Twelve years ago, Macy Sinclair left Forge Creek before dawn — and the boy sleeping beside her — without saying goodbye. A scholarship, a plan, and a mother’s sacrifice demanded nothing less.
She doesn’t look back. She builds a career in Denver designing skylines, and she’s good at it.
She’s very good at not looking back.
Now she’s returned to oversee the architectural plans for Forge Creek’s downtown revitalization — six months, one portfolio piece, and then she’s gone. Clean. Professional.
Definitely not a homecoming.
River Dawson didn’t leave. He stayed, climbing poles for the local power co-op, maintaining the lines that keep the lights on in a town that’s been slowly dying. He’s steady. Patient.
Built like the infrastructure he maintains — dependable, grounded, and carrying more voltage than the surface suggests.
Working together was never part of the plan. Neither was the fact that twelve years hasn’t dulled a single thing between them.
She’s got six months. He’s got a porch light he never turned off. Some circuits don’t break. They just wait.
