Chapter Text
Dahlia
I hadn't been to a funeral since I was fifteen. Back then, I was young enough to think death was still far away, something abstract and untouchable. Today, at twenty-three, it felt closer. More real. But not for the reasons it probably should have. The air in the church was thick with silence and wilting lilies. I sat in the front row, my knees pressed together, the heels of my black boots clicking softly every time I shifted my weight. My hands stayed folded in my lap, stiff, as if pretending to pray. I didn't know what to do with them. What to do with any of me. The last time I'd been in this church, I was in a powder baby pink dress with matching ribbons in my braids, fidgeting through a cousin's wedding, half-listening to the vows while dreaming about Manhattan lofts and color palettes and wall textures.
Not...this.
I stared at the closed mahogany casket, half-expecting my grandfather to sit up and tell us this had all been some elaborate joke. A test. Some kind of twisted lesson. But the stillness stayed. My mother's quiet sobs beside me sounded louder than anything else in the room. Every shaky inhale. Every tissue dab against her temple. The grief wrapped around her like a second skin, and for a moment, I almost envied it.
«At least she felt something.»
I wish I could say I missed him. That we were close. But the truth is, my grandfather was a distant memory of holidays and the smell of tobacco. He was stern. Traditional. Always reminding me that girls who played with paint samples instead of baby dolls were bound to disappoint someone. Especially fathers. Or husbands. Or both.
So, no. I didn't cry. Not for him.
Still, I sat straight. Poised. Practiced. I offered a soft, neutral smile to every mourner who came to speak to my mother and then, inevitably, turned to me with some variation of: "You're all grown up now, Dahlia." Or "He loved you, you know." Or "He'd be proud."
I thanked them. I nodded. Not only that, but I made my voice sound soft, the way people expect it to sound in grief. I was performing mourning. Pretending it still lived inside my chest.
And then... I saw her.
"Sarah?"
The name slipped from my lips before my brain even caught up. Sarah Miller, now twelve and tall for her age, ran up and wrapped her arms around me like we hadn't skipped seven years of birthdays and summers. Her brown curls still bounced the same, and her freckles were scattered across her nose like constellations.
"You came back," she whispered against my coat, her voice muffled.
I hugged her back without hesitation, arms tightening instinctively. "Of course I did, sweet pea."
She pulled away and grinned. "Dad's here too."
I froze. Before I could even react, a shadow moved beside us. And then, he was there.
Joel Miller.
He was older, obviously. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped close to his head now, a little more gray around the temples than I remembered. But his jaw was still sharp, his eyes still impossibly steady—dark, unreadable, like the surface of a quiet lake just before a storm. He said a few words to my mother first. The usual condolences, his voice low and respectful. The kind of voice people automatically lean into, drawn by something calm and strong and solid.
When his eyes turned to me, he paused.
Our gazes held for just a moment too long. And then he reached out—no hug, no awkward pat on the shoulder, just a firm handshake. One hand around mine, warm and rough from years of work. The kind of hands that could build things. Break things.
"Dahlia," he said, nodding once. "I'm sorry for your loss."
His palm was calloused. I could feel it even through the short squeeze. I could also smell the faint trace of something—cologne? Aftershave? Woodsy, clean, masculine.
I blinked.
«Since when did Joel Miller smell good?»
I used to think of him as my parents' boring, responsible friend. The man who always wore flannel and had sawdust in his beard. The guy who brought over deer jerky at Christmas and taught Sarah how to fish. But now... standing there in a black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, broad shoulders stretching the fabric just enough to be distracting—he didn't look boring anymore. He looked... dangerous. And I hated that my stomach twisted at that thought.
"Thank you," I murmured, forcing my voice to stay level.
He nodded again, then turned to usher Sarah back to their pew. I watched them walk away. Watched how Sarah held his hand, carefree and trusting, as if unaware that he had just stolen the air from my lungs for a full ten seconds. And then I hated myself for watching at all.
It was a funeral, for God's sake.
But the truth was—Wyoming hadn't changed much.
Joel Miller had.
And I was suddenly, stupidly, achingly aware of just how long I'd been gone...
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It was some sort of unspoken rule in this town. After you buried someone, you fed the entire community. Like grief wasn't messy and personal—like it needed to be served with mashed potatoes and cornbread. I never understood that tradition.
If I'd just lost someone I loved deeply, the last thing I'd want was to entertain people in my living room. But here we were. The Johnsons' farmhouse—the house where I was born, the one that still smelled like old wood and lemon floor cleaner—was packed with people who all suddenly remembered how much they "loved my grandfather."
I'd spent the last hour glued to my parents, more like an accessory than a daughter. Nodding, smiling politely while they chatted with old friends about memories I didn't share. Stories I wasn't part of. Faces that blurred together into one long stream of small talk and sympathy. I needed air. Or silence. Or maybe just a break from pretending.
"Excuse me," I murmured to no one in particular. "I think I'm getting a headache."
It wasn't a lie exactly. The pounding behind my eyes might've been real. It just didn't come from grief—it came from forced niceties and the weight of small-town expectations pressing into my chest. I slipped away toward the staircase, where the shadows were quieter, the hum of conversation fading behind me like a distant hive. I hadn't even unpacked since arriving from New York—just dropped my suitcase in my old bedroom like I was fifteen again, home for spring break.
My hand had just reached the banister when I heard it.
"Dahlia."
I turned on my heel—and there they were. Sarah and Joel Miller, standing by the foyer. She looked sweet in a navy dress, too grown-up for how young she still was. And him? Still in that damn black button-down. Sleeves pushed up. Hair a little messy. He looked like the kind of man you saw in commercials for rugged trucks and strong coffee.
«He looked... too good for a funeral.»
"Hey," I said, clearing my throat. "Everything okay?"
Joel gave a small nod. "Yeah. We were just heading out. Didn't want to overstay."
"Overstay?" I blinked. "Mister Miller, you helped build this porch. You can't overstay."
His mouth twitched at the corner, like I'd surprised him. It wasn't quite a smile. But it was something.
"You should probably go say goodbye to my parents," I added. "They're in the kitchen, still talking someone's ear off. I think it's the Williams."
Sarah groaned, already rolling her eyes.
I grinned. "Yeah. They're deep in adult talk mode—cattle prices, neighbor drama, probably an argument over whether the pie at Kayla's Café has too much sugar."
"Definitely has too much sugar," Sarah whispered.
I laughed, and she laughed with me. There it was—the warmth I hadn't felt all day. Something easy. Familiar.
"Can I stay up with Dahlia while you say goodbye?" Sarah asked, turning to Joel with hopeful eyes.
He hesitated. His gaze flicked to me, scanning, like he was silently measuring whether I was still the girl who used to babysit his daughter and draw animals on her lunch napkins... or someone else now. I met his stare head-on, heart steady.
"She'll be fine with me," I said. "I was just heading up to finish unpacking. Sarah can help me avoid a total clothing avalanche."
Another pause. Another quiet scan. Then finally, he exhaled through his nose, one long breath. "Okay. Ten minutes."
Sarah squealed before he could change his mind and grabbed my hand. "Let's go!"
And just like that, we vanished up the stairs.
I caught Joel's eyes one last time before disappearing around the corner. He stood there at the base of the staircase, arms folded across his chest, head tilted slightly like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. He looked like he wanted to say something.
He didn't.
Instead, I led Sarah down the hallway to the bedroom I hadn't seen in years.
A room that still held echoes of the girl I used to be.
Sarah flopped onto my old bed like it belonged to her, kicking off her flats and pulling her knees to her chest. I stood in the middle of the room, suddenly unsure where to begin. The suitcase sat in the corner, half-unzipped, with sweaters spilling out like tired secrets. I hadn't touched it since I dropped it there three hours ago, too distracted by arrangements and condolences and memories I didn't want.
"Your room looks smaller than I remember," Sarah said, glancing around. "Or maybe you just look taller."
I smirked. "Probably both."
The moment you stepped into my childhood bedroom, it felt like walking into a dream that had paused mid-breath—delicate, untouched, and waiting for someone to remember it. Cream-colored curtains cascaded from the ceiling like a canopy, draping softly around the wooden headboard of the bed, giving the whole space a vintage, storybook feel. The bed itself was an unmade cloud of blush-pink sheets, their soft wrinkles and faded floral flecks whispering of rest, of heat, of limbs once tangled beneath them. It smelled faintly of linen and lavender—the scent of girlhood.
To the right, in the far corner, stood the mirror. A full-length piece with a gilded baroque frame, aged just enough to give it charm without losing elegance. The gold leaf detailing curled around the corners like ivy, catching the light from the antique wall sconce above the bed. I used to twirl in front of that mirror in ballet costumes and summer dresses. Near the window sat my old vanity. A delicate wooden piece with curved legs and little crystal knobs, feminine and slightly chipped with time. It still held the chaos of me: open compacts, lipsticks in a spectrum of nudes and berries, perfume bottles half-used, and serums and creams in carefully curated jars. A small lamp with a lace shade lit the surface warmly, illuminating a tiny dish where I tossed my rings at night. It was the one corner of the room that still looked like mine.
The large window just beside it opened to a narrow balcony, its wrought iron railings weathered by snow and sun. From there, I could see the rolling acres of the farm—fences stretched like stitched seams across the land, horses grazing lazily in the pasture, and beyond that, the silhouette of the barn, quiet and familiar. The wind sometimes carried the scent of hay and pine into my room, curling through the space like a memory that refused to leave.
To the left, a small walk-in closet stood half-open, revealing an archive of my old life—lace camisoles, neutral-toned cardigans, soft satin slips, and vintage-inspired dresses, all in shades of ivory, beige, muted rose, and dusty sage. A girl's closet, maybe. Or a woman still unsure how much of that girl she wanted to keep.
And beneath the bed, just barely tucked out of sight, was the pink trunk. Inside—scattered Polaroids, old friendship bracelets, concert tickets, and letters I never had the courage to send. Proof that I had once lived fully in this space, dreamed out loud, and believed in things like forever.
Now, sitting at the edge of the bed, watching the curtains sway slightly in the evening breeze, I couldn't help but feel like the room had been waiting for me.
Not the version I became in New York.
But the one who still knew how to feel everything all at once.
Sarah's fingers toyed with the tassels on a throw pillow. "Do you miss New York?"
"All the time," I said, sitting beside her. "But sometimes I miss quiet, too. Until it gets too quiet."
"Like here?"
"Exactly like here."
We both laughed softly, but then the silence settled back in—gentler this time. Not awkward. Just... real. I reached for the zipper on my suitcase and started folding some of the clothes I'd abandoned hours ago. Mostly neutrals. Blacks, creams, and taupes. Everything carefully selected to blend in with city life.
"Hey, remember when you used to let me try on your lipstick?" Sarah asked suddenly, crawling closer.
I glanced at her with a grin. "You mean the bright pink one that made you look like you'd eaten too many strawberries?"
"That one!" she giggled. "I used to think you were so cool. Still do, kinda."
Kinda. My smile slipped into something softer.
"I thought I was so grown-up back then," I said. "Turns out I was mostly just pretending."
She tilted her head. "You still pretend?"
I paused. "Sometimes. But I'm better at hiding it now."
She hummed like she understood more than a twelve-year-old should, and then got distracted trying to refold one of my sweaters like a perfect square.
"I can't believe your dad let you stay up here with me," I said, casually.
Sarah smirked. "He trusts you."
"He shouldn't," I teased. "I might put you to work. This suitcase isn't going to unpack itself."
She rolled her eyes, then leaned her head against my shoulder. "You smell like vanilla and coffee."
"That's because I spill lattes on myself regularly."
"No, it's nice," she murmured.
Something about the moment—about being seen as safe, familiar—tugged at a part of me I'd been keeping under lock since I landed here. A part that remembered who I was before New York. Before ambition. Before distance and silence and men who only looked at me in the dark.
And then—
A soft knock on the doorframe.
I turned sharply, and there he was. Joel.
Leaning one hand against the wood, his other resting at his hip. The dim hallway light caught just enough of his features to make him look more like a painting than a man. There was something careful in his posture, like he wasn't sure if he should be here—or like he already knew he shouldn't be but came anyway.
"Sorry," he said, voice low. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Just... didn't want to leave without saying goodbye."
Sarah jumped to her feet. "We were just unpacking."
He nodded once. "Good."
And then his eyes found mine. We didn't say anything. Didn't have to. Not when the air had shifted—again. Not when his gaze lingered just a second too long on the curve of my cheek or the sweater slipping off my shoulder. Not when my breath stilled in my chest like it didn't know what to do with itself anymore.
"We'll be out in a minute," I said finally, my voice soft, a little hoarse.
Joel gave the smallest nod but didn't move.
Not right away.
Instead, he looked at Sarah, then back at me. "I am glad you still get along well."
Then he turned. Walked down the hall with the slow, steady steps of someone who left pieces of himself behind without meaning to. And when he was gone, Sarah looked up at me with a mischievous smile.
"Why did that feel... weird?"
I swallowed.
Because it was.
"Because I think your dad just told me that he likes me enough to leave you in my care," I said quietly. "And I don't know what it meant yet."