Page 171 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

Home.

This wasn’t the life I thought I’d end up with.

It was better.

She stayed with me in the workshop a while longer, asking questions about the wood, the tools, what each detail meant. I didn’t talk much, but I answered every one.

Riley had a way of asking as if she already loved the answer. She could see the meaning even when I didn’t have the words for it.

Later that night, after she fell asleep curled against my chest on the couch, I found myself standing in the doorway of the room we’d built for her.

Her space.

Her sanctuary.

It was Asher’s idea, surprisingly. He’d said if we were going to ask Riley to make a home here, she needed a piece of it that was all her own.

Not something borrowed or wedged into a corner. Something made with intention.

So we did what we always do.

We built it.

Garrett handled the bones, walls, insulation, windows with views of the woods. Asher installed the lighting, the shelves, the little soundproofing panels so she could record without picking up every dog bark or chainsaw from the yard.

Me?

I made her a desk. Real oak. Wide enough for her camera setup and all the little things that made her space hers. I carved a tiny mountain fox at the edge, just like the ones on the cribs.

And shelovedit.

Riley didn’t post like she used to. It wasn’t about brands or metrics or aesthetics anymore. No more rented kitchens or filtered perfection.

These days, it was videos of her and Sadie hosting bake sales. Stories about the local kids painting murals at the community center.

Little clips of Garrett at the lumberyard, me carving ornaments, Asher making hot toddies on the porch, and pretending not to care how many people saved the recipe.

She called itLife in Medford.

And people watched.

Not millions, maybe not even hundreds of thousands. But enough. The right ones. The ones who showed up in the comments asking where they could stay when they visited.

The ones donating to Sadie’s causes. The ones booking cabins, walking through town with stars in their eyes, like they were hoping to catch a glimpse of Riley Brooks in flannel holding a pie.

Tourism ticked up.

Businesses started doing better. The town had a new mural, a new walking trail, and even a new café in the works.

All because Riley had stopped chasing influence and startedliving.

She was happy.

Not the performative kind, not the smile-for-the-camera, brand-deal-glow kind of happy. This was deeper. Rooted.

And when she looked at us, Garrett, Asher, me, she didn’t see mistakes or maybe-nots.

She saw home.

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