on the seat and let a small smile form before answering.

“Well,” you said, glancing toward the hidden house, “we’re not exactly in the best spot for a view right now.”

She raised an eyebrow at that, lips quirking just slightly. “That so?” she replied, amused, though still watching you close.

“But,” you added, shifting your weight, “from what I’ve seen so far, I’m liking it.”

That was all she needed to hear.

Her shoulders relaxed, and the quiet breath she’d been holding finally slipped out. “Good,” she said, softer now. “Was hopin’ you might.”

Her smile was warm. So was yours.

After a few seconds of quiet smiles between you, your mom reached out, grabbed your hand, and tugged you toward the house with a spark in her eyes.

“C’mon,” she said with a grin, “let’s getcha a better look-see.”

The gravel crunched softly underfoot as the trees gave way to the clearing around the house. The first thing you noticed was the wide covered front porch stretching nearly the full length of the house’s weathered cedar face. Wooden rocking chairs sat angled for conversation, and a gently swaying porch swing hung from thick chains near one end. Warm string lights looped from post to post, casting a soft glow even in the daylight, their bulbs flickering faintly like they were already inviting you home.

You and your mom came to a stop in front of the short staircase that led up to the porch. She gave the place a slow once-over, then let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Well, Not too shabby, right?” she said, her voice lilting just enough to make you smirk. She turned to glance at you, lip tilted with the hint of a teasing grin, like she already knew you were impressed.

Returning her teasing grin, you couldn’t help but shoot back with a smirk, “Don’t get ya a big head now, Ma.”

She let out a short laugh, eyes sparkling. “You won’t let your mama brag for a second, huh?” she said, still wearing that familiar playful smile. Then, with a little sway of her hip, she gave you a light bump.

“C’mon, kiddo. We got a heap more to see.”

You huffed out a soft laugh and followed her toward the stairs, amusement curling in your chest. “You do realize that you’ll eventually have to stop calling me kiddo, right?”

That’s when she paused—right at the top step, hand lingering just above the doorknob. Her shoulder stiffened, just barely, but enough for you to catch it. The mood shifted, subtle but unmistakable.

Your smile faltered. The words had been meant to tease—like always—but now they just hung in the air like a quiet mistake.

Before you could get an apology out, she forced a small smile your way. It didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She slid the key into the lock, and just as it turned, you thought—just barely—you heard her murmur with a hitch in her voice,
“Please… don’t remind me.”

And then the door creaked open,

Your mom steps through the front door first, pushing it open with one hand as she takes in the space. You follow a beat behind, your boots thudding gently against the wide plank floors as the scent of cedar and something faintly herbal greets you.

The living room opens up around you — spacious, warm, and quiet in a way that feels lived in despite how untouched it all looks. Exposed wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, and a large stone fireplace sits at the room’s heart, drawing the eye like a centerpiece. On the left, tall windows frame the view of the forest beyond, letting in soft, filtered light that washes over the room.

Comfy sofas sit arranged near the hearth, while native-patterned rugs add bursts of deep color beneath your feet. Built-in shelves filled with hand-carved figures and worn photo frames give the space a sense of story — like the house remembers people, even if you don’t know who lived here last.

Skye glances around and gives a small, approving nod. “Not too shabby,” she drawls, more to herself than to you, though her eyes flick to yours for a beat.

Past the living room, on the far end of the house, the open-plan kitchen and dining area stretches wide, bathed in warm light. Sage green cabinets and butcher-block counters line the space, and a deep vintage farmhouse sink rests beneath a window that looks out toward the back. A sturdy oak dining table stands off to one side, close to the wall of windows, with dried herbs hanging above the stove and copper pans glinting from hooks like old relics.

But what catches your eye isn't the kitchen — it's what’s nestled quietly between it and the living space.

A deep window seat built into a small library nook.

Set slightly into the wall, it’s framed by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on either side and overhead — crammed with well-loved novels, tribal histories, field journals, and small handmade objects: feathers, beads, carved stones, dried wildflowers. The bench itself is layered with thick cushions and folded blankets, facing outward toward the trees beyond.

You move toward it without thinking, pulled to it like gravity. Kneeling onto the cushion, you press your palm to the glass and stare out at the evergreens swaying in the breeze. There’s a quiet here — one that settles low in your chest and spreads warmth through your ribs.

Your mom joins you a moment later, voice low.

“Well now,” she murmurs, “the moment I saw this nook, I just knew it’d end up your favorite spot in the whole dang house.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just turn and hug her — arms wrapped tight, no explanation needed. It’s instinct, really. A thank-you with weight behind it. For this space, for her thoughtfulness, for making it feel like maybe starting over doesn’t have to be so bad. Even if you both know this move was your fault — something she’ll never admit.

She hugs you back without hesitation, arms steady and warm.

“Thank you, Ma,” you say quietly.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, a bit of confusion softening her voice. “For what?”

You squeeze her again, just slightly.

“For everything.”

Rooted in place for a few seconds, you finally let go of the hug and glance across the room. Opposite the cozy nook, three doors catch your eye — one in the center, clearly a bathroom, and two larger rooms flanking it on either side.

Your mom follows your gaze, then nods toward them.
“Those are our bedrooms — bathroom’s in the middle. I already claimed the front one,” she adds with a smug little smile, her tone full of playful challenge. “So that means the other one’s all yours.”

You snap your head toward her, feigning outrage.
“Hey! That’s totally unfair! I didn’t know we were calling dibs before even stepping foot inside!”

She raises a brow, clearly amused.
“First come, first serve, kiddo.”

With that, she turns and starts heading back toward the front door, calling over her shoulder,
“I’ll grab our luggage outta the Mustang. Go check out the bedroom you’re totally stuck with.”

You narrow your eyes at her retreating figure, then grin.
“You sure you don’t want help, Ma? You’re not exactly getting younger, y’know.”

That earns you a stifled snort. Looking down, she tries not to laugh — but you spot the corner of her mouth twitching.
“And yet,” she says as she steps over the threshold, “I’m still stronger than you’ll ever be, kiddo.”

And with that, she’s out the door — leaving you alone in the warm, wood-framed quiet of your new home.

Feeling the weight of the 12-hour drive today—never mind the four-day road trip it took to get here from Austin, Texas—you decide it's best to give yourself a quick look in the mirror.

Before heading to the bathroom, you slip off your beloved black faux leather jacket and carefully place it on the window seat—your favorite spot in the house so far. It’s a style choice you picked up from your mom, who wouldn’t be caught dead without her worn brown faux leather one—unless she’s on duty, of course.

As you make your way toward the bathroom, your eyes wander, still taking in the newness of the space. When you finally open the bathroom door, the first thing that catches your eye is the clawfoot tub—sleek and inviting.

The toilet and the dark wooden washstand match the tub’s old-world charm, topped with a dark ceramic sink and bronze fixtures. The soft white tile underfoot ties it all together, giving the room a warm, timeless feel. A small window near the side of the garage lets in slanted afternoon light, casting gentle shadows across the space

Heading straight for the sink, you gently remove your ruby-encrusted ring—your last gift from your mom after passing your exams—and place it carefully on the dark wooden washstand beneath the ceramic sink.

You open the faucet, and a steady stream of freezing water rushes out. After a moment of hesitation, you cup your hands until they’re full and splash the icy water on your face. You regret it immediately.

The chill sinks into your skin, making you shiver from the sudden contrast against the air. To make it worse, your shirt collar and some of your hair end up soaked. Eyes squeezed shut, you reach for the towel bar between the sink and the tub, silently hoping it hasn’t been used before your arrival. You wipe your face.

When you open your eyes, the first thing you see staring back at you in the mirror are your tired, upturned hazel eyes—eyes that, from the right angle, catch flecks of gold and green. Beneath them, your naturally pale skin still holds a subtle sun-kissed warmth from years in Texas. There’s a soft angularity to your cheekbones—thanks to a deadbeat father who couldn’t care less about you or your mom.

Your gaze travels next to your button nose with a small silver stud on the left side and full upper lip, the latter clearly inherited from your mom. Looking down at your damp shirt, you can’t help but notice your slightly toned arms, a result of all the time spent tinkering with your bike, and your curvier build.

You hear the front door open, followed by the thud of luggage hitting the floor.

“Come get your things, kiddo,” your mom calls out.

You glance toward the doorway just as the wet tips of your hair swing into your face, forcing you to pause for a second.

“Kiddo?” she calls again.

“Just a minute, Ma. I’m in the bathroom,” you reply quickly.

She snorts. “Be careful not to fall in the commode, then.”

You shake your head with a small grin as you face the mirror one last time. Your soft golden-brown hair falls naturally in a side-swept, shoulder-length style, leaning toward the left. The right side, buzzed short beneath, layers smoothly with your natural texture.

Placing the towel back on the bar, you slide the door open and head toward the living room to meet your mom.

You find the living room empty, just your suitcase sitting in the middle of it, which causes you to call out in confusion, “Ma?”

Her voice answers immediately from the hallway, “I’m in my bedroom, kiddo!”

You grab your suitcase and heft it toward your bedroom doorway, but before stepping in, you peek into your mom’s room.

The first thing you notice is the king-size bed draped in floral quilts. She’s kneeling on it, digging through one of her suitcases. Before you can even say anything, she calls over her shoulder, “Did we pack the toiletries in your bag or mine?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” you reply. “I’ll check once I’ve looked through my room.”

As you linger in the doorway a moment longer, your eyes move across the rest of her room: wooden dressers, two side tables with rustic lamps on either side of the bed, and a small writing desk tucked beneath the window, soft afternoon light spilling through. On the desk, you spot her phone already plugged in and charging—but it’s way too close to the edge for comfort.

Before you get the chance to warn her, she says, “The sooner the better, kiddo. I’m dying for a quick shower.”

“I’ll go check then,” you say, turning toward your room. “Also, your phone’s real close to the edge there, Ma. You might wanna move it before it falls and breaks.” Which she anwser with a soft hum,

With that, you open your bedroom door.

The first thing you notice is the wide window to the left—so large it nearly takes up the whole wall. Beneath it sits a king-size bed, centered against the wall, flanked by two wooden nightstands, each with its own rustic-looking lamp.

The right side of the room houses a wardrobe, a decently sized desk with a comfy-looking chair tucked neatly under it, and a wooden dresser just beside the door.

Looking around, you can’t help but wonder if your mom gave you the better room on purpose. The thought leaves you with a tangle of emotion—on one side, there’s this warm, overwhelming love curling up in your chest. But on the edges of that warmth creeps something else. Guilt.

Because no matter how much she denies it, deep down you still wonder if the real reason you both left was you.

Austin hadn’t exactly been kind to you after you came out. You knew it wasn’t the most open-minded place, but you hadn’t expected it to get that bad. Friends—people you thought would always have your back—turned cold. Some ignored you completely. Family members stopped calling the second they found out.

But your mom? She never once flinched. She didn’t care whether you were straight or gay, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to let anyone else care either. She stood up for you—loudly. More than once, she came home still fuming from some heated argument she’d had with someone who disrespected you.

The worst part was how they started treating her for standing by you. Maybe even worse, considering she was an officer. The side-eyes. The gossip. The sudden coldness from coworkers who used to greet her like family.

Then, after a few months of living like that, she came home and told you she’d been offered something new. A better-paying job in a quieter town with a low crime rate. Fewer late nights. More time together. A fresh start.

Of course, it meant leaving everything behind.

At the time, a part of you had felt relieved. But even then, the question that had been echoing in your head refused to quiet.
“Are we moving because of me?”

She denied it, firmly. Said there were rumors about the force wanting younger officers, and this was their way of making room without pushing anyone out unfairly. Said it was just good timing.

And maybe that was true. Maybe.
But you knew she was also just trying to protect you—from the guilt.

Now here you are. A whole new place. A whole new life.

You just hope you don’t screw this one up too.

Because your heart couldn’t take hurting the one person who’s never stopped fighting for you.

A soft knock on the door breaks your reverie, and your mom steps into the room.
“I found—” she starts to say, but pauses when she sees the faraway look on your face.
“You okay, kiddo?” she asks gently.

Before you can even respond, she fires off the next question out of concern.
“Is it the room? Because if it’s the room, I was kidding about being stuck. We can switch if you wanna,” she offers, hopeful that it might cheer you up.

The way she says it just breaks your heart. You feel a tear forming and quickly look down to hide it—but she’s already seen it. Without hesitation, she tosses the toiletries bag onto your desk and walks over to you. She gently takes your chin in her hand and lifts your face so she can look you in the eyes.

“What’s wrong? Did someone on the way here say something? Because I swear to God, if I find out who did this, I will—”

“Ma, no,” you interrupt softly, cutting off her tirade. “Nothing happened. Really. And if anything, I love the room. It’s just…”

You trail off, struggling to find the right words. But before you can continue, she jumps in again, her voice warm and steady.
“Then what, kiddo? Whatever it is, I’m here for ya.”

Her words ignite that blooming warmth again—so familiar, so comforting—and finally, you're able to answer.
“It’s just that… you do so much for me, Ma. I know you said we moved because of your job, but… part of me can’t help but wonder. And then when I saw this room, it just reminded me of how much you’ve had to sacrifice for me. You know?”

You break eye contact again, but she doesn’t give you long to look away.

“First of all, kiddo,” she says firmly, her Southern accent thickening with emotion, “we did not move here because of you. I told you—they were trying to find an excuse to get the oldies out.”
Then, softer but still fierce, “And even if we did move here because of you—which we did not—I’m your ma. My job, above all else, is taking care of you. So even if I have to move to the dang moon to keep you safe, I will. And don’t you ever even consider thinking I wouldn’t be doing it with all my heart. Got it?”

You can’t help it—you just launch into her with a hug, trying with every ounce of strength to show how much you appreciate her without saying a word. She holds you just as tightly, like her life depends on it. As she presses her cheek to yours, she whispers,
“Sorry for raising my voice, kiddo. It’s just—”

But before she can finish, you squeeze her tighter and whisper back,
“I know. And thank you.”

She holds you like that until your tears dry up. When you finally stop sniffling, she pulls back to look at you—smiling through her own dried tears.

“Better?” she asks.
You nod slightly.
“Good,” she says, ruffling your hair with a warm smile. “I’m gonna go take a shower. Why don’t you start unpacking, huh?”

“okay… but don’t take all the hot water, okay?” you tease.
She snorts. “I’ll try,” she replies, already heading to her room.

An hour and a half later, you're just stepping out of the tub. You grab the towel your ma left behind after her own shower, wrapping it around yourself as you take a moment to breathe. Everything from the long drive to arriving at the new house, your mom comforting you after your breakdown, unpacking what little you had—it's all still fresh, all still sinking in.

You glance down at the pajamas you brought from back home and briefly regret not packing a warmer pair. Still, you slip them on anyway—soft white slacks with little black lambs wearing sunglasses and playing guitars scattered across them, and a matching tee with a cartoon lamb front and center, rocking out to a song only she can hear.

You're tugging the shirt into place when two firm knocks sound from the front door.

Curious, you leave your damp hair wrapped in the towel and head down the hall toward the entryway, where you spot your mom already standing by the open door, talking to someone. Her posture is relaxed but respectful, and you can tell right away that whoever's at the door isn’t just some random neighbor.

“Ma, who is it?” you ask, your voice soft but carrying.

Your mom glances over her shoulder and steps slightly to the side, revealing three figures on the front porch.

In the center sits a man in a wheelchair, maybe in his early fifties, though something in the deep-set watchfulness of his eyes makes him feel older than that. His copper-toned skin is sun-warmed and familiar, like the earth around you. Long black hair streaked with silver frames his face, lending him a quiet dignity. Though his expression is neutral, there's kindness in the soft creases near his eyes—creases formed from a life of smiling, laughing, and still somehow carrying the weight of things unspoken.

Despite the wheelchair, there's nothing diminished about him. He carries himself with a calm, grounded strength, like someone who sees far more than he says. His eyes rest on you now, thoughtful and assessing—but not in a harsh way. Just like he’s quietly filing away the shape of you, the space you take up in this new place, and what it might mean.

Beside him are two others—teenagers, maybe just a bit older than you. But it’s the man in the center who clearly holds the space.

Your mom gestures gently toward him. “Elodie, this is Billy Black. He’s… well, let’s just say he helped us get settled here. “And these are—” she stops mid-sentence, giving Billy a look, clearly hoping he’d take over since she hadn’t caught their names yet.

Billy picks up on it with a small, knowing smile. He gestures toward one of the teens standing just behind him. “This is my son, Jacob. If you ever have any trouble with your car or bike, he’s the one to call,” he says, pride rich in his voice.

You glance toward Jacob—tall, definitely taller than you, though still lean and not fully filled out. There's a rawness to his frame, like he’s just on the edge of growing into it. He’s probably around your age, maybe younger. His russet-toned skin catches the fading daylight, and his long black hair, tied back, frames his face in a way that highlights his warm, curious dark eyes. There’s something open and easy about him, especially when he flashes a goofy grin that screams sincerity, not swagger.

When he notices you looking, he raises a brow and chuckles. “If you don’t mind me asking… whose bike is that?” he asks, tilting his head toward the garage.

You catch the twitch at the corner of your mouth before it becomes a full grin. “That’d be mine,” you reply, a hint of pride slipping into your voice.

Jacob’s eyes light up. “Well, she’s a beautiful machine—and clearly well taken care of. I don’t think you’ll be having much trouble with her. But if you do… you strike me as someone who could probably handle it.”

You can’t help it—your smile grows a little brighter. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I do try. Especially when it comes to Rosie.”

The second the name leaves your mouth, your stomach drops. Crap. You just told three strangers the name of your bike.

Before you can feel too embarrassed, Jacob grins and says, “Well, Rosie’s one lucky bike.”

Then, almost as if testing the waters, he adds, “Hey—me and Maya could show you around town sometime? And, uh… since you’re clearly into bikes, maybe I could show you the one I’ve been working on. It’s a Harley-Davidson XR-750—sorta like Rosie’s long-distance cousin,” he jokes, tone light and hopeful.

Normally, you weren’t the type to agree to something like that—not with people you’d just met, especially after everything back in Austin. But something about Jacob felt… familiar. Not in the way he looked, but deeper than that. Like a memory you couldn’t quite place.

“Um… sure. As long as Maya doesn’t mind,” you reply, glancing toward the quiet girl beside him.

The first thing you notice about her are her deep amber eyes — warm, intense, like a sunset caught just before the sky goes dark. Her bronze-toned skin glows softly in the porch light, and her long, thick black hair, currently woven into a loose braid, makes her look like one of those effortless magazine models you used to sneak peeks at under your bed covers. Especially with the way her lips tug into a subtle, knowing smirk — like she can tell you're checking her out.

You try not to stare, but your gaze betrays you, drifting lower to her worn band tee, ripped black jeans, and the kind of thick-soled combat boots that make you irrationally want to lie down and let them step on you. Your face warms instantly, especially when you realize she’s doing the same — her eyes trailing over your admittedly ridiculous sheep pajamas and the damp towel still wrapped around your hair.

Jacob clears his throat with impeccable timing, breaking the tension as he tosses a glance between the two of you. “Would you be up for it, Aya?” he teases with an exaggerated innocence. Then, with a crooked grin, adds, “Or I could give her the tour all by myself.”

Maya turns to him, slow and smooth, with a look that could peel paint off a wall — something just shy of a predatory grin — before softening dramatically as she looks back at you. “I’d love to,” she says, voice velvet-wrapped and completely sincere.

Your face flushes again. Jacob snorts. Your mom suddenly finds the porch floor very interesting. And Billy just shakes his head with a long-suffering sigh, like this is definitely not the first time Maya’s pulled something like this.

Before things can get more awkward, Billy clears his throat and says, “Like I was just telling your mom, we just wanted to make sure you’re all settled in well—since we’re the ones who rented this place to her, after all.”
His voice is warm, sincere, and his smile makes it clear he means every word.

Before either you or your mom can ask anything, he continues, “But we’d better be off—it’s getting rather late, and I prefer to be home before sundown.”

Unable to help your curiosity, you ask, “Is it dangerous here at night?”

Your mom looks at Billy with the same curious expression, clearly interested in his answer.

“Well, it depends on where you are at night. Like the forests…” he says, pointing toward the treeline, “...they can be dangerous for folks who aren’t used to the—”
He pauses mid-sentence, then continues carefully, “—wildlife. So I definitely recommend being home before it gets too dark. Even if you don’t encounter anything, the forest can be… really confusing. Even if you are used to it.”

He gives a brief glance at Maya, who looks away, almost pouting as she mutters, “It was one time! And I was still a kid.”

Your mom picks up the conversation smoothly, “Well, I’ll make sure I’m careful if I’m ever working a late shift at the station. And Elodie here isn’t exactly the type to stay out late—she kinda prefers tinkering with her bike or getting lost sketching.”

There’s a subtle note of pride in her voice, and the moment she mentions tinkering and sketching, both Jacob and Maya glance your way. Jacob looks genuinely curious—probably wondering what kind of project you’re working on—while Maya has that same mischievous smirk as before, like she’s dying to say something.

Before she can, Billy interjects, “So, you’re the new transfer Charlie mentioned.”
It’s more a confirmation than a question.

Your mom can’t help but ask, “Who’s Charlie, if you don’t mind me askin’?”—a bit of her Southern twang slipping in.

“Charlie Swan is the current chief of police. And a close friend of mine,” Billy says, his smile softening with the weight of old memories.

Before your mom can reply, Jacob cuts in, “His daughter, Bella, just got back into Forks today herself.”

He seems to trail off a little, lost in thought, before Maya nudges him with her elbow. He blinks, then adds with a sheepish tone, “Sorry. She never really lived here before—only came by for a summer here or there—but for some reason, we always got along. Even with how little we saw each other.”

He pauses again before smiling, a little goofy and honest. “So I’m really excited to see her again.”

“Subtle,” Maya whispers to him, making you snort softly. Both of them turn toward you—Jacob a bit embarrassed, Maya wearing the same pleased smirk that says she’s proud she got a laugh out of you.

Billy jumps back in, his tone light and welcoming, “She’ll be starting at Forks High School too, so you’ll probably get a chance to meet her. Maybe Aya here can introduce you—since she goes there herself.”

He smiles again, then adds, “But I think we’ve taken up enough of your time. It’s been lovely meeting you both. And if you have any issues—any at all—don’t be afraid to contact me.”

The any at all has a certain weight to it, like more than just a friendly gesture.

“Likewise, Billy,” your mom replies with a sincere smile.

As they start to leave, Jacob turns back and says with a grin, “Don’t forget about the tour.”

Then he heads out with his father.

Maya lingers just a moment longer. She shoots you a look with a teasing glint in her eye and says, “I’ll see you and Rosie tomorrow,” her tone just slightly wicked, but playful and harmless. Then she turns and follows the others.

Your mom closes the door behind them, then turns to you with a knowing smirk.

“It seems you already have a fan club here, kiddo,” she says teasingly.

You know exactly who she means, and try to change the subject. “Come on, Ma. Jacob’s just being nice is all… and you know he’s not exactly my type,” you add, your tone playful, maybe even a little hopeful.

But her smirk turns into a full grin. “You know full well I wasn’t talkin’ about Jacob.”

She gives you a look.

“That girl couldn’t take her eyes off ya from the moment you showed up—and it’s not like you minded, either,” she says with mock seriousness, turning away to settle into what she clearly expects to be a quiet evening.

You stay frozen in place for a beat, still feeling the echo of Maya’s gaze and your mom’s teasing.

You can’t help but wonder how things are going to go—especially with someone like Maya around to turn up the heat