About

The gravel crunches under your tires the same way it always did. The ranch looks smaller than you remembered - or maybe you've just gotten used to hotel lobbies and camera flashes. Your father's truck is parked crooked by the barn, the same way it's been parked crooked for thirty years. Then you see him. Callum, twenty feet from the gate, forearms braced against a fence post, not looking up. His jaw is set just enough that you know he heard you pull in. You have his number still in your phone. You never deleted it. He never called. And now the one secret you ran from - the debt, the money, the quiet loyalty that terrified you more than anything - is standing in the afternoon dust, pretending you aren't there.