I pulled up to Sydney's apartment at 5:58 PM—two minutes early, which felt like a victory given how my internal clock kept screaming that I should have been there an hour ago to make sure everything was perfect.
The Fat Bob's engine echoed off the apartment buildings as I killed it, and I saw curtains twitch in several windows. Small-town Montana—where a Harley arriving was apparently worth investigating.
I took the stairs two at a time, very aware of the leather jacket Beth had picked out, the dark jeans that actually fit, the button-down shirt that made me look like someone who'd figured out how adults dressed.
*Don't screw this up*, everyone had said.
*No pressure.*
I knocked on Sydney's door—three times, firm but not aggressive—and heard movement inside.
"It's open!" Sydney called out. "Come in! I'm just finishing up!"
I opened the door and stepped into controlled chaos.
The small apartment smelled incredible—garlic, tomato sauce, cheese, the kind of home-cooking aroma that made your mouth water automatically. Sydney stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot, wearing jeans and a blue sweater that matched her eyes perfectly. Her blonde hair was down, falling past her shoulders in waves, and she'd done that thing with makeup where it looked like she wasn't wearing any but somehow made her even more beautiful.
"Hey," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that made my chest tight. "You're early. And you followed the dress code. I'm impressed."
"Beth picked out the clothes," I admitted, closing the door behind me. "Apparently my fashion sense needed professional intervention."
"Your sister has excellent taste." Sydney turned back to the stove. "Wine's on the counter if you want to pour. Red, because lasagna demands red wine and I don't make the rules."
I found the bottle—a decent Chianti that probably cost more than Sydney wanted to admit—and two glasses. Poured carefully, trying not to look like I was nervous even though I absolutely was.
"So," Sydney said as I brought her a glass. "Tell me about yesterday. The whole story, not just the 'I prevented a war' summary version."
So I did.
I told her about John's plan to send Lee out at night, about realizing it was the exact scenario that would get people killed. About convincing Kayce to help, about riding fence lines in the rain looking for evidence that might not exist. About finding the cut wire and knowing—*knowing*—that we'd just bought time for everyone to step back from the edge.
Sydney listened while she worked, occasionally asking questions, her attention fully focused even as she pulled the lasagna from the oven and assembled a salad.
"So you basically saved your brother's life by being stubborn and diplomatic," she said finally, setting plates on the small dining table. "That's very you."
"Is it?"
"Jack, you once got suspended for three days because you refused to back down when a teacher was being unfair to a student." She smiled at the memory. "You argued with the principal for an hour about the definition of 'disruptive behavior.' Very politely. Very persistently. Until he gave up and reduced the suspension to one day just to make you stop talking."
"I'd forgotten about that."
"I haven't. You've always been someone who digs in when you think something's wrong. The Rangers just gave you better tools for it."
We settled at the table, and I had to admit—the lasagna was incredible. Rich, perfectly seasoned, the kind of comfort food that reminded you why people bothered cooking instead of just ordering pizza.
"Your mom's recipe?" I asked.
"Yeah. She made it every Sunday when I was growing up. Said it was the one meal guaranteed to bring the family together." Something complicated flickered across Sydney's face. "She still makes it. Every Sunday. Even though it's just her now."
"I'm sorry. About your dad."
"Thank you." Sydney took a sip of wine. "He would have liked seeing you like this. All grown up, figuring your life out. He always said you had potential, even when you were getting suspended for defending other students."
"He said that?"
"To my mom. I overheard them talking once." She smiled slightly. "He said, 'That Dutton boy is going to be something someday. Just needs to figure out what.' I think he'd be proud of who you became."
The weight of that statement settled over dinner—the approval of a father I'd barely known, filtered through memories of a girl who'd loved me when I didn't deserve it.
We ate and talked, the conversation flowing easily despite seven years of separation. Sydney told me about veterinary school applications, about the terror and excitement of getting accepted to UCLA's program. About her plans to specialize in equine surgery, to eventually come back to Montana and open a practice that focused on large animals.
"Most vets want small animals," she explained. "Dogs, cats, the easy stuff that doesn't require you to be elbow-deep in a horse's intestines at 2 AM. But I grew up around horses. I understand them. And Montana needs good large animal vets who actually care."
"So you're definitely coming back?" I asked carefully. "After the residency?"
"That's the plan." She studied me over her wine glass. "Why? Does that complicate things for you?"
"No. It makes things... clearer, actually." I set down my fork, choosing words carefully. "Sydney, I need to tell you something about LA. About what I'm planning."
"Okay."
"The LAPD thing isn't temporary. I'm not planning to do academy training and then come back here. I'm planning to build a career there. Make detective eventually, maybe work homicide or something that actually makes a difference." I paused. "But the ranch will always be home. And when I've done what I need to do in LA, when I've proven whatever it is I need to prove, I want to come back. Build something here."
Sydney was quiet for a moment, processing. "So you're leaving Montana, planning to come back eventually, but don't know when that eventually is."
"Basically, yeah."
"And I'm leaving Montana for three years, planning to come back after, knowing exactly when that is."
"Right."
"So we have three years where we're both in LA," Sydney said slowly, working through the logistics. "You at LAPD, me doing my residency. And then I come back, and you... might come back? Eventually?"
"I will come back," I said firmly. "I don't know exactly when, but I will. This land, this family—they're part of me, Sydney. I can't imagine a future where I don't end up here. But I also can't stay right now. I need to do the cop thing first. Prove I can protect people on my own terms, not just as a Dutton."
"Okay." She nodded slowly. "Okay, I can work with that. Three years together in LA, then long distance while you figure out when you're ready to come home. It's not ideal, but it's... workable?"
"That's what I wanted to talk about," I said. "The LA thing. What that would actually look like. For us."
Sydney refilled both our wine glasses—clearly preparing for a serious conversation—and settled back in her chair. "Okay. Let's be practical about this. You're starting LAPD academy when?"
"Six months. I pushed my start date to spend time here, make sure the family situation was stable."
"And I start my residency in August. So we'd both be arriving in LA around the same time." She paused. "Have you thought about where you'd live?"
"Not really. Figured I'd find a cheap apartment near the academy, something functional."
"And I'm looking at places near UCLA Medical Center. Probably somewhere in Westwood or Culver City, depending on what I can afford on a resident's salary." Sydney was clearly thinking through logistics. "We'd be on opposite sides of the city. LA traffic is terrible. We'd barely see each other."
"So we find somewhere in the middle," I suggested. "Split the commute. Make it work."
"On what budget? Jack, you're going to be a rookie cop. I'm going to be a resident. Neither of us is exactly rolling in money."
"I've got savings. Beth invested my military pay and turned it into something respectable. I'm not rich, but I'm comfortable enough."
"Still. LA rent is insane." Sydney pulled out her phone, already googling. "Even a decent one-bedroom in a good area is going to be—oh my God, is that really the average rent?"
My phone buzzed at that exact moment.
A text from Beth: *Stop panicking about LA rent. I've got you covered.*
I stared at the message, feeling a mix of gratitude and suspicion. "How does Beth always know?"
"Know what?" Sydney asked.
"That we're talking about this." I showed her the text. "She's apparently psychic."
Sydney's phone buzzed immediately after—also a text from Beth: *Not psychic. Just smart enough to know you two would stress about logistics. Check your email. Both of you.*
We exchanged glances, both reaching for our phones.
The email was from Beth's assistant, professional and formal:
*Ms. Dutton has purchased a property at 10337 Dunleer Drive, Los Angeles, CA. The property is a 3-bedroom, 2.5-bathroom house with attached garage and backyard. Keys will be available upon your arrival in Los Angeles. No rent required. Property taxes and utilities will be handled by the Yellowstone Trust. Consider it an investment in family.*
I stared at the address, something clicking in my brain.
10337 Dunleer Drive.
Jack's memories didn't have it, but Marcus Chen's did. From countless nights binge-watching *Modern Family* while his broken heart struggled to keep him alive.
The Dunphy family lived at 10336 Dunleer Drive.
Beth had bought us the house next door to Phil and Claire Dunphy.
"Jack?" Sydney's voice pulled me back. "Did Beth just buy us a house?"
"Apparently." I was already texting Beth: *10337 Dunleer Drive? Really?*
Her response was immediate: *Problem? It's a good neighborhood. Excellent schools for when you two inevitably have kids and name one after me.*
*We've been back together for like three days.*
*And? I'm planning long-term. Someone has to. Also, your neighbor is a real estate agent who sold me the house. Phil something. Very enthusiastic, gave me a whole speech about the neighborhood's 'family values' and 'strong community bonds.' Seemed nice if slightly manic.*
I couldn't help but laugh. Beth had somehow managed to buy a house in a fictional neighborhood that had become real in this convergent universe, right next door to one of the most chaotic families in television history.
*This is insane*, I texted back.
*This is efficient. You were going to waste time apartment hunting and stressing about rent. Now you don't have to. You're welcome.*
"So," Sydney said, her voice carefully neutral. "Beth bought us a house. In Los Angeles. That we're apparently going to live in. Together."
"Apparently."
"That's..." She paused, searching for words. "That's either incredibly generous or incredibly presumptuous."
"With Beth, it's both." I set down my phone. "Sydney, we don't have to take it. If it's too much, too fast, if you're not comfortable with the idea—"
"A three-bedroom house in a good LA neighborhood that we don't have to pay rent on?" Sydney interrupted. "Jack, I'd be an idiot to turn that down. My only concern is..."
"What?"
"Are we ready for this?" She gestured vaguely at the space between us. "We just got back together. We're taking things slow, figuring out who we are as adults. And suddenly we're talking about living together in LA like it's a foregone conclusion?"
"It doesn't have to be," I said carefully. "We could use it as separate bedrooms. Three bedrooms means plenty of space. You have yours, I have mine, we have a shared living space but maintain independence."
"That's very reasonable and mature of you."
"I have my moments."
Sydney was quiet for a long moment, staring at her wine glass. I could see her working through it—the practicality versus the emotion, the logic versus the fear.
Finally, she looked up. "Okay. Let's do it. But with ground rules."
"I can do ground rules."
"One: We maintain separate bedrooms. At least initially. This isn't me moving in with my boyfriend—this is two people sharing a house while we figure out if we're actually compatible as adults."
"Agreed."
"Two: We split utilities and groceries. I'm not comfortable with you—or Beth—paying for everything. I need to contribute."
"Fair."
"Three: If this doesn't work, if we try the slow thing and realize we're not right for each other, we can both stay in the house until we figure out next steps. No one gets kicked out, no one has to scramble for housing. We're adults about it."
"Absolutely."
"And four..." Sydney paused, something vulnerable entering her expression. "If this *does* work, if we figure out that we're actually good together, we don't let fear keep us from moving forward. No more running away when things get serious."
That last one landed harder than the others. A promise that went both ways—her promising not to hold back, me promising not to run.
"Deal," I said. "All four rules. We do this smart, careful, and honest with each other the whole way."
Sydney nodded slowly, then something shifted in her expression—nervousness giving way to cautious excitement. "We're going to live in Los Angeles together."
"We are."
"In a house Beth bought us."
"In a house Beth bought us," I confirmed.
"Next door to an overly enthusiastic real estate agent."
"Apparently."
Sydney started laughing—slightly hysterical but genuine. "This is insane. This whole situation is completely insane. We broke up seven years ago, you came home built like a superhero, we kissed on a water tower, and now we're planning to live together in LA like it's all perfectly normal."
"Nothing about this family is normal," I agreed. "But insane doesn't mean wrong."
"No. No, it doesn't." She took a deep breath, composing herself. "Okay. Okay, we're doing this. Living together in LA. You becoming a cop, me becoming a vet. Building something real instead of just riding on nostalgia for who we used to be."
"Exactly."
"And when I come back to Montana in three years, you'll..." She left it hanging, the question implicit.
"I'll figure it out," I promised. "Maybe I come back with you. Maybe I need another year or two in LA. But Sydney, I'm not leaving you again. Not permanently. This time, we figure it out together."
"Together," she repeated softly. "I like the sound of that."
We finished dinner in comfortable silence, the weight of planning a shared future settling into something that felt right rather than terrifying. Sydney had been right—we were different people now. Adults who could have practical conversations about logistics and ground rules instead of just running on teenage emotion.
After we cleared the dishes—Sydney trying to do them all herself, me insisting on helping until she gave in with a laughing protest—we settled on her couch with fresh glasses of wine.
"So," Sydney said, tucking her legs under her and turning to face me. "Tell me about the house. What do we actually know about it?"
I pulled up the listing on my phone—Beth's assistant had sent a full property report. "Built in 1995, recently renovated. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, about 2,400 square feet. Attached two-car garage, small backyard with a patio. Walking distance to parks, decent schools in the area."
"Decent schools," Sydney repeated with a smile. "Beth really is planning long-term."
"She mentioned something about us having kids and naming one after her."
"That's..." Sydney laughed. "That's very Beth. Terrifying and sweet in equal measure."
"Welcome to being adjacent to the Dutton family. It's a experience."
"I've known your family since I was sixteen, Jack. I'm well aware of what I'm getting into." She paused, studying the photos on my phone. "It's a nice house. Really nice. The kind of place you could actually build a life in, not just exist in."
"Yeah." I scrolled through the images—hardwood floors, updated kitchen, master bedroom with attached bath, a second bedroom that could be Sydney's, and a third that could be an office or guest room. "Beth has good taste. Even when she's being terrifyingly efficient."
My phone buzzed again—another text from Beth: *By the way, Phil Dunphy already invited you to a neighborhood barbecue next month. I told him you'd be there. Make friends. Be social. Don't be weird.*
*How would Phil Dunphy know about me if I haven't moved in yet?*
*I told him my brother was moving in. He got very excited. Mentioned something about 'neighborhood brotherhood' and 'bocce ball tournaments.' I stopped listening after the second metaphor.*
I showed Sydney the exchange, and she dissolved into laughter. "Your neighbor is already planning activities for you. That's either wonderful or concerning."
"With my luck, probably both."
We spent the next hour looking through neighborhood information—restaurants nearby, grocery stores, the route from the house to LAPD academy, the route to UCLA Medical Center. Planning logistics, making it real.
"It's about forty minutes to UCLA," Sydney said, calculating on her phone. "With LA traffic, probably closer to an hour during rush hour. But that's manageable."
"And about thirty to the academy for me. Could be worse." I paused. "We should get a second car. For you. Can't have you relying on LA public transport or Uber for everything."
"Jack, I can't afford—"
"Not asking you to. I'm saying we get a practical car for daily commuting. Something reliable and efficient. I'll use the Fat Bob when weather allows, you use the car, and we alternate when necessary."
Sydney studied me for a long moment. "You've really thought about this."
"I spent seven years learning that planning prevents disasters. And I don't want you struggling with logistics just because I showed up in your life again."
"That's..." She blinked rapidly, eyes suspiciously bright. "That's really considerate of you."
"I'm trying to be better than I was at seventeen."
"You're succeeding." Sydney moved closer, and I felt the warmth of her even before she touched me. "Jack Dutton, former scared teenager who ran away, current thoughtful adult who plans for shared futures. I like this version of you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She was close enough now that I could see the flecks of darker blue in her eyes, could smell her perfume—something floral that Jack's memories recognized from seven years ago. "Can I tell you something?"
"Anything."
"When you left, when I got your letter instead of a proper goodbye, I was furious. Hurt. Devastated. I spent months being angry at you for being a coward." She paused, choosing words carefully. "But I was also angry at myself. For not seeing it coming. For not fighting harder to make you stay. For letting you go without making you understand how much you mattered."
"Sydney—"
"Let me finish." Her hand found mine, fingers interlacing. "But then I did the work. Went to therapy, processed the hurt, figured out who I was without you. And I realized something important: you leaving wasn't about me not being enough. It was about you feeling like you weren't enough. And that's a wound I couldn't have healed for you. You had to heal it yourself."
"I did," I said quietly. "Or I'm trying to. The Rangers helped. Dying for ninety seconds helped in a weird way. But mostly..." I squeezed her hand gently. "Mostly it was realizing that the person I wanted to be, the person I wanted to become, looked a lot like someone who deserved Sydney Miller. And that meant doing the work to become that person."
"And are you?" She asked softly. "That person now?"
"I'm closer than I was. Still figuring it out. Still making mistakes. But Sydney, I'm not running away this time. I'm running toward something instead. Toward being a cop who makes a difference. Toward building something real with you. Toward figuring out how to be both a Dutton and my own person." I paused. "If you'll give me the chance to prove it."
"I already gave you the chance," Sydney said. "The moment I agreed to go to Miller's Creek with you. The moment I kissed you on that water tower. The moment I said yes to dinner tonight." She leaned closer, and I could feel her breath on my lips. "The question isn't whether I'll give you a chance, Jack. The question is whether you'll give yourself one."
Then she kissed me, and every coherent thought I'd ever had abandoned ship.
This kiss was different from the ones on the water tower—slower, deeper, weighted with promise and planning and the knowledge that this wasn't just nostalgia. This was two adults choosing each other with clear eyes and honest intentions.
Sydney's hands found my hair, tugging gently, and I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her closer. She made that small sound—the one that had driven me crazy at seventeen and apparently still worked perfectly well at twenty-four—and shifted to straddle my lap, never breaking the kiss.
"Sydney," I managed when we broke for air. "The ground rules. The taking it slow thing—"
"I'm not saying we don't take it slow," she said, slightly breathless, her forehead resting against mine. "I'm saying maybe slow doesn't mean we can't kiss like adults who know what they want."
"And what do you want?"
"This." Another kiss, shorter but intense. "You. Us figuring out what we could be. But Jack—" She pulled back slightly, making sure I was looking at her. "I meant what I said about separate bedrooms. About taking time to actually know each other as adults. This—" she gestured at our current position "—is amazing. But it's not enough to build a relationship on."
"I know."
"Do you?" Her voice was gentle but serious. "Because we have chemistry. We've always had chemistry. But chemistry isn't the same as compatibility. And I need to know we're compatible before we..."
"Before we take it further," I finished. "I understand. And I agree. Sydney, I'm not trying to rush you into anything. I just..." I struggled to articulate it. "I just want to kiss you. A lot. Because you're brilliant and beautiful and you make me feel like maybe I didn't completely screw up my life by leaving."
"You didn't screw up your life." She smiled, brushing hair from my forehead with careful fingers. "You took a different path. Grew up. Figured out who you were. And now you're back, and we get to see if who you became and who I became fit together." She paused. "But slowly. Carefully. With ground rules and separate bedrooms and lots of conversation."
"And kissing?" I asked hopefully.
"And kissing," she confirmed with a laugh. "Definitely kissing. Just... not tonight leading to anything more than kissing. Deal?"
"Deal."
We spent another hour on her couch, talking and occasionally kissing, mapping out the logistics of our shared future while also just enjoying being together. Sydney told me about her fears—that the residency would be too hard, that she'd fail, that she'd hate LA and want to come home early. I told her about mine—that I wouldn't be a good cop, that I'd let people down, that I'd somehow screw up this second chance with her.
"We're both terrified," Sydney observed finally, leaning against me with comfortable familiarity. "That's probably healthy."
"Terrified but committed?"
"Terrified but committed," she agreed. "The best kind of relationship dynamic."
By 10 PM, I knew I should leave—let her get sleep, not overstay my welcome, maintain the boundaries we'd just established. But leaving meant not being near her, and that was surprisingly difficult.
"I should go," I said, not moving.
"You should," Sydney agreed, also not moving. "It's late. You have ranch work tomorrow. I have a shift at the bar."
"So we're agreed. I should leave."
"Completely agreed."
Neither of us moved for another five minutes.
Finally, Sydney laughed and pushed herself upright. "Okay, we're being ridiculous. You're going home. I'm going to bed. And we're going to see each other tomorrow because you're going to come to the bar during my shift and annoy me while I work."
"I'm not going to annoy you—"
"You absolutely are. You're going to sit at the bar, take up space, and distract me with your ridiculous face." But she was grinning. "And I'm going to pretend to be annoyed while actually being glad you're there."
"That sounds perfect."
I stood, Sydney walking me to the door, and we paused in the doorway—one of those moments that felt significant without quite knowing why.
"Thank you," Sydney said softly. "For dinner. For talking about LA. For taking this seriously instead of just assuming we'll figure it out."
"Thank you for giving me another chance. For not telling me to leave when I showed up with wet hair and desperate apologies."
"It was very romantic. In a pathetic, endearing way."
"I'll take that."
One more kiss—careful, sweet, full of promise—and then I was heading down the stairs to where the Fat Bob waited.
My phone buzzed as I reached the bike—a text from Beth: *How'd it go?*
*Good. Really good. Thank you for the house. It's insane and generous and I don't deserve it.*
*You're right, you don't. But Sydney does. Consider it an investment in making sure she stays in the family.*
*She's not officially in the family yet—*
*Give it time. Also, I'm invoicing you for the therapy sessions I'm going to need from watching you two be adorably domestic.*
*You could just be happy for me.*
*I am happy for you. Doesn't mean I can't also mock you mercilessly. It's called multitasking.*
I grinned, pocketing my phone and swinging onto the Fat Bob. Started the engine, feeling the familiar rumble settle into my bones, and headed back toward the ranch.
The Montana night was clear and perfect, stars scattered across the sky like someone had spilled diamonds. The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of sage and earth and the endless grassland.
I'd been home less than two weeks.
In that time, I'd reconnected with Sydney, reconciled with Kayce, prevented Lee's death, and somehow ended up planning to live with my high school girlfriend in Los Angeles.
My life had gone from "lonely soldier trying to figure out post-military existence" to "complicated Dutton trying to build something real" in the span of days.
*ROB*, I thought toward the cosmic nothing-space where the omnipotent weirdo presumably watched. *If you're listening, thank you. For the second chance. For the abilities that let me save Lee. For bringing me back to this family and this girl and this impossible life.*
No response, obviously. But somewhere in the universe, I imagined him grinning and eating metaphysical popcorn.
The ranch appeared ahead, lights glowing warm against the darkness, and I felt the weight of what I'd accomplished settling into satisfaction.
I'd changed the timeline. Saved my brother. Built bridges instead of burning them.
And I'd started building something real with Sydney—something that went beyond nostalgia and teenage passion into actual adult partnership.
*One day at a time*, I thought, pulling into the driveway. *One decision at a time.*
*One kiss at a time.*
Behind me, the road stretched back toward town, toward Sydney's apartment, toward all the possibilities we'd just started mapping out.
Ahead of me, the ranch waited—my family, my home, my responsibility.
And somewhere in Los Angeles, a house on Dunleer Drive sat empty, waiting for two people to turn it into something that mattered.
No pressure.
Just the rest of my life to figure out.
Starting with tomorrow, when I'd show up at the Old Trail Saloon and annoy Sydney while she worked, exactly as promised.
---
The Fat Bob's engine echoed across the ranch as I pulled in, the sound announcing my return to anyone still awake. I killed the ignition and sat for a moment, still grinning like an idiot.
A house in LA. With Sydney. Separate bedrooms and ground rules and the possibility of building something real.
*No pressure.*
I was halfway to the main lodge when I heard voices from the bunkhouse—laughter, the shuffle of cards, the particular energy of men with nothing to do but kill time.
"Jack!" Ryan's voice called out from the porch. "That you or did someone steal your bike?"
"It's me," I called back, changing direction toward the bunkhouse.
Ryan stood in the doorway, beer in hand, grinning like he'd won something. "How'd the date go? You're back early. That's either really good or really bad."
"Really good. And it's almost eleven. That's not early."
"For a first date in seven years? That's early." Ryan gestured inside. "Come on. We're playing poker. Colby's losing spectacularly and someone needs to witness his downfall."
"I heard that!" Colby's distinctive southern drawl carried from inside. "I'm not losin', I'm strategically repositioning my chips!"
"That's just losing with extra words," another voice added—Jake, probably.
I followed Ryan inside to find the main room converted into an impromptu casino. Four ranch hands sat around the scarred wooden table—Colby, Jake, Lloyd, and surprisingly, Rip. Cards scattered across the surface, poker chips stacked in varying heights, and enough beer bottles to suggest this had been going for a while.
"Jack Dutton!" Colby announced, his Alabama accent stronger than usual—definitely drunk. "Fresh meat for the slaughter! Pull up a chair, brother. Buy-in's twenty bucks."
"I don't have cash on me—"
"I'll front you," Ryan said, already grabbing chips from the communal pile. "You can pay me back when you inevitably win because Colby's terrible at poker."
"I'm *not* terrible—"
"You told us you had a full house," Jake interrupted. "You had two pair. That's not how poker works."
"I was bluffing!"
"That's not what bluffing means!" Lloyd shook his head, weathered face creasing with amusement. "Kid, you're worse at poker than you are at roping, and you're *terrible* at roping."
"I'm improving!" Colby protested, but he was grinning. "Jack, tell them I'm improving."
"I've been home less than two weeks. I have no idea if you're improving."
"See? Impartial observer. I'm definitely improving."
"He's definitely not," Ryan stage-whispered as I pulled up a chair between him and Rip.
Rip dealt cards with practiced efficiency, his expression neutral but his eyes showing amusement. "So. Sydney. How'd it go?"
"Good. Really good." I picked up my cards—pair of tens, not terrible. "We talked about LA. About the future. About not screwing it up this time."
"And?" Lloyd prompted.
"And apparently Beth bought us a house."
The table erupted.
"Beth bought you a *house*?" Colby's jaw dropped. "Like, a whole house? In Los Angeles?"
"Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, apparently next door to an overly enthusiastic real estate agent."
"That's the most Beth Dutton thing I've ever heard," Jake said, shaking his head. "Efficient, generous, and slightly terrifying."
"Welcome to my life." I tossed in chips to match the current bet. "So yeah. Good date. Planning shared futures. Separate bedrooms and ground rules. Very adult."
"Separate bedrooms," Ryan repeated with a grin. "That'll last exactly five minutes."
"It'll last as long as Sydney wants it to," I said firmly. "I'm not screwing this up by rushing things."
"That's actually really mature of you," Lloyd said, nodding approval. "Most men your age would push for more. Shows restraint. Shows respect."
"Shows he's terrified of Beth murdering him if he hurts Sydney," Colby added helpfully.
"That too," I admitted. "Beth made it very clear Sydney's under family protection now."
Rip made a sound that might have been amusement. "Smart woman, your sister. Knows how to ensure good behavior."
We played cards, drank beer, and talked about nothing important—the comfortable camaraderie of men who worked together, lived together, and had earned the right to give each other shit without it meaning anything.
I was terrible at poker, lost twenty dollars in thirty minutes, and didn't care at all.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!