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Eventually, the house burst back to life with all the subtlety of a brass band on cocaine.

The boys came thundering through the front door like it was a scene from a teenage reboot of Top Gun, yelling over each other and trying to see who could be the loudest human in existence.

No Holly in sight, thank God. Small miracles.

Melissa squealed and ran to her brothers, who scooped her up like she was their tiny queen and they were her goofy, half-feral knights.

I smiled because, despite the chaos, there was something deeply sweet about the way they treated her.

Jon beelined straight to me like a man who missed his woman and wasn’t afraid to show it.

His eyes searched my face like he was checking for signs of stress, exhaustion… or glitter-induced trauma.

“So,” he asked, grinning, “how was it?”

I stretched out on the couch and gave him a look.

“Like watching a younger you—but somehow more responsible, less accident-prone, and without the Bud Light habit.”

He laughed so hard he snorted, then immediately tried to pretend it didn’t happen. I kissed his cheek like a reward. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.” He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

About an hour later, the chaos thinned. The boys had somewhere else to be—probably a gas station and/or a Taco Bell—and Aunt Becky and Billy Joe looked almost suspiciously excited to see us go.

Becky hugged us like a Southern woman whose job was done and her house was finally quiet again.

Billy Joe just gave us a thumbs-up and muttered something about needing a nap and earplugs.

We piled into the truck to head halfway to Fayetteville to drop Melissa off with Natalia.

Nacho was curled in his bed next to her in the backseat, blissfully unaware that we were about to subject him to more social interaction.

Melissa fell asleep as soon as the tires hit the road, head tilted against the window, mouth slightly open in the most adorable snore imaginable. I glanced back at her, then at Jon.

“She’s perfect,” I whispered.

He didn’t say anything, just reached for my hand and held it, eyes on the road but thumb brushing over mine.

The drop-off was… uneventful, which for Natalia meant gloriously devoid of drama.

She pulled up in her car like she was arriving at a red carpet event she didn’t want to attend, gave us a strained smile that barely twitched her face, and muttered a flat “hi.” Melissa, still half-asleep, hugged Jon, then climbed out and gave me a sleepy squeeze around the waist. “Bye. Tell Nacho I said bye.”

“Will do, sweetheart,” I said, already missing her.

Nacho blinked at her from the truck seat, half-lidded and supremely unbothered, because God forbid the dog show too much emotion.

Natalia drove off with all the passive-aggressive energy of a woman who wanted a medal for showing up.

I watched her car shrink into the distance and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“Well,” I said, leaning my head against the window, “that was painless. In a ‘ripping-a-Band-Aid-off-your-soul’ kind of way.” Jon just shook his head.

“You’re gonna make such a good stepmom one day.” I raised an eyebrow.

“That a proposal?” He grinned.

“Not yet. Just appreciation.” And with that, we turned back toward the open road, Nacho snoring in the backseat, the sun dipping low, and me wondering if this messy, loud, complicated life was exactly what I wanted.

We pulled into the Super 8 Motel parking lot like a couple of road-weary champions returning from a long battle…

only to find ourselves smack in the middle of a true crime documentary in progress.

Cop ca rs. Everywhere. Flashing red and blue lights lit up the yellowing siding of the motel like some kind of twisted rave.

Cops stood in clusters, radios squawking, caution tape flapping in the breeze.

One officer was jotting something in a little notebook while another talked to a shirtless man in SpongeBob pajama pants like this was all routine.

I blinked. Twice. Jon put the truck in park, rubbed his temple like he was about to solve the world’s problems, and climbed out.

He approached one of the officers with that slow Southern charm he reserves for strangers and waitresses.

“Evenin’. What’s goin’ on here?”

The officer, chewing gum as if his life depended on it, replied casually, “Oh, you didn’t hear? This is where sex offenders stay after release. Something went down. Can’t say what yet. Just head inside and lock your door.”

The words floated out like a casual weather update. Like he was warning us about a light drizzle, not the presence of literal criminals. I stared at Jon, horrified.

“Is this the Murder Motel? Are we about to be an episode of Dateline? ”

Then, like divine comedy decided to punch up the script, Jon blurted out, “Oh, uh—my wife and I are NOT staying here!” His what now?! My head snapped toward him. I swear I heard a record scratch.

“Wife?” He froze. I froze. The air between us snapped.

His eyes widened like he hadn’t meant to say it, and mine did the same because maybe I didn’t hate it?

And then we just lost it—dissolving into full-blown hysterical laughter in the middle of a literal crime scene.

Some cop looked over, probably wondering if we were high. Nope. Just traumatized.

I gave Jon a look that very clearly translated to: Call the damn Hampton Inn.

Now. I’m not dying next to a broken vending machine and a Bible drawer that smells like bleach.

He was already dialing. Five minutes later, our bags were half-zipped, Nacho was looking personally victimized by the chaos, and we were sprinting out of that hellhole like contestants on The Amazing Race: Parolee Edition.

Nacho let out the world’s tiniest sigh from his dog bed like, Again?

The Hampton Inn—oh sweet Lord—was like checking into heaven with a better mattress.

The lobby smelled like lemon and fresh linens.

No suspicious stains. No side-eye from the front desk.

Just quiet, polished floors and someone who offered us warm cookies like we hadn’t just escaped from Motel Alcatraz.

“Cookies?” I said.

“They have cookies. Jon, we’re home.” He grinned, clearly relieved not to be sleeping on a mattress that squeaked like it was covering a body.

Upstairs, the room was bright and clean.

Crisp white linens. Modern bathroom. Pillows that fluffed instead of deflated.

Nacho immediately took one look at the place and pranced to the bed like he’d been personally invited by royalty.

“You good?” I asked him, placing his tiny travel blanket on the comforter.

He spun around three times, curled into a ball, and let out a noise that said, “This is more my tax bracket.” I pulled back the curtains and spotted a glowing neon sign: The Sagebrush.

A saloon-style steakhouse attached to the hotel, dimly lit, probably cheesy, and—blessedly—serving alcohol.

“I see steak and bourbon in my future,” I told Jon, already grabbing my wallet.

“My treat.”

He looked at me like I’d just offered him free fishing gear and season tickets to every rodeo from here to Tulsa.

We made our way to The Sagebrush, which looked like someone crossbred a Cracker Barrel with a dive bar.

Inside, it was all wood-paneled walls, antlers, and booths with ripped faux leather.

A couple of dusty cowboy hats hung behind the bar like they hadn’t been touched since Toby Keith was on the charts.

It was awful. And perfect. We ordered two old fashioneds and two Bud Lights.

Then two more old fashioneds. Because we deserved it.

I got the medium-well steak with mashed potatoes and asparagus.

Jon ordered the same, which only confirmed that we’re either soulmates or basic.

The food? Surprisingly decent. Either that or the whiskey was kicking in.

I kept catching myself watching him across the table.

The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

The way he wiped the corners of his mouth before sipping his beer.

The fact that he didn’t look at his phone once.

Not even when it buzzed. It was dangerous—how easy it felt.

Back at the hotel, the hallway was quiet.

The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket.

We stepped into the room, bellies full, a little buzzed, and lit just by the soft glow of the nightstand lamp.

Jon closed the door behind us and leaned against it like he wasn’t in a rush.

Like he was taking me in. I toed off my flip-flops, still feeling a little floaty, and turned toward him.

“Still thinking about that Super 8?” I asked.

“Only when I close my eyes,” he replied, stepping toward me, that crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“But this right here? This fixes all of it.”

His hands found my waist and pulled me toward him with a quiet urgency that melted something in my chest. We kissed slowly at first—soft, lingering, as we had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. But that quickly unraveled.

The night swelled between us like something tidal.

We were clumsy and laughing one second, heated and breathless the next.

His fingers slid under my shirt, tracing my skin like it was something sacred.

My hands fumbled with the buttons of his jeans like they were keeping me from salvation.

We stumbled toward the bed, still half-dressed and tangled in each other.

I whispered something stupid about those dimples.

He mumbled something about how I smelled like bourbon and sin.

We took our time. We didn’t. It was hot.

Then tender. Then hot again. The kind of night that makes you forget what day it is.

The kind of night you feel in your bones for days.

Afterward, we lay tangled in each other, sheets kicked off the bed, limbs a mess, hearts thudding in unison like we’d just run a marathon and somehow won.

The TV glowed faintly in the background—Law & Order: SVU, of course, because what else do two sex-drunk adults watch after escaping a Motel of Doom? I looked over at him.

“Still think I’m your wife?” I teased, brushing my fingers across his chest. He smirked, kissed the top of my head, and murmured, “After tonight? I might tattoo it on my damn arm.” I smiled. Then passed out in his arms like it was the most natural place in the world.