Beep... beep... beep...

“Gosh dang alarm,” you mutter, smacking your palm against the worn digital clock for the third time before finally hitting the right button to shut the blasted thing off.

Now, you might be wonderin’—why the heck do you even have a digital alarm clock in this day and age when there's a perfectly good phone sittin’ next to it?

Well… embarrassing as it is, you can tinker a busted carburetor back to life, but for the life of you, you still can’t figure out how to set that dang phone alarm. No matter how many times Elodie’s tried to explain it—lord bless her patience—you just can't get the hang of it.

After a few more turns beneath the covers and a long, satisfying stretch, you resign yourself to the morning and push up into a seated position, cradling your head in one hand and wishing you could keep your eyes closed just a minute longer.

Beep... beep... BEEEEP.

Apparently, you didn’t hit the right button after all.

With a low grunt and another slap, you finally silence the thing for good and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Another stretch—and that deeply satisfying crack in your back—helps shake the sleep off.

You glance at the little desk by your bed, grab your phone, and pick up the clothes you laid out the night before. Time to get movin’. But before you head into the shower, you pause by Elodie’s door and push it open just a crack.

There she is, all tangled up in her blankets, clutchin’ that pillow like her life depends on it.

Your heart softens. You smile to yourself and quietly shut the door again.

Bathroom’s next—nature calls, and so does that blessed hot water. After a quick shower and towel-drying your hair, you slip into the outfit you picked out: black slacks and a fitted short-sleeve button-up, clean and professional but flexible enough if you need to break into a jog. You don’t have your official uniform yet, but dang if you ain’t gonna make a good first impression anyway.

Standin’ in front of the mirror, you catch your reflection. There they are—the little soft wrinkles around your honey-brown eyes. You were never one to fuss over looks, but still… seeing time catch up with you hits different some mornings. You wring out the rest of the damp from your golden-blonde hair, brush it up, and pull it into your usual ponytail. Neat, simple, gets the job done—and it ain’t half bad, either.

You check your phone.

6:25 a.m.

Still a bit early to wake Elodie, so you make your way into the kitchen. The kettle goes on the stove—good old-fashioned way, just how you like it. Coffee always tastes better from a boilin’ kettle. You reach for the mugs: one for your coffee, the other for Elodie’s hot cocoa.

That’s when you hear it—two soft knocks at the front door.

You glance at your phone again.

6:30 a.m.

Now who in their right mind’s knockin’ at this hour?

You wipe your hands on a dish towel and make your way to the door, every sense just a little more alert than it was a minute ago.

As you near the living room, voices drift through the door—low, tense, and clearly mid-discussion.

All I’m saying, Dad, is that it’s not fair you made plans involving me without asking me first,” a girl mutters. Her voice is quiet but sharp, frustration tucked just beneath the surface.

You pause at the edge of the hallway, not wanting to interrupt something personal. A few beats pass before a second voice replies—gruff but warm, like an old coat someone never stopped wearing even after it frayed at the edges.

“I’m sorry, Bells… I just thought going to school with someone else who’s in a similar position would make things a bit easier. Being at a new school and all.”

There’s a softer reply: “I know, Dad. Just… please ask next time. You know I don’t do well with people, especially new ones ”

“I promise,” he says—simple and direct, but heartfelt.

That feels like your cue.

You nudge the door open with the back of your hand and step inside, offering a warm smile.

“Hope I’m not interruptin’,” you say, voice light. “Y’all sound like you were sortin’ something out.”

Two pairs of eyes turn toward you.

The man is tall, sturdy in that grounded kind of way. He’s got a sheriff’s badge pinned to his chest and a quiet strength to the way he holds himself. Broad shoulders, a neatly trimmed mustache, and eyes that seem like they’ve seen everything but still hold a flicker of kindness. It’s been a long time since you looked at someone and felt that soft pull low in your chest—something you haven’t felt since him……but there it is, catching you by surprise.

Beside him stands a teenage girl—taller than you expected, pale as paper, with long chestnut hair half-tucked behind one ear. She watches you with guarded curiosity, arms loosely folded like she’s keeping herself together by habit. She’s not unfriendly—just cautious, like she’s not sure how the world’s going to treat her next.

Skye Renee Matthews? the gruff man asked, with a note of sourness slipping into his voice as he said your middle name. You blink at the unexpected reaction, noticing even the girl beside him—presumably his daughter—seem to flinch slightly at the name.

“Yes, I am…” you begin, pausing just long enough to read his badge, “...Chief Swan.”

You offer a polite smile, though you can’t help letting a bit of charm slip into your voice. “Is there a reason the Chief of Police is payin’ lil’ ol’ me a visit this mornin’, Chief Swan?”

The teasing lilt comes out before you can stop it. The moment the words leave your mouth, regret hits you square in the gut. Lord help you—you just flirted with your boss. In front of his daughter.

Said daughter gives you a look. It’s a perfect mix of mild disgust, wide-eyed shock, and silent judgment. Her eyes flick between you and her father like she’s trying to figure out which of you is the bigger weirdo.

As for the Chief himself, he just stares—steady, unreadable. Like you’re some kind of puzzle he ain’t quite figured out yet.

You open your mouth to apologize, but before you get the chance, you swear you hear him let out the tiniest chuckle.

“Would it, um… be okay if we continued this conversation inside, Ms. Matthews?” he asks, his voice a little softer now.

Relieved to shift gears, you nod quickly. “Of course. Would either of y’all like some coffee?”

“Only if it’s not a bother,” he replies politely.

“Not a bother at all,” you say, smiling as you step inside, motioning them to follow. “What about you, hon?” you ask the girl, glancing her way.

“Um… sure. Thanks,” she says, still clearly trying to figure you out.

You move through the familiar motions of pulling two extra mugs and grinding the coffee beads as you wait for the kettle to boil over, Behind you, the Chief’s voice rumbles again, quieter this time.

“Sorry to… come by so early.”

You glance over your shoulder with a warm look. “Ain’t no trouble, Chief Swan. I was already up. How do y’all take your coffee?”

The daughter speaks first. “Just one sugar, please.”

“Same,” Charlie mumbles.

“Ms. Matthews—” he begins again, but you interrupt with a small, good-natured grin.

“Miss Matthews is my mama. Skye is just fine.” You keep your tone gentle this time—teasin’, but cautious.

That finally earns a reaction. The corner of his mouth tugs upward, just a bit.

“Well… Charlie is fine too,” he says, voice lighter than before. “And this here’s my daughter, Bella.”

“Pleasure,” you offer to her as the kettle starts to whistle. You quickly turn to pour the water, filling up four mugs—including one for Elodie while you’re at it.

“So, is there a reason for the visit, Chie—” You catch yourself. “Charlie?”

“Oh,” he mutters, as if just remembering. “Yeah. We run a small station in town, and I figured it’d be best if I showed you around today. You know—what to expect on the job.”

He lifts the bag in his hand, as if only now realizing he’s still holding it. “Also brought your uniform. Thought maybe you’d feel like you fit in more with it on.”

You pause, touched. There’s something sweet about the gesture—quiet and thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect.

“That’s real kind of you, Charlie,” you say as you hand him his coffee. Your fingers brush lightly as he takes it, and for a moment, the two of you just… linger. Looking at each other.

Then Bella lets out an exaggerated cough.

Loud. Deliberate.

Both you and Charlie jerk back to reality, flustered. You clear your throat, quickly grabbing your phone to check the time—and cuss silently in your head.

6:50 a.m.

“Well, shoot. I gotta go wake up my daughter and get into that new uniform, if y’all don’t mind.”

You hold your hand out for the bag, and Charlie hands it over with a small hum and a nod.

Then, with bag in one hand, you head down the hallway toward Elodie’s room.

You knock three times against the door with the back of your knuckle, voice already raised just enough to be heard over whatever storm of sleep she’s tangled up in.

"Kiddo! Time to get ready for your first day of school!" you call, putting that usual lilt in your voice that always teeters somewhere between playful and mama-serious.

A pause.

Then a muffled, croaky groan from the other side:
"I—I’m up, Ma..."

“Good “you respond

As you  smile despite yourself, hand still resting on the doorknob. You crack it open a few inches—just enough to peek in without breaking what little privacy your teenage daughter clings to like it’s gold.

"I’d recommend gettin’ dressed before ya leave your room, kiddo," you say with a small grin. "Don’t wanna scare the neighbors now, would ya?"

It earns you a quiet grumble and a dramatic pillow toss over the head.

Which brings a small smile to your face—no matter how old she gets, she’ll always be the same kid who hides from mornings under a pillow.

You click the door shut gently and lean back against it for a breath, running a hand through your ponytail. Then you head to your room to change. You’d spent a ridiculous amount of time last night trying to decide what to wear—only to end up slipping into your brand-new navy-blue uniform.

It doesn’t take long to put it on, though part of you wishes it did. You smooth your palms down the front, planning to check yourself in the bathroom mirror… but of course, your daughter beat you to it. Locked in and claiming the space like it’s her own personal salon.

With a small sigh, you try to straighten yourself out by touch alone—tugging the collar, fixing your belt—and walk back to the kitchen with your fingers crossed.

Bella’s there, lingering near the kitchen doorway, peeking around like she’s casing the place. And Charlie’s standing a little closer, leaning against the wall just off the kitchen, casual as anything.

But the second his eyes land on you, something shifts in them. It’s quick—barely there—but you catch it. Like a flicker of something… warm. Maybe even impressed.

You can’t help it.
“So…” you ask, the question tumbling out before you can second-guess it, “how do I look?”

Hope’s hanging in your voice before you even realize it. Which makes Bella’s expression all the more noticeable—her eyes flick from you to Charlie, and that annoyed little frown tightens ever so slightly.

It takes Charlie a second, but then he clears his throat.
“It fits you well,” he says, voice quiet, but with the faintest trace of admiration beneath it.

Your heart does something foolish in response. Skips. Trips.
“T-t-thanks,” you mumble, suddenly sounding like a teenager yourself.

You turn away before you can make it worse and Speaking of teenagers—you should probably check on yours. Also a good excuse to pull yourself together.

“I’m gonna check on Elodie—if you don’t mind again,” you add with a sheepish grin before slipping out of the room.

You head down the hallway toward the bathroom, but pause just before you knock. On the other side of the door, you can hear soft muttering, the clatter of something falling into the sink, and a familiar, frustrated sigh. Sounds like she’s wrestling with her hair again.

She always did have the wildest bedhead—used to joke she looked like the Bride of Frankenstein every morning. The memory makes you chuckle under your breath.

You rap your knuckles lightly on the door.
“You ready, kiddo?”

A pause, then her voice:
“Almost!”

You nod to yourself and head back toward the kitchen, giving her space—and giving yourself just a minute more to stop your heart from doing somersaults.

10 to 20 minutes later…

You’re standin’ in the kitchen with Charlie. With the girls off to school in that pickup truck, the house feels a little too quiet. You’re cradlin’ your coffee mug, the last bit gone cold, when you finally glance his way.

“Um… Charlie,” you say gently, drawin’ his attention. “I just wanted to apologize for… earlier.”

His shoulders tense just a bit—barely noticeable—but it’s enough to tell you he knows exactly what you mean. Still, he doesn’t say a word. Just waits.

“I didn’t mean to make you or your daughter uncomfortable,” you continue, eyes droppin’ to the rim of your mug. “And I swear, I take my job real serious. I guess I slipped up a little.”

It takes him a moment to reply.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” he says, voice low and gruff—but not cold. “It’s just that… I’m not used to…”

He stops there. You expect him to keep goin’, but he doesn’t.

You finish your mug and set it gently in the sink. Then you glance back toward him. “Well, I guess it’s time we hit the road proper.”

Charlie nods, sets his own mug nearby, and follows you toward the door.

“Seein’ as you came by with bella this mornin’, I take it we’ll be takin’ my car?” you ask as you grab your keys.

He nods. “The station will reimburse you for gas,” he adds—like he’s rehearsed sayin’ it.

You smile softly. “That won’t be necessary.” As you lead him toward your black ‘67 Mustang, you throw a little grin his way. “Hope Dolly ain’t too flashy for you.”

His brow quirks. “Dolly?”

You chuckle, poppin’ the lock. “Yeah… it’s what I call my car.”

He gives you that signature look, part skeptical, part amused.

“Now, before you get the wrong impression,” you add as you both climb inside, “this ain’t about showin’ off.”

You buckle in and glance toward him as he settles in.

“See, back in Austin—where I raised Elodie—my uncle ran a local garage. God bless his soul. When I was a teenager, he’d haul me into that hot garage every Saturday, teachin’ me how to tinker under the hood. I hated it at first—what teenager wouldn’t? I wanted to be anywhere else. But over time… I started enjoyin’ it.”

Charlie listens quietly, his gaze steady out the windshield.

“For my eighteenth birthday, my uncle gave me this Mustang. ‘Course, back then, she was nothin’ but a rusted-out scrap heap. But we worked on her together.”

Your voice softens a bit.

“We didn’t finish. He passed before we could. After that, I kept at it myself. Took me a couple years, but I got her runnin’.”

Charlie finally glances your way. “Sorry for your loss, Skye… It’s never easy losing someone you care about.”

You nod, eyes flickin’ to the steering wheel. “Appreciate that, Charlie.”

Not wantin’ to linger in the past, you ease the mood forward.

“Anyway, me and my boyfriend at the time had plans for a road trip, right when I finished fixin’ her up… but then I found out I was pregnant.”

A soft breath escapes you.

“When Elodie came along, she took to motorcycles like a fish to water. Even as a little thing, she’d light up seein’ one. So for her sixteenth birthday, I bought her this busted-up old bike. She wasn’t thrilled at first—just like me back then—‘specially when I told her she had to fix it with me before she could ride it.”

You laugh softly.

“But she caught on quick. Smarter than I ever was in a garage. These days, she could probably teach me a thing or two.”

You glance at Charlie again. He’s starin’ out the window, jaw set like he’s thinkin’ hard.

“Sorry for ramblin’,” you say, a little sheepishly.

He turns toward you, his expression soft but thoughtful. “Being a parent is not easy… especially when you’re on your own.” His voice is quieter now, more sincere. “Don’t ever apologize for sharing memories like that.”

You smile—genuine and warm—then turn the key in the ignition. Dolly roars to life beneath your hands.

Whatever the day’s got in store… you’re ready.