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Intervention Two?
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2025-05-11 11:17:46
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Reclaiming Aria Signed, Sealed… Slightly Tipsy
It’s just past ten on a Saturday, and the air smells like sunshine and fresh bread. The little café off Willow Creek is tucked between a florist and a secondhand bookshop—white wrought-iron tables outside, tiny chalkboard menus, soft jazz spilling from the open doors. It’s warm, but not hot. The kind of morning that feels like it’s inviting you to stay. I’m already seated at a corner table, a flaky croissant in hand and my sunglasses slipping down my nose, when I spot Sloane strutting across the sidewalk like she owns the town in that black linen dress and those ridiculous heels she somehow makes look effortless. “God, I missed that smug little face of yours,” she says by way of hello, dropping her bag into the empty chair and immediately stealing a bite of my croissant. “You’re late,” I tease, handing her her own. “I’m fashionably frazzled. There’s a difference.” She waves for the waiter. “Two glasses of rosé, please. It’s past 9 a.m. and I’m emotionally unstable.” I snor
Reclaiming Aria Dust & Grace
Kades POV Sun’s high, heat thick and humming as I step out across the yard. Boots crunch gravel. Shirt still clings faintly to the sweat cooling on my back. My hair’s damp, curls stubborn at the edges—Aria’s fault. All of it. She’d kissed me on the porch, lips swollen, grinning like an angel in tight blue jeans and a soft white shirt. “Get to work, boss man,” she’d teased, handing me my coffee like I hadn’t just made her come twice and ruined my sheets. Then she’d headed off to the library like a damn angel. And me? I’m walking into the stables looking like I barely survived heaven. “Look what the cat dragged in!” Benny shouts from inside, leaning over a stack of feed bags with a shit-eating grin. “Afternoon, lover boy,” Tommy hollers from the loft above. I roll my eyes, lips twitching. “Y’all don’t got better things to do?” “Not when you stroll in looking like that,” Benny whistles, giving me the once-over. “That’s the strut of a man who didn’t even bother pretending
Reclaiming Aria Table Talk & Temptation
Aria – POV Elaine Calloway makes the best biscuits in the county—and I swear she knows it. The ranch kitchen smells like heaven: sausage, eggs, fresh coffee, and a little lemon cleaner that somehow makes the whole place feel like a memory. The sun’s pouring through the lace-trimmed curtains, and I’m curled in one of the mismatched chairs, barefoot and happy, wearing Kade’s old thermal like it belongs to me now. Which it kinda does. Kade sits beside me, hair still damp from his shower, mug in one hand, that slow, smug smirk barely tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s thinking things that absolutely shouldn’t be thought in front of his mother. Elaine eyes us over the rim of her cup. “So,” she starts, slow and loaded, “how many nights this week has our little house guest stayed over?” I snort into my coffee. Kade groans. Elaine grins. “Three? Four? Seven?” Kade raises his brows. “You keeping score now?” “I’m just saying, the house smells better. Less old boot and barn s
Reclaiming Aria Peaches & Paranoia
Aria – POV The air smells like cinnamon rolls, saddle leather, and fresh-cut hay. It’s barely 8 a.m. but the farmers market is already alive—stalls popping with color, people calling out greetings, toddlers tugging on parents’ hands while someone in the distance strums an out-of-tune guitar. It’s loud, chaotic, and perfect. Kade’s fingers are wrapped around mine, thumb brushing the back of my hand as we weave through the gravel paths between booths. His hat’s low over his brow, boots dusted from this morning’s chores, and that damn faded tee clings to his arms in a way that should be illegal. I’m in one of his flannels again—sleeves rolled up, the hem hitting just below my shorts—and I can feel the stares. We’re passing the Calloway Ranch stall, where two of the ranch hands are manning the table—burlap sacks of fertilizer stacked in neat rows, bundles of hay, raw wool, fence nails, and mason jars full of beeswax saddle balm. One of the boys holds up a jug of fresh milk, grin
Reclaiming Aria Prayers in Cotton and Dust
Aria – POV The door creaks open just as I settle onto the couch, my knees curled under me, one of Kade’s sweatshirts pulled over my legs like a blanket. I hear the weight of his boots against the wood, the low rustle of his jacket as he shrugs it off, and I swear—just the sound of him existing in this space unties something in my chest. He walks in from the barn, cheeks pink from the cold, hair a little wild from the wind. His jaw’s tight, brow furrowed—but when his eyes meet mine, it softens. Every time. He makes me feel like I’m not just wanted. I’m kept. “Ghost calm?” I ask, voice quiet under the hum of the fire. Kade nods, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Still tense. But he’s not pacing anymore.” He glances at the window once before crossing the room, sinking down beside me with a sigh like he’s finally able to breathe again. I watch him. The way his long fingers rake through his hair. The faint crease at the corner of his eyes. That heavy, protective presence that sett
Reclaiming Aria Between the Quiet and the Creak
We leave Hollows farmers Market with arms full of snacks and hearts full of smug satisfaction. Aria’s got a cherry ring pop in her mouth, the candy stick between her fingers, and I swear she’s doin’ it on purpose—dragging her tongue over the red crystal while lookin’ at me like she knows I’m one wrong look from pulling this truck off the road. “You keep lickin’ that like it owes you money, and I’m not makin’ it to the ranch,” I growl. She giggles. “Eyes on the road, Calloway.” “Eyes are on you, baby. Always fuckin’ you.” The sun’s settin’ low, bleeding gold across the two-lane blacktop as we rumble down the dirt path toward the house. Dust kicks up in our wake, soft music hummin’ low from the radio. It’s too damn perfect. We pull up to the ranch, headlights washing over the porch, and I get that twinge—barely there, a whisper in the back of my head. The fire crackles soft, casting long, warm shadows over the wood-paneled walls. One vanilla candle flickers on the end table,
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