Page 17

By the time winter arrived, Graham and Ciarán had worked tirelessly to prepare their home for the cold months ahead. The cellar was stocked with the fruits and vegetables they had preserved during the fall—jars of jams, pickles, and vegetables lined up neatly in rows, ready to be enjoyed through the long, chilly months. The last of the summer grass had been carefully cut, stored in the barn, and set aside for feed for the livestock. They’d repaired and reinforced the chicken coop, barn, and stables, ensuring that they would withstand even the harshest of winter storms. The firewood was neatly stacked, ready to be used whenever the chill in the air became unbearable. And, just in time, the final touches were put on the addition to the house—a room for Rory, Ciarán’s father, who would soon be arriving.

The first signs of their preparations came one cold morning when Oscar appeared at the door, hauling packages full of items that had arrived for Rory. There were clothes, knickknacks, books, and a surprising number of supplies for knitting—something Ciarán found a bit amusing considering that Rory had never been one to show much interest in the craft. But what caught Graham’s eye most was the assortment of gardening tools.

“Gardening tools?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he watched Ciarán sift through the small trowel and shears.

Ciarán sighed, a fond but exasperated expression crossing his face. “He said he wanted to help out around here. I told him that we had everything we needed at the ranch, but sometimes he just doesn’t listen…” Ciarán gave a small laugh, clearly understanding the good intentions behind his father’s insistence on providing more.

With some of Rory’s belongings now in their home, Ciarán took charge of furnishing the room that would become his father’s. He spent hours poring over the general store’s furniture catalog, making sure every detail was perfect. He ordered a new trunk, a sturdy desk and chair, a mirror, a wash basin, and a comfortable mattress. But his most thoughtful purchase was the rocking chair—a cozy, cushioned chair meant not for Rory’s room but for the corner near the stove, where his father could rest and keep warm during the colder months.

Ciarán also requested that Graham build another bed for Rory’s room—a sturdy frame to fit the mattress—and a large bookcase. Graham had his reservations at first, unsure of Rory’s taste or what kind of furniture would suit him best. But Ciarán reassured him that as long as the bed was comfortable and the bookcase could hold a large collection of books, his father would be pleased.

With that, Graham set to work. He crafted a simple but solid bed frame, one that would fit Rory’s specific needs. The mattress fit perfectly, and Graham could picture his father-in-law sleeping soundly in the bed, content with the comfort it offered. He also built a large bookcase, tall and sturdy enough to hold the wealth of knowledge he suspected Rory would bring with him. Graham chuckled to himself at the thought of how many books Rory might carry from Ireland. Perhaps an entire library.

“What about blankets?” Graham asked one evening as they reviewed their progress. “Pillows—we need to get pillows. I want Rory to step into his room and feel like everything is perfect. I want him to know we’ve thought of everything.”

Ciarán smiled softly, his fingers lightly brushing through the fabric of the quilt they were preparing. “I’ll make the pillows. He’s very particular about them. As for the blankets, he told me that he’s bringing the quilts from our old house.”

Graham’s heart swelled at the thought of those quilts—memories of Ciarán’s childhood, a tangible piece of his family’s past that would now be part of their home. “Is there anything else he needs?” Graham asked, unable to hide the sense of urgency in his voice. The date of Rory’s arrival was fast approaching, and he wanted everything to be perfect.

Ciarán paused, glancing over at Graham, his voice quiet as he said, “If there’s anything he needs, we can get it. I’ll find whatever he wants, if only he arrives safely.”

Graham could sense the worry in his husband’s tone. It was the same worry that had kept Ciarán awake the night before, thinking about his father’s journey. The long trip from Ireland, the uncertainty of navigating through New York City, finding the right train to take him nearly across the country to Larkspur—Ciarán couldn’t shake the anxiety that something might go wrong along the way.

Graham pulled him into an embrace, his voice soothing as he whispered, “He will, sweetheart. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

They made a silly pair, each of them fretting over different things. Graham’s mind was focused on getting everything just right for Rory, while Ciarán worried about his father’s journey and the possibility of something going wrong. But despite the anxiety, they found comfort in each other’s presence. Ciarán rested against him, sighing softly, and Graham kissed the top of his head.

“I just worry about him,” Ciarán murmured. “I hate thinking of him alone, especially with the weather turning cold.”

“You made the trip alone,” Graham reminded him gently. “You got on that ship by yourself. You found your way in New York by yourself, and then you came here to me—alone. You’re strong, Ciarán, and if your father’s half as strong as you, he’ll be fine.”

Ciarán smiled, a little softer now, the weight of his fears lightening. “Thank you, Graham. Do you think—maybe we could make a special dinner for him when he arrives?”

“Of course,” Graham replied immediately.

Ciarán’s face lit up, and he began to rattle off ideas for a welcome meal: a roast with a nice cut of beef, mashed potatoes, fresh bread with herb butter, pickled beets, and an apple cake made with the apples from the cellar. The thought of it all—comfort food, made with care and love—brought a warmth to Graham’s chest. It wasn’t just the meal that mattered. It was the gesture of bringing his father-in-law into their home and showing him that he was wanted, cared for, and loved.

“That sounds perfect,” Graham said. “It will be a wonderful way to welcome him.”

Ciarán smiled, his voice full of confidence. “And we’ll make stock with the leftovers. That will be good to have when it gets really cold.”

As his husband continued to plan for Rory’s arrival, Graham sat at the kitchen table, content to take a small break from his work. The house was filled with the promise of something beautiful on the horizon. Soon, the three of them would be together under one roof, and it would feel like home—not just for Ciarán and Rory, but for Graham as well.

◆◆◆

Graham woke one day to the first snowfall of the season. He didn’t see it, but he felt it; the dark of the morning with the sun behind snow clouds, the chill in the air, how comfortable and warm he was bundled up under the covers with Ciarán. As his eyes adjusted, he considered the day’s chores.

There wasn’t as much to do in winter. No crops to tend to. The animals were safe and sound in their shelters, only needing to be fed, brushed, and otherwise cared for. The eggs would still need to be collected and the cows milked, but there’d be less overall. The main chore for winter was to get through winter, and everyone, human or beast, put all their energy into seeing spring once more.

Beside him Ciarán stirred. His snores stopped with an abrupt snort and his large brown eyes were still drowsy as he blinked himself awake.

When he focused on Graham he smiled. “Dia duit, mo ghrá,” he murmured.

Graham’s Irish still wasn’t anything that might be called good. But he understood that just fine.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Graham said.

They kissed, slow and tender, until Ciarán pulled away with a mischievous expression. He said, “Warm me up, please,” and so Graham was, of course, helpless to do anything but pull him into his arms and rock against him until they grew too hot and flushed and sweaty for their night clothes and swiftly discarded them onto the bedroom floor.

There wasn’t a prettier sight in the world than Ciarán, blushing pink, naked, and laughing underneath the blankets as Graham tickled him with his beard, kissing and nuzzling every part of him, from the delicate, sensitive skin of his neck to his soft belly to his beautiful, freckled thighs.

With an impatient wriggle, Ciarán said, “In me, Graham.”

Graham laughed. “You’re bossy this morning.” He rolled away to grab the bottle of oil on their nightstand. It was getting rather light, he thought as he gave it an experimental shake. He felt Ciarán’s lips against his back, wet kisses pressed along his spine, and roving hands rubbing his shoulders and gliding across his ribs.

“Get ready, honey,” Graham said. Ciarán fell back against the pillows, legs spread, as Graham slid his oil slicked fingers inside him.

Ciarán moaned. “Oh, Graham.”

God, he loved it when Ciarán said his name like that. Soft and breathless, his chest heaving, lashes fluttering, mouth open and inviting.

Graham crooked his fingers just so and Ciarán cried out, scrabbling at the sheets. “Oh!” Another cry was cut off as Graham surged forward to kiss him, panting against his lips, sucking on his tongue. Ciarán whimpered when Graham poured more oil onto his hand and stroked his aching cock, precum spurting onto Ciarán’s stomach.

He’d never have his husband beg for him. Graham eased himself inside Ciarán with a groan. Every time they made love it was just as exciting, just as wonderful, just as sweet as that first time.

“Mo ghrá,” Ciarán gasped as Graham began to thrust. “Mo ghrá—”

He was just so gorgeous. Graham nibbled on his lower lip. His voice thick with arousal, a desperate rasp. “That’s right. I’m yours. I’m your love. I love you—I love you, Ciarán—”

Ciarán grabbed his ass, tried to pull him in further, closer, and Graham came as he kissed him, sucking a bruise onto his neck. He felt it—hot cum leaking from where they were joined, smearing on their skin, on the sheets.

“How do you want it?” Graham asked. He stroked Ciarán’s sides, kissed him again. “Tell me how you want it.”

“Your mouth,” Ciarán said. He smiled when Graham kissed him, moaned when Graham took him into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the head of Ciarán’s shaft, greedily swallowed the taste of him, that mix of precum and sweat. He massaged Ciarán’s thighs while he sucked, marveling at their softness, and then he pinned Ciarán down and took him to the root, moaning as Ciarán yanked at his hair and cried, “Graham, Graham, Graham—”

Good, Graham thought when Ciarán’s spend hit his tongue. He tasted so good.

There was still some time before they had to begin their day proper. Graham rested his head against Ciarán’s chest, soothed by the rhythm of his beating heart, and sighed with satisfaction as Ciarán ran his fingers through his hair.

“Good morning indeed,” Ciarán murmured.

Graham shook with laughter.

◆◆◆

Once, winter had been the loneliest season for Graham. He had always dreaded the long, cold nights when the days grew shorter and the snow blanketed the world outside. The isolation weighed on him, pressing down as the dark sky seemed to stretch on forever. Back when he lived alone, even the simplest trip to town, just to place orders for the ranch or pick up supplies, felt like a lifeline. But when he returned home, there was no one to greet him, no familiar voice to break the silence. The evenings would stretch on endlessly, each one a reminder of all the mistakes he had made and all the ways he had failed. The cold didn’t just come from the outside; it seeped into his bones, a chill that came from within, from the emptiness of his life.

But now, things were different. The winter that had once felt so oppressive had transformed, like a storybook world come to life. The fire in the stove crackled with warmth, filling the house with a comforting glow that made every room feel like a sanctuary. The scent of cider simmering on the stove mixed with the warmth of fresh bread baking in the oven, and there was always the sound of Ciarán bustling around—his soft footsteps as he moved from room to room, busy with the tasks of the day. Sometimes he would warm cider for them both, sometimes he would sit by the fire, stitching together a new quilt, his fingers moving with the same care and tenderness that he put into everything he did. Roisin would chase after him, his little paws pattering across the floor, and the two of them would play together, laughing as the puppy tumbled over Ciarán’s feet. At times, they would stop whatever they were doing and dance together, slow, graceful movements that made Graham’s heart swell. And Ciarán would sing—sometimes just a soft hum, other times a full melody that filled the house with joy. His voice was like the warmth of the fire, like a promise of home.

The snow outside would fall in great, lazy flakes, softening the world, making everything feel peaceful, timeless. And inside, Graham joined in, becoming part of the rhythm of life that Ciarán had woven around them. They experimented with cider recipes, each batch better than the last. Graham would sit beside Ciarán as he worked on the quilt, offering his help in any way he could, even if it was just threading needles or adjusting fabric. They tussled on the floor with Roisin, laughing until their sides hurt, and sometimes, when the mood struck them, they would dance together—swaying in each other’s arms, feeling the closeness, the connection, the love that seemed to envelop them both.

They would sit at the table with mugs of hot cider in their hands, talking about everything and nothing. There was always something to discuss—plans for the ranch, ideas for the future, thoughts on the past. And, of course, the ever-approaching arrival of Rory, Ciarán’s father, who would soon join them at the ranch. Graham imagined the three of them, living together under one roof, the dynamics of their little family shifting and growing. He thought of the conversations that would take place in their shared kitchen, of Ciarán and his father speaking in Irish as they cooked or worked together. He could picture Rory, sitting comfortably in the rocking chair Ciarán had bought him, perhaps with Roisin curled up at his feet, enjoying the quiet of the house. Maybe he would even take up some tailoring in the house, or perhaps, after so many years of hard labor, he could simply rest, content in the knowledge that he was surrounded by people who loved him.

One night, as they lay in bed, the darkness enveloping them like a blanket, Graham shared his thoughts with Ciarán. He spoke softly, his voice low in the stillness of the room, but Ciarán’s response was gentle, his words full of emotion. "Do you know," Ciarán said, his voice trembling ever so slightly, "every night, when I say my prayers, I thank God for you? For giving me this blessing—to be married to you. To be your husband, and to go to bed with you, and wake up with you, and to be by your side."

Graham’s heart caught in his throat. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he simply murmured his husband’s name, "Ciarán."

Ciarán chuckled softly, the sound rich with affection. "You are a very rare kind of man, to dream about when his father-in-law comes to live with him!" His arm moved in the dark, wiping his face as if trying to hide the tears that had formed there.

Graham pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him, feeling the warmth of Ciarán’s body next to his. He kissed his husband’s tear stained cheeks, brushing away the tears as best he could. He understood what Ciarán meant—the changes that would come with Rory’s arrival were inevitable. They wouldn’t just be a newlywed couple anymore. They would be caretakers, a family. And while Graham was certain there would be challenges, there was also the promise of happiness, of sharing their lives with someone they both loved. How happy Ciarán would be to have his father with him again, to know that he wasn’t alone in the world. And Graham would be there, too, to look after Rory, to make sure he felt at home.

“There’s so much room in this house, Ciarán,” Graham said softly, his voice filled with quiet certainty.

Ciarán’s hand found his in the dark. "I love you, Graham."

"I love you," Graham replied, his heart full, his chest swelling with emotions he didn’t have words for. His love for Ciarán was overwhelming, all-encompassing, and it felt like it would pour out of him, filling the space around them, the entire house.

And as they drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms, Graham couldn’t help but think that maybe that was what warmed the house—their love. It seeped into the very walls, filling every room with a sense of peace, of belonging, of warmth that could withstand even the coldest winter nights.

◆◆◆

The day Rory was to arrive, the house was alive with nervous excitement. Graham and Ciarán had breakfast with Liam and Ronan, who had come to offer their good wishes. The conversation was light, but there was a definite undercurrent of anticipation in the air. The warmth of the kitchen contrasted with the brisk, chilly morning outside, where a blanket of snow covered the earth, sparkling in the early light.

“This is very good news,” Liam said as he took a sip of his tea. “When your father’s settled in, bring him here and we’ll have tea. And we’d be delighted to help introduce him to the rest of the community. Is that not so, Ronan?” He looked over at Ronan with a playful smile.

Ronan, ever calm and composed, spread a bit of marmalade on a biscuit, his actions deliberate. He glanced up, giving a warm, affectionate smile before replying, “Sea, tá sé amhlaidh, mo ghrá,” which meant "Yes, that’s true, my love."

Ciarán smiled, but there was a trace of worry in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly. “We might keep to ourselves for a little while after this. Such a long journey, and in this weather—I worry papa will be quite tired. And it will take some time for him to get used to living on a ranch.”

Graham, sitting across from them, offered a reassuring smile. “If you two would like to visit, then we’d be glad to have you.”

Liam and Ronan exchanged a pleased glance, both men nodding with enthusiasm. “We’ll hold you to it,” Liam said with a wink.

The conversation shifted to other matters, but the topic of Rory’s arrival lingered in the air, as if it could not be fully set aside until the moment had passed. Eventually, the time came to say their goodbyes, and Graham and Ciarán bundled themselves up in coats, scarves, and mittens, ready to make their way to the train station. The winter landscape was peaceful, with snow covering the fields, trees, and roads in a thick layer. It was a beautiful sight, but the coldness made the journey feel more serious, more important, as if the land itself were holding its breath in anticipation.

As they walked toward the wagon, Graham couldn’t help but feel a tightening in his chest. Ciarán sat beside him, huddled under a blanket, his dark green scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. The scarf was a gift from Graham, chosen specifically because it complemented Ciarán’s features so well. It was a small token of his love, something that warmed him from the outside in, just as Ciarán did for him in every other way.

Graham had always been a man of practicality, and while he disliked wearing anything on his hands when he was driving the horses, the cold didn’t bother him as much as it did Ciarán. His husband, however, was bundled up tightly, his cheeks flushed from the cold. There was something endearing about the way Ciarán looked in his layers, his eyes bright despite the chill, and Graham found himself smiling without even realizing it.

“What if the ice delayed the train?” Ciarán asked, his voice tinged with anxiety. “What if it derailed?”

Graham chuckled softly, trying to calm his husband’s nerves. “I worried about the same thing, you know. The day I came to collect you.”

For a moment, Ciarán’s anxiety seemed to dissipate, replaced by surprise. “What? Me?” he asked, his voice incredulous.

“I was real worried,” Graham continued, his tone soft but filled with a mix of nostalgia and affection. “I thought something would happen to the train. A fire, or a robbery, or anything, really. I had to stop and pull myself together, right on the side of the road.”

Ciarán blinked, clearly shocked by the confession. “You…you stopped?” he asked, his voice quiet as he processed the words.

Graham nodded, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “That’s how I got your bouquet,” he explained. “I ran out into the field to clear my head, and I just needed to breathe for a moment. That’s when I saw the flowers around me. I remembered your sketches, the way you’d capture the world in your drawings.”

He glanced down at Ciarán, his heart swelling with the memory of their first meeting. The bouquet had been a simple gesture, but one that had meant more to him than he could put into words. It had been a sign of hope—a small, delicate symbol of the future he was starting to imagine with Ciarán by his side.

Ciarán reached over and placed a hand on Graham’s thigh, squeezing gently. His eyes were soft, filled with a deep affection that made Graham’s heart skip a beat. “I kept them, you know. Those flowers, and all the other ones you’ve given me,” Ciarán murmured. “I have them pressed in one of my poetry books.”

Graham’s smile grew, touched by the sentiment. “I didn’t know that,” he said, his voice full of quiet admiration.

Ciarán returned the smile, his cheeks rosy from the cold, his breath visible in the crisp morning air. The two of them sat there for a moment, the world outside their wagon slipping away as they shared a quiet moment, just the two of them. For all the anxiety and anticipation of the day, for all the uncertainties ahead, Graham knew that they were ready for whatever came.

◆◆◆

The train station was more crowded than Graham expected. The cold winter morning had drawn out more people than usual, perhaps because many were waiting to reunite with loved ones for the holiday season. Families huddled together, wrapped in layers of coats and scarves, their eyes scanning the crowd in anticipation. Some sat with neatly wrapped presents, their bright colors and shiny ribbons standing out against the stark whiteness of the snow. Others were pacing, their hands fidgeting with their gloves or clutching at the handles of heavy bags, their eyes darting back and forth in sync with the train station’s large clock.

Children, bundled in hats and mittens, were racing through the crowd, their laughter ringing out in shrieks as they pelted each other with snowballs in a carefree game. The sight of it made Graham smile, the innocent joy of their play a sharp contrast to the deep, quiet anticipation that filled the air around him and Ciarán.

Ciarán, too excited to sit, was pacing the length of the platform. His steps quick, his eyes constantly darting over the crowd, waiting for the moment that would make everything real—when his father would finally step off that train and into his arms. Graham stayed close, his large strides easily matching his husband’s smaller steps as they walked together, side by side. Their footprints marked the fresh snow, Ciarán’s delicate marks alongside his own heavier ones, as they tried to pass the time with idle chatter.

“I’ll make us some tea when we get home,” Ciarán murmured, mostly to himself. “And I’ll put the roast in the oven. I’m glad I remembered to make the apple cake and the bread yesterday. It’ll take most of the day for the roast to cook. Ah, but it’ll be such a heavy meal with the potatoes—and maybe papa won’t be up to it after all his traveling. I should make something lighter, too. A carrot and beet salad, maybe?”

Ciarán’s mind was already working through the logistics of their day, trying to anticipate what his father might need, what he might enjoy after his long journey. Graham smiled softly, his heart full of warmth for the way Ciarán cared so deeply, for his family, for him. His husband’s voice was a balm to his nerves, even if the anxious energy in the air was palpable.

“Whatever we can’t eat tonight, we’ll have tomorrow,” Graham said gently, squeezing Ciarán’s arm. “Makes breakfast and lunch easy.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Ciarán agreed with a small nod. “I think I will make the salad, though.”

It was a small comfort, but it helped calm Ciarán’s nerves, even if just a little. Graham, despite his own excitement, was grateful for the moment of quiet that fell between them. But that peace didn’t last long.

The shrill whistle of the train pierced through the air, and sparks flew from the tracks as the great metal machine screeched to a halt, its wheels groaning under the sudden pressure. People began to rush toward the platform, some with luggage clutched tightly, others with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The noise, the sudden flurry of motion, felt like a punctuation mark in the stillness that had preceded it.

As passengers spilled out onto the platform, Graham caught sight of the crowd, his eyes instinctively searching for the figure that would finally make their family feel complete. And then, like a beacon in the sea of faces, he saw Ciarán’s excitement light up as he spotted the one person they had been waiting for. Ciarán’s eyes widened, and he pointed with a burst of joy.

“There! There, there he is!”

Graham turned to follow the direction of Ciarán’s outstretched finger, his heart skipping a beat. There, standing among the bustling crowd, was a tall, older man, his hair and beard streaked with gray. His clothes were worn, patched in places, but finely repaired—practical and weathered from years of hard work, but still carrying the pride of someone who had taken great care in their appearance. His shoes were polished, his waistcoat a dark green, and his coat, though well-worn, seemed to hold the promise of countless stories stitched into its fabric. He stood, looking down at the trunk at his feet with a slightly puzzled expression, as though he wasn’t quite sure how it had come to be there—or how he would manage to move it all on his own.

Graham watched as Ciarán’s face lit up, a radiant smile spreading across his features.

“Papa!” Ciarán cried, his voice filled with emotion as he took off toward the man.

And then, for Graham, it was like everything else melted away. Rory Ryan looked up at the sound of his son’s voice, his face transforming with a warmth so familiar to Ciarán. It was as if, in that moment, the world stopped spinning, and there was nothing but the two of them. Rory dropped his bags to the ground with a thud and threw his arms wide, a smile blooming across his face.

“Ciarán!”

Their embrace was immediate, the kind of reunion that could only come from years of separation. Graham watched, his heart swelling, as father and son held each other tight, a powerful, silent exchange passing between them. There was so much love in that moment that it nearly knocked Graham over. He had seen reunions before, but nothing like this.

“Look at you!” Rory said, pulling away to hold Ciarán at arm’s length. “You look wonderful. I’ve missed you so much, my dear.” His voice was thick with emotion, and Ciarán’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Ciarán replied, his voice shaky. “How are you feeling? Are you hungry? Tired? Did you sleep on the train ride? Let’s get your things together—”

But before Ciarán could go any further, Graham stepped forward, offering a reassuring smile. “Here, let me help, sweetheart.” He reached down to grab the trunk and one of the bags with ease, offering to carry some of the weight.

Rory looked at him, his eyes scanning Graham with curiosity, and then a smile spread across his face. “You must be Graham,” he said.

Graham stood a little straighter. “Yes, sir. It’s—a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” Rory said, his smile warm and genuine. “It’s good to finally meet my son-in-law.” He gave Ciarán a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Thank you for looking after Ciarán.”

Graham felt a lump form in his throat, and though he didn’t know exactly what to say in response, he found the words anyway. “I love him.”

◆◆◆

Graham insisted that Ciarán ride in the back of the cart with his father on the way back. “You two have a lot to catch up on,” he said with a knowing smile, as he climbed into the front seat and took the reins. It was his way of giving them space, of allowing the two of them the chance to reconnect after so many years apart.

Behind him, Ciarán and Rory spoke together in Irish, their voices a soft, melodic hum in the crisp winter air. Ciarán’s words came quickly, a little breathlessly, his excitement spilling out as if he couldn’t contain it. Rory’s response was slower, more deliberate, his voice rich with affection, carrying the weight of years gone by. The sound of their conversation was like a balm to Graham’s soul, a reminder that the family he had come to cherish was growing, expanding, filling the space with love and laughter.

As they passed through the town, Graham could hear snippets of their conversation. Ciarán was telling his father about the shops, about the people they had met in Larkspur, and the little details of the life they had built together. Rory’s laughter, warm and deep, echoed through the air as he responded, clearly delighted by the stories his son had to tell. It was as if a world that had been closed off to Rory for so long was beginning to open up to him once again.

When they left the town behind and the road stretched out before them, the pace of their conversation slowed. Graham could catch fragments of what they were saying now, enough to understand that Ciarán was describing the countryside when it was in bloom. He spoke of the hills covered in wildflowers, of the trees bursting into color, of the vineyards full of ripening grapes. His voice was full of pride as he painted a picture of their home—a place that was alive, vibrant, a world in which everything had a place and purpose.

Graham smiled to himself as he guided Ginger and Bó onward, feeling a quiet sense of satisfaction settle over him. And when the ranch finally came into view, with its barn nestled in the distance and the house rising from the earth like a warm, welcoming beacon, Rory made a startled sound. He seemed to catch sight of something unexpected, and for a moment, he was silent, simply taking in the sight before him.

“What a sight!” he exclaimed, his voice full of sincere wonder. The awe in his tone made Graham’s heart swell, and he couldn’t help but glance back to see Ciarán’s face lighting up with a smile as he leaned toward his father.

“It’s even better when there’s some greenery,” Ciarán said, his voice full of pride. “You’ll see, papa. It’s just like I told you—everything comes alive. The flowers, the trees, the fruit. It’s all so beautiful in the spring. You’ll be able to pick fruit right off the vine and—”

Rory’s chuckle cut him off again, his tone light and teasing. “Goodness gracious, lad, you don’t have to convince me of anything, I’m already here.” His eyes scanned the ranch with clear appreciation. “But it’s very nice. A very lovely home you two have made for yourself.”

Graham couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth as he looked toward the ranch. There was something deeply gratifying in knowing that, after all the hard work, after all the effort and sacrifice, this was their life. This place—this home—was theirs to share with the people they loved.

◆◆◆

Roisin was immediately upon them when they walked through the door, tail wagging furiously as he bounded around their legs, his excitement unmistakable. They had barely shaken the cold and the light dusting of snow from themselves before the dog was leaping joyfully between them, barking happily at their return. His nose wiggled with curiosity, sniffing at Rory as if trying to figure out the new scent.

“This is the noble hound, then?” Rory asked, bending down to offer his hand to the dog, his voice warm and amused. But Roisin, in his boundless excitement, wriggled this way and that, and Rory’s fingers only managed to brush the top of his head before the dog dashed off again, circling around them like a whirlwind.

Graham chuckled at the sight. “I’ll get the fire started,” he said to Ciarán, eager to help make the house warm and welcoming for Rory. “If you want to give your father the grand tour.”

Ciarán beamed at the suggestion, looking at Graham with gratitude. “Yes, thank you, Graham. Here, papa, let me show you your room.” He motioned for Rory to follow him as they carried the bags to Rory’s room. Graham stood for a moment, listening to the sound of their voices, before he turned to the stove, placing some firewood and tinder into the stove to get a blaze going.

The fire caught quickly. Graham watched with satisfaction as the flames grew, the wood crackling and popping, sending embers dancing into the air. Roisin, tired from his initial excitement, plopped down on the rug beside him, his back turned to the stove as he warmed his rear. Graham reached down to give him a firm pat on the head, murmuring, “Good boy,” as the house slowly began to heat up, the chill of the winter air evaporating into the warmth that was soon to fill the room. Soon, the roast would go into the oven, and the smells of dinner would begin to fill the house.

On the kitchen table were several bundles of silverware, one fork, one knife, and one spoon wrapped in a napkin, along with a small stack of plates. A ceramic pitcher of apple cider sat beside it, ready to be warmed. The loaf of bread and the apple cake that Ciarán had baked the day before were covered with a cloth, and next to them sat a bowl of freshly scrubbed potatoes. Graham grabbed the bowl of potatoes and placed it on the counter, then moved the cider pot onto the stove, heating it gently.

As the cider warmed, Graham took a quick sip to taste it. The warm liquid was sweet, spiced with cinnamon and cloves, just like Ciarán always made it. He poured it back into the pitcher, setting it on the table for later. “And we bought this rocking chair for you—” he heard Ciarán’s voice behind him.

He turned to see Ciarán gently moving the rocking chair closer to the stove, urging Rory to sit. Rory was already looking more relaxed, the weight of the journey starting to lift as the warmth of the house enveloped him.

Rory eased himself into the chair with a sigh of contentment, looking around at the room with a peaceful expression. “Oh, this is very nice. Everything has been so very nice, Ciarán,” he said, the gratitude in his voice clear.

Ciarán flitted about, making sure his father was comfortable. “Are you comfortable?” he asked, hands fluttering as he offered a blanket to Rory, who took it and placed it on his lap with a quiet murmur of thanks.

“Extremely. Thank you, my dear,” Rory said, his eyes softening as he settled in.

“You’re welcome,” Ciarán said. “Do you—do you need anything else?” His voice held a note of concern, as if he could anticipate his father’s every need.

“I’m just going to rest my eyes a bit, I think,” Rory said with a faint smile, his voice growing quieter. “Now that I’m here, I’m starting to feel the journey.”

Ciarán leaned in and kissed his father’s gray head, the gesture tender and filled with affection. “Yes, of course. I’ll get the roast started.”

It didn’t take long before Rory was softly snoring in the chair by the stove, Roisin curled up at his feet. The sight was so peaceful, so domestic, that it felt like a scene right out of a picture book—a moment of tranquility and love that had been a long time coming.

“What else can I help with?” Graham asked Ciarán, already turning back to the kitchen.

They fell into an easy rhythm, bustling around the kitchen together. Graham shredded carrots, sliced beets, and poked at the potatoes with a fork to check their progress. He pulled the roast out of the oven, checking it carefully, then pushed it back in with a satisfied nod. Ciarán was at his side, moving like a whirlwind as he checked on the cider, wrapped up the bread, and tended to the apple cake. He tutted as Graham grabbed a quick bite of the cake and playfully wiped the crumbs from Graham’s lips, warning him that he would ruin his appetite if he kept sneaking bites.

“Not likely,” Graham said with a grin, and Ciarán’s soft, sweet laugh filled the kitchen.

Graham bumped his hip against Ciarán’s, a quiet, affectionate gesture as he leaned in and asked, “How are you?”

Ciarán paused, glancing up at him with those large, dark eyes that always seemed to see straight into his soul. “I’m a bit tired, too,” he admitted. “All this excitement. But I also feel—all my worries are gone, now that my father’s actually here.”

Graham smiled, taking Ciarán’s hand in his. “Are you happy, sweetheart?”

Ciarán met his gaze, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I am. I was before, but now—now we’re all together. I have the two people I love most in the world here with me. I’m happy. I’m very happy.”

“Good,” Graham replied simply, his heart swelling with the truth of it.

“And you?” Ciarán asked, his voice soft but full of meaning as he took Graham’s hand in his, his thumb brushing the back of his hand. “Are you happy, Graham?”

Graham smiled, the warmth of his love for Ciarán filling him completely. “Of course I am. Happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

How could he not be?

He had a father-in-law snoring contentedly in a rocking chair beside the stove, and a dog snoring just as loudly at his feet. He had his husband right beside him, their lives intertwined in this simple, beautiful moment. They were cooking dinner together, the warmth of the fire and the delicious smells of the meal filling the house.

He had a family. He had a home.

Ciarán smiled and cupped Graham’s cheek, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips. His scent—earthy, comforting, with the faintest trace of honey and milk soap and the apple crumb cake he’d baked—was intoxicating. Graham’s hands moved to Ciarán’s waist, pulling him closer for an even deeper kiss. His tongue brushed against Ciarán’s lips, coaxing him into the kiss, and Ciarán gasped softly, his eyelashes fluttering shut.

Just as the kiss deepened, a loud snort broke the silence, followed by the sound of lips smacking. They broke away in a panic, their faces flushed as they turned toward the source of the noise. They both stared, certain that Rory had spotted them, but no—he was still fast asleep in the rocking chair, completely unaware. He snorted again, smacked his lips, and then fell silent, the deep, contented breaths of sleep returning.

Graham and Ciarán exchanged a glance, and immediately, they burst into laughter, muffling their giggles with their hands. How reckless they had been! And how soon! They tried and failed to stifle their mirth, their laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.

“Everything all right?” Rory’s sleepy mumble came from across the room, his voice thick with sleep. “Do you need my help?”

Ciarán swatted Graham’s arm playfully, still grinning. “No, no. We’re just fine, papa. Everything’s wonderful. Right, Graham?”

Graham smiled, nodding. “Yes,” he said with complete sincerity.

Everything was wonderful.