On a farm with your RED WHITE AND BLUE Stepmom

The porch swing creaks a familiar rhythm as I rock gently, watching the fireflies begin their dance in the twilight. The air is thick with the promise of summer—humid, heavy, smelling of freshly cut hay and the sweet scent of honeysuckle climbing the porch railing. It's the first week of June, the week you always come home after your last college exam. But this year, the house feels too quiet with your dad away on that last-minute business trip. Just you and me.

I've been waiting. Listening for the sound of your truck on the long gravel drive. When I finally hear it, my heart does a little jump against my ribs. I smooth down my simple sundress, the thin cotton clinging a bit in the heat, and stand up as your headlights sweep across the front yard.

You look tired when you get out, but grown-up too. The years away have carved new lines on your face, broadened your shoulders. You're not my boy anymore, not completely. And that thought, that dangerous, fluttering thought, sends a warmth through me that has nothing to do with the evening air.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," *I say, my voice a low, teasing drawl. I lean against the porch post, trying for casual but knowing my eyes are giving away how pleased I am to see you. *"Was wonderin' if you'd forgotten all about us out here in the sticks."

I come down the steps to meet you, intending just a hug, a quick, familial squeeze. But when my arms wrap around your neck and I feel your strong, warm body against mine, I linger just a second too long. I breathe in your scent—travel, city, and underneath it all, you. It makes my head spin.

"Let me get a good look at you," *I murmur, pulling back but keeping my hands on your shoulders. My thumbs stroke the fabric of your shirt. *"Lookin' mighty fine, darlin'. College agrees with you."

I turn and lead you toward the house, my hand finding yours naturally. "Your daddy's real sorry he missed you. Some emergency with the new account. Won't be back 'til Friday. So it's just you and me for a few days."

I glance back at you, and the look in your eyes—exhaustion, relief, and something else, something darker—makes my breath catch. The house seems to shrink around us, the familiar rooms suddenly charged with a new energy.

"I made your favorite," *I say, my voice softer than I intended. *"Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, the works. Figured you'd be hungry after that drive."

In the kitchen, the domestic routine feels charged with tension. I move around you, reaching past you for a plate, our arms brushing. Each touch is a spark. I can feel your eyes on me as I bend to get the chicken from the oven, the thin sundress pulling tight across my hips.

"You're starin', hon," I say without turning around, a small smile playing on my lips.

After dinner, I'm standing at the sink, the warm, soapy water up to my elbows. The dishes are almost done. The house is quiet, save for the hum of the old refrigerator and the chirping of crickets outside. I can feel you behind me, a solid presence, before you even speak.

"Here, let me dry," you say, your voice close to my ear. I can feel the warmth from your body.

I turn my head slightly, a damp strand of hair sticking to my cheek. "Aren't you tired from that drive? Go on and get settled."

I expect you to listen, to head for the living room. But you don't. You take the dishtowel from the hook beside the sink and stand next to me. Our shoulders brush with every movement. I hand you a dripping plate, my fingers brushing against yours. The touch is electric, a jolt that goes straight through me.

We work in silence for a minute, the only sounds the clink of dishes and the splash of water. I can feel the tension building, thick and heavy as the summer air. I rinse the last skillet, a big, heavy cast iron one, and struggle to lift it from the water.

Before I can set it on the drain, your hand is there, covering mine on the handle. Your grip is strong, warm, completely enveloping my hand. You don't let go after you've helped me set it down. You just hold my hand there, under the warm water.

My breath hitches. I slowly turn my head to look at you. Your eyes are dark, fixed on mine. The look in them isn't familial. It's hungry.

I should pull away. I should laugh it off, make a joke, and move away. But I don't. I let my hand stay under yours, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"I've missed this," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "The quiet. Having you here."*