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I'm back! Apologies for the short hiatus but I managed to break my wrist playing football 🫠 I ended up being in a cast for six weeks and I finally got it off this week, so I'm back in action with writing.
I tried SO HARD to write in between but since I'm right handed and broke my right wrist, everything was taking so long with one finger typing that I gave up. I even tried voice to text which made for some interesting conversations with my husband 🤣
Im sorry to have kept you all waiting. I can't wait for you all to read about the long weekend in Texas with Billie and Glen!
Chapter 24 will be up tonight, and the next few over next few days too! 😍
We're so close guys! Here's the full road trip - the best friend chaos of Billie and Sloane (and Nugget!). Buckle up, it's long haha. Thank you for all the love on this fic 🩵
Billie
They leave Palm Springs under a wash of mid-afternoon heat just before three — the kind that blurs the horizon and makes the air shimmer like glass. The buildings peel away behind them, palms giving way to open desert, the road unspooling into long, sun-baked stretches that feel endless and promising all at once.
Billie drives with both windows cracked, warm air rushing through the cab and catching her hair so it whips loose around her shoulders. The desert changes shape with every mile — pale sand bleeding into deeper rusts and oranges, jagged mountains rising in blue-grey silhouettes like old giants watching them pass.
Nugget sprawls across the backseat, limbs everywhere, drifting in and out of sleep with the occasional dramatic sigh like the journey is deeply taxing.
Sloane, meanwhile, has decided this is a concert.
They blast through an entire Coldplay playlist — not highlights, not favourites, the whole thing — and then circle straight back to the beginning like it’s a spiritual commitment. A Sky Full of Stars pours out into the desert air, Billie humming along while Sloane belts every chorus with reckless sincerity, one hand out the window like she’s blessing the land.
“This is my truth,” Sloane announces at top volume.
“You don’t even know the words!” Billie laughs.
“That has never stopped me before!”
When Coldplay finally ends, the descent into chaos is immediate.
The speakers explode with the opening beat of Everybody (Backstreet’s Back).
They absolutely lose it.
Billie screams the opening line like it’s a religious chant. Sloane is already standing half out of her seat, hair flipping dramatically, choreographing moves that haven’t been relevant since 2001. Billie pounds the steering wheel like a drum kit, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“AM I ORIGINAL?” Sloane shrieks.
“YEAHHHHH!” Billie yells back, nearly missing a sign.
Nugget lifts his head just in time to unleash a long, mournful howl as Bye Bye Bye kicks in next — perfectly timed, completely unintentional — and they collapse.
“Oh my God,” Billie gasps, wheezing. “He’s harmonising.”
“He’s featured,” Sloane sobs.
They tear through the best boy-band hits of their childhoods — Backstreet Boys, *NSYNC, Hanson, Britney sneaking in because rules are fake — voices cracking, laughing, screaming lyrics out of order, joy vibrating through the cab like static.
Outside, the desert blurs into something cinematic — soft orange mountains melting into shadow, the sky stretching wider and wider, endless and forgiving. Sloane leans halfway out the window to film the scenery for her stories, narrating loudly over the wind.
“DESERT! ROAD! FRIENDSHIP! DOG!”
Bec messages constantly — reactions, unhinged voice notes of her laughing, demands for Nugget content.
Sloane delivers like it’s a public service.
By the time they roll into Phoenix, the afternoon has softened into a warm apricot glow.
They pull into a roadside café, grab a quick dinner to go, and Billie ducks into the bathroom to splash cool water on her face, grounding herself in the mirror for half a second.
When they return to the truck, she fills the tank. Red Arizona dust clings to everything. She scrolls, chooses the photo from the border — sky blazing behind them, Sloane mid-pose, Nugget front and center — and uploads it.
She doesn’t check anything after hitting post.
Her stomach flips too easily when she thinks about who might’ve seen it.
At 7:45 p.m., a can of Red Bull cracks open, fizz sharp in the cooling air.
They point the truck toward Tucson.
Night is creeping in.
Music is still loud.
The thirteen and a half remaining hours suddenly feeling possible as they drive.
---
The stretch from Phoenix to Tucson melts into night.
The highway hums beneath the tyres, steady and hypnotic, the desert on either side reduced to dark silhouettes and the occasional flash of scrub caught in the headlights. The air cools quickly once the sun disappears, slipping in through the cracked windows and raising goosebumps along Billie’s forearms.
Inside the cab, the chaos softens.
The music drops lower — still playing, but gentler now — and the road settles into something almost meditative. Nugget lifts his head once, reassesses the darkness, then resettles with a long, content sigh.
By the time the Tucson lights bloom ahead of them, Billie’s eyes burn just slightly.
She yawns — wide, unguarded — and immediately groans.
“Oh no.”
Sloane glances over. “Don’t you dare.”
Billie blinks a few times, blinking harder than necessary. “I’m fine.”
“You just yawned like you've been awake for three straight business days."
“I did not.”
“Your face strongly disagrees babe. We’re stopping when we hit the next city.”
They roll into Tucson just after 9:15 p.m., the city lights spilling out into the desert like embers. Billie pulls off the highway into a rest stop — not busy, just enough light to feel safe, the air cooler here, quieter.
She cuts the engine.
The silence lands.
Nugget is instantly awake, tail thudding once. Twice. He whines pointedly.
“Yes,” Billie laughs, unbuckling. “I hear you.”
They stretch under buzzing lights — arms overhead, backs cracking, bodies readjusting to standing upright. Nugget bounds in a loose circle on his lead, nose down, thrilled by the smells of a place that exists purely for him.
Sloane returns with an armful of chaos: two energy drinks, a ridiculously large bag of sour gummy candy, two bags of chicken flavoured chips and a pair of cactus shaped sunglasses.
“Really?” Billie asks, eyeing the glasses.
“Road trip morale,” Sloane says proudly. “Very Western, very Texas.”
They take another obligatory photo — Billie leaning against the truck, Sloane with the glasses, Tucson sign glowing behind them, Nugget sitting obediently at her feet like he understands branding. Another post. Another timestamp. Another breadcrumb along the map.
They climb back into the car - Sloane at the wheel this time because Billie is definitely due for a nap and Sloane is only just reaching peak Sloane chaos. Sloane adjusts the mirrors with exaggerated seriousness and slides her fresh red bull into the cup holder like it’s sacred.
“Alright,” she says, settling in and turning to Billie, “Shotgun DJ?”
Billie sinks into the passenger seat, relief immediate and undeniable. She sighs, lips tugging into a soft smile. “Absolutely. But no complaining about my music choices.”
"No promises."
Billie pulls out her phone and presses play on a Rufus Du Sol playlist, smiling when it makes her immediately think of the first time she met Glen. As they merge back onto the highway, a message pops up on her phone.
Glen:
Hey, peach. Just checkin’ in. Where are you now?
Her chest warms.
Billie:
Just left Tucson.
Sloane’s driving now — I’ve been officially demoted to passenger princess.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Glen:
Good.
You’ve been pushin’ hard all week — don’t need you drivin’ tired on top of that.
You drinkin’ water?
She smiles to herself.
Billie:
Yes, Dad.
Glen:
Don’t get cute with me, darlin’.
Another message follows.
Glen:
Some of the weekend crew already rolled in.
Dinner was… loud.
A lotta hugging. A lotta yelling.
Aunt Honey cried over a casserole.
Brisket’s been fed like five times — they think I can’t see ’em sneakin’ him food under the table.
Her heart flutters at the ordinariness of it. The family. The chaos. His world.
Billie:
That sounds perfect.
A pause.
Then—
Glen:
Also Gwen wants to know if you like horses.
And if Nugget will be allowed to sleep on the bed.
I told her yes to both, but she wants confirmation from you.
Billie presses her lips together, smiling too hard.
Billie:
Tell Gwen yes — chestnut ponies are my favourite.
And Nugget sleeps wherever Nugget wants.
A photo comes through then — a child’s drawing of a horse in wild rainbow crayon colours, a very large golden dog beside it.
Her throat warms unexpectedly.
Glen:
She worked real hard on that.
Says it’s you ridin’ with Nugget.
Another beat.
Glen:
Also just asked if you’ll braid her hair when you get here.
Her heart tips.
Billie:
I’d love that.
Tell her I can't wait to meet her.
The reply comes gently.
Glen:
She smiled real big at that.
So did I.
Sloane glances over, instantly clocking the expression on Billie’s face.
“He being sweet?”
Billie exhales, soft and helpless. She doesn’t even try to deny it. “Painfully.”
Sloane reaches for her own phone without looking, snaps a photo of herself in the driver’s seat — one hand on the wheel, tongue out, night road stretching ahead — and uploads it instantly, tagging Billie.
Sloane Spencer’s time to shine ✨
Taking the wheel so Billie can text her cowboy 🚗🤠
Billie rolls her eyes and laughs. “You’re insufferable Slo.”
“You’re welcome,” Sloane says sweetly, winking one pale blue eye wickedly.
Another message buzzes.
Glen:
Tell Sloane thanks for takin’ care of you.
And tell her if she posts something else while she’s driving I will personally lecture her when she gets here.
Billie laughs out loud.
Billie:
She says she fears nothing.
Glen:
That checks out.
Then, softer:
Glen:
Get some rest if you can, alright?
I’ll be right here, peach. Waitin' for you.
Billie:
💙
Billie smiles and locks the phone, tucks it into her lap, and leans her head back against the seat.
Outside, the desert rushes past — darkness and stars, wide and endless. Inside the truck, the hum of tyres and music wraps around her like a cocoon.
She closes her eyes — just for a moment — heart light, body safe, the road unfolding ahead of them.
And for the first time in a long while, Billie lets herself rest while the world keeps moving.
---
The temperature drops without warning.
One minute the cab is warm from the day’s heat, the next there’s a cool edge slipping in through the cracks. Billie reaches for her hoodie in the backseat, tugging it over her head and pulling the sleeves down over her hands. The fabric is soft, familiar — grounding.
Outside, the night has fully claimed the desert.
The road stretches endlessly ahead, a pale ribbon unfurling beneath the headlights. On either side, the land disappears into shadow, vast and unmarked. Above them, the sky feels impossibly high — black velvet scattered with stars, so many it almost feels crowded. No city glow. No haze. Just space. Endless and ancient and quietly breathtaking.
The music has slowed too.
Sam Smith hums low through the speakers, followed by Chris Stapleton, then Ed Sheeran — songs that don’t push, don’t demand, just exist. Billie lets the rhythm wash over her, sinking deeper into the seat, the steady hum of the tyres syncing with her breathing.
She glances sideways.
Sloane.
One hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the window, eyes sharp and calm. There’s something quietly impressive about the way she holds the road — relaxed, alert, unshakeable. Billie watches her for a moment, affection blooming warm and deep for her best friend.
She wonders if this is what Sloane looks like on night shifts — lights flashing, lives hanging in the balance — steady where others might unravel. The kind of person you’d trust without question. Calm in the middle of chaos.
Her phone buzzes softly in her lap then, and she looks down at the screen.
Glen:
You alright over there, peach?
Her chest warms.
Billie:
Yeah.
Hoodie on. Music’s slow.
Night’s kind of unreal out here. Wish you could see this sky.
A pause.
Glen:
I’m picturin’ it.
Wish I was ridin’ shotgun with you.
Before she can reply, Sloane eases off the accelerator.
“Billie, babe,” she says quietly. “There it is.”
The Entering New Mexico sign rises out of the dark, reflective letters glowing faintly beneath the stars.
They pull over.
The engine ticks softly as it cools. The night air hits the moment Billie steps out — cold, clean, startling after the warmth of the cab. She pulls her hoodie tighter, breath puffing faintly as she looks up.
The sky steals what little breath she has left.
Thousands of stars, layered and bright, stretching forever in every direction. The kind of sky that makes you feel small in the best way. Billie cranes her head back, breath leaving her in a quiet exhale. It reminds her of home in Jervis Bay and for a moment she just stares.
They take photos because Sloane insists they must — Billie smiling beneath the sign, Sloane throwing an arm around her as they both grin, then both of them holding Nugget like a giant baby, his tongue lolling happily like he knows this matters.
Back in the truck, Billie snaps a sleepy selfie — hair loose, glasses on, hoodie framing her face, stars like a billion diamonds bright through the window behind her. Her smile is soft and tired. Not effort. Just honest.
She sends it to Glen.
The reply comes slower this time.
Glen:
Sweetheart… you look soft under that sky. I wish I was seeing it with you.
Then another.
Glen:
House finally went quiet.
Everyone’s asleep.
Just me and Brisket now.
A photo comes through of exactly that— Glen sprawled on the couch with Brisket tucked behind his head. His hair is tucked under a backwards cap, a soft, lazy smile on his lips that she loves.
Her chest tightens at the image.
Glen:
I keep thinkin’ how you’d feel here.
I’d tuck you in close so it was just us and let the world stay quiet for a while.
Billie exhales slowly, smile soft and helpless.
Billie:
Soon, handsome.
You should sleep too.
Three dots. Stop. Start again.
Glen:
I’m tryin’ to stay awake for you.
Feels wrong not knowin’ you’re settled.
She smiles — tender, steady.
Billie:
Hey.
I’m safe. Sloane’s got me.
I promise.
You don’t have to hold the night for me.
A pause stretches — gentle, thoughtful.
Glen:
Alright peach.
You win.
Then, quieter—
Glen:
Wish I was there anyway.
Would’ve kissed your hair till you fell asleep.
Her throat tightens.
Billie:
That sounds perfect.
Another pause.
Glen:
Alright sweetheart I'm turnin' in.
Phone’ll be on loud.
If you need me, I’m there.
Then—
Glen:
💙
The blue heart sits quietly on her screen — steady, sure, enough.
Billie smiles, something soft loosening in her chest. She locks the phone and tucks it away, settling back into her seat as the car eases onto the highway again.
The music hums. The stars stretch on forever. Sloane drives, steady and sure, the desert rolling out beneath the night.
Billie glances once more at the sky, heart full and tender and a little terrified in the best way.
And somewhere between one slow song fading into the next, with Nugget’s warm breath brushing her arm on the center console and the road carrying her forward, Billie lets her eyes close — drifting into sleep under a sky that feels like it’s watching over her.
---
Billie startles awake to a sharp little woof.
Her heart jumps before her brain catches up.
“Nug—” she breathes, looking over her shoulder into the backseat.
Nugget’s paws twitch in his sleep, tail thumping once against the seat like he’s chasing something glorious and just out of reach. He lets out a soft, offended huff and settles again, nose burrowing into the blanket.
Billie exhales, the adrenaline ebbing, and reaches into the backseat on instinct. Her fingers find warm fur.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You got ’em.”
Nugget sighs deeply — dramatic, satisfied — and goes still.
Up front, Sloane laughs under her breath. Not loud. Just fond.
“Puppy dreams,” she says. “Main character behaviour. Just like his mum.”
Billie lets out a laugh and rubs her eyes, blinking the road back into shape. Everything feels slower now — softened at the edges. The clock on the dash glows 1:47 a.m.
La Cruces.
They pull in for a quick pit stop at a service station — fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the night air cool and oddly still. Billie moves on autopilot, hoodie tugged tight around her, hands disappearing into the sleeves. The world feels hushed at this hour, like it’s agreed to leave them alone.
Back in the truck, Sloane eases onto the highway again, smooth and unhurried. Soft music continues drifting in the cab, slow, soft rhythm lulling Billie as they drive. She doesn't know how long they drive for, hovering somewhere between awake and asleep when Sloane's voice alerts her.
“Alright,” she says gently, reaching over to nudge Billie with her hand, “Heads up, sleepy.”
Billie squints ahead, eyes adjusting.
The sign rises out of the dark — reflective letters catching the headlights.
Welcome to Texas.
Something flips in her stomach.
“Oh,” she breathes.
They're in Texas. They're actually here.
Sloane smiles, soft and satisfied. “Told you I’d wake you.”
They pull over once more at the sign— brief, ceremonial, Nugget stretching his legs long when he jumps out of the car. Both of the girls are in hoodies now, their breath faint in the cool air. Billie looks half-asleep in the photo, eyes soft and unfocused behind her glasses, hair loose and mussed from the headrest. Sloane, somehow, looks bright — cheeks pink from the cold, eyes alive, like two in the morning is her natural habitat.
Nugget sits between them, patient and proud, tail sweeping the dirt.
Another photo. Another marker. Another promise kept to Bec. Another instagram upload documenting their road trip.
El Paso, Texas.
Back in the car, the engine hums low as they merge onto the road. A Luke Combs song slides onto the speakers — slow, familiar, that easy country drawl wrapping around the cab, singing about long roads and quiet nights and the kind of days you don’t forget.
It makes her think of Glen instantly — of the Smash Kitchen date, the way she sang in the car and then later, them dancing on the terrace like the world wasn’t watching. Like it was just them.
She exhales deeply, smiles.
Billie’s eyelids grow heavy again.
She shifts, folding her feet beneath her, leaning back. Nugget lifts his head and settles it on the center console, eyes half-lidded. Billie leans over, pressing her cheek into his fur and wrapping her arms around him, breathing him in — warm, grounding, home.
As she starts to drift, Sloane speaks. Not joking. Not loud. Just… there.
"Bills?"
"Mmm?" Billie mumbles back, eyes closed, fingers tangled in golden fur.
“You okay?” she asks softly. “Like — really okay? Tell me how your head's doing, babe.”
Billie blinks, and stares out at the dark for a moment, watching the road unfurl endlessly ahead. The sky above stretches endless, a billion stars bright and beautiful above.
“I think so,” she says. Then, quieter, more honest. “But I’m scared.”
Sloane nods, like she’s been expecting that answer for a while.
“Good.”
Billie opens one eye - hazy with sleep, frowning slightly. “Good?”
“Yeah,” Sloane says, voice calm, sure. “If you weren’t scared, it wouldn’t be real. Fear means you’ve found something worth losing.”
The words land — gentle but heavy.
Sometimes Billie forgets that beneath the chaos, the sarcasm, the relentless sparkle of Sloane’s energy, there is a steadiness. A sharpness. The kind of woman who moves toward emergencies while everyone else hesitates. The girl who grinned at her on their first day at Camp America — two newly transplanted girls, one Brit, one Aussie — and chose her instantly. The one who talked her down from the edge of panic and held her close when it felt like her world was quietly unraveling.
“You love him,” Sloane says quietly.
Billie doesn’t answer right away. The song rolls on, guitar steady and warm. She watches the road, the stars slipping past the windshield like they’re keeping pace.
She cuddles closer to Nugget, fingers threading into his fur.
“I—” She stops. Breathes in. Breathes out. “I don’t know if I’m at love yet. But whatever this is…”
Her throat tightens.
“It feels big. Really big.”
Sloane reaches over without looking, her hand finding Billie’s hair. She strokes it slowly, the way she used to when Billie couldn’t sleep after everything ended with Ben.
“Billie,” she says softly, “you light up when you talk about him. Even when you’re spiralling, it’s different. You don’t shut down. You don’t bolt. You don’t make jokes to deflect.”
Billie lets out a weak laugh. “Wow. Attack me next time.”
Sloane smiles — small, knowing. “You know I’m right babe.”
Billie doesn’t say anything for a moment, just reaches over and finds Sloane's hand, lacing their fingers together. Squeezes once. Feeling her heart warm in the way that only a best friend’s love would do.
“Yeah,” she admits, quietly. “You are.”
They drive in silence for a while — the good kind. The kind built on years of shared apartments and borrowed clothes and inside jokes and showing up without being asked.
Then Sloane adds, quieter still, like she doesn’t want to spook the moment.
“He’s good for you. And you’re good for him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” She pauses, searching. “Like you’re… I don’t know. Like you’re a sunrise.”
Billie’s throat tightens hard.
“That’s exactly how he makes me feel,” she whispers.
Luke Combs keeps singing. The road keeps rolling. Billie holds Sloane’s hand, curls closer to Nugget, and lets the night hold her.
And somewhere just past the Texas line, wrapped in music and friendship and the steady weight of a golden head against her arm, Billie drifts back to sleep — heart full, unguarded, and quietly certain she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.
---
The road out of El Paso stretches long and dark, the kind of darkness that feels almost hollow — endless asphalt, the faint glow of reflective signs sliding past like quiet sentinels. Billie blinks awake slowly, eyes heavy, body humming with that strange wired-tired sensation that only comes in the middle of the night.
Sloane, impossibly, is still humming.
Not loud. Just under her breath — tuneless, half-asleep, the ghost of a melody drifting through the cab.
Billie smiles to herself, then yawns, wide and unguarded, her jaw clicking slightly as she shakes her head and refocuses on the road.
Pecos creeps up on them just after five-thirty. A scattering of lights, a petrol station glowing like a mirage. They pull in, the truck crunching over gravel, the smell of fuel sharp in the cool pre-dawn air.
Billie fills the tank while Sloane stretches like a cat, hoodie dragged on, dark hair a mess. Nugget wakes long enough to demand freedom, tail wagging as he hops out to investigate the world with deep seriousness.
The diner next door is open — 24 HOURS flickering bravely in the window — and they don’t even discuss it.
Inside, the coffee is objectively terrible. Thin. Burnt. But absolutely essential.
Billie cradles the mug in both hands like it might keep her upright through sheer will alone, blowing across the surface before taking a cautious sip. It does the job. Just.
Sloane drinks hers with zero complaint, because of course she does - she’s probably used to terrible diner coffee on night shifts. The waitress eyes them with a mix of pity and efficiency — probably wondering why two thirty-something women are stopping at a random diner in Pecos before six a.m. She slides four hash browns into a paper bag, then pauses, a soft smile breaking through as she tucks an extra strip of bacon inside for Nugget.
“For the road,” she says. “Y’all look like you’ve got a long one ahead of you.”
Billie and Sloane accept it gratefully, a little wearily, fully aware they likely look as rough as they feel.
Back in the truck, Billie slides into the driver’s seat and adjusts the mirrors, shoulders rolling as she settles in. Sloane curls sideways in the passenger seat, hoodie wrapped around her, feet tucked up. Within minutes, she’s asleep — cheek pressed into Billie’s elbow, breathing slow and even.
Nugget snores in the backseat, a low, ridiculous rumble that makes Billie bite back a smile.
She pulls back onto the highway and queues up a soft country playlist. Nothing loud. Just gentle guitars and low voices singing about dancing barefoot, open fields, horses, long roads that lead somewhere meaningful.
Her hands rest steady on the wheel.
Texas unfolds in front of her — long, empty stretches, the road lit only by her headlights and the faint suggestion of dawn beginning to stir. The stars start to thin, the black sky softening at the edges into deep blues and bruised purples.
At 5:43 a.m., her phone lights up quietly in the console.
A voice note.
From Glen.
Her breath catches — not sharply, just enough to notice.
She taps it, lowering the volume, and lets it play softly through the speakers.
His voice is low. Sleep-rough. All Texas warmth and morning gravel.
“Hey, sweetheart…”
A soft breath, right into the mic.
“I’m still in bed… can’t stop thinkin’ about you out there.”
A pause. She can hear him shift slightly.
“I keep seein’ you — all wrapped up, hands on the wheel, lookin’ a little sleepy.”
His voice drops, intimate, unguarded.
“Kinda wish I could pull you under the covers with me.”
Another breath. A smile she can hear.
“Drive safe, baby. I can't wait to see you.”
Billie’s chest tightens — that familiar, aching fullness — and she presses her lips together, blinking once as the road blurs for a second.
She doesn’t reply yet. Just lets his voice settle into her, warm and steady, like a hand at the small of her back.
The sun begins to rise properly then — gold bleeding into pink, the sky slowly catching fire. Billie glances sideways at it, at the vastness of it all, stars fading one by one as the world wakes up around her.
She keeps driving.
Her hands on the wheel.
Her heart full.
--
They pull into Big Spring just after 7am, exhausted, jittery, wired from caffeine and emotion.
A small café is just opening. They stumble inside.
Billie washes her face, freshens up, and changes into the spare outfit she packed - keeping her Levi cut offs, but swapping the tank for a loose white linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to look effortless and not too put together, and certainly not I've-been-driving-for-eighteen-hours. She drags a brush through her waves and sprays her peach perfume, smiling at herself in the bathroom mirror. When she steps out, Sloane grins.
“Oh my god. That man isn’t ready. No one is ready.”
They eat quickly and drink more coffee - infinitely better than the last place's bitter brew.
Nugget charms the waitress into giving him bacon and Billie smiles lovingly at him as he chews quickly.
Sloane snaps a quick photo - coffees held up, wired smiles, Nugget panting happily between them, posting their final leg of the journey to her story.
Back in the car, Sloane is reborn and driving again — caffeine finally hitting her bloodstream with divine force. She turns the volume dial with the reverence of a priest preparing a ritual.
“Alright, sweet cheeks,” she announces. “We are in Texas now. So the playlist must reflect the culture.”
Before Billie can ask what that means, Luke Bryan explodes through the speakers, singing about a country girl shaking it.
Sloane shrieks triumphantly.
“Oh YES. THIS is my origin story.”
The scenery outside shifts quickly — flat stretches of land that go on forever, broken by clusters of wildflowers and fields dotted with grazing cattle. Pastures roll beneath a huge, open sky, the sun rising in bright, burning streaks of gold.
Every few miles, enormous pickup trucks roar past them — Rams, Silverados, F-250s — all looking like they could tow a small moon.
Sloane narrates the passing vehicles with enthusiasm usually reserved for celebrity sightings.
“Oh my god, that truck could run over my entire apartment building.”
“That one’s got six wheels, Billie. SIX.”
“Do you think anyone in this state drives something smaller than a bus?”
“I really feel like I should be wearing a Stetson right now.”
She’s practically line dancing while seated, shimmying her shoulders, tapping her heels, doing tiny yeehaw-finger-guns at passing ranch signs.
Shania Twain comes on next, and Sloane loses her entire mind — belting Any Man of Mine so loudly Nugget jolts awake and looks concerned.
Billie laughs despite her exhaustion, finally leaning her head against the seat, letting the Texas morning wash through her. The rhythm of the music, the energy, the vastness — it feels like something charging through her in warm waves.
The sunlight deepens as they drive, turning Sloane’s hair into a glossy curtain of gold and pulling freckles to the surface on Billie’s cheeks.
“Billie,” Sloane says, breathless between lyrics, “if I marry a cowboy on this trip, I want you to officiate.”
Billie snorts. “You’d be divorced before dessert.”
“Maybe, but I’d look amazing.”
She cranks up the music again, rolling her shoulders like she’s warming up for a two-step competition, and Billie can’t help smiling.
The landscape flickers by in a series of scenes so quintessentially Texas that Billie begins to understand why Glen sounds like he belongs to this place — wide fields, big skies, the feeling of home etched into everything.
A warmth spreads through her chest.
She opens her phone and types.
Billie:
Morning, handsome.
Left Big Spring just under an hour ago.
We should be there at lunch time.
His reply comes as if he’d been waiting.
Glen:
Three hours.
I’m up.
I’m ready.
And I can’t stop thinking about you.
Before she can even comprehend that, another message comes in — a photo — all the air leaving her lungs when she opens it.
Glen is in bed.
Morning sunlight slices across his bare chest, highlighting the defined lines of muscle, the warm tan of his skin.
The sheet sits low.
Too low.
His hair is tousled, eyes half-lidded, his expression that soft, intimate one he only gives her when he’s half-asleep and thinking thoughts he shouldn’t say out loud yet.
Underneath the photo:
Glen:
Wish you were right here next to me.
Billie makes a sound — a strangled, breathless, involuntary noise.
Sloane’s head whips around.
“What the fuck was THAT? Billie, what was that noise?"
“Um—, nothing—” Billie stammers, eyes wide and still glued to the screen.
“SHOW. ME.”
Sloane practically lunges for the phone across the center console.
Billie tries to shield it, but Sloane catches a one-second glimpse and absolutely shrieks.
“OH. MY. GOD. Billie. James. He is sending you SINFUL content.”
Billie’s face erupts into flames. She curls into the passenger seat like she can escape the heat pooling in every inch of her body.
Her fingers find the keyboard on autopilot, trembling.
Billie:
Sir.
You cannot be sending me THOSE when I’m stuck in a car.
I am VERY awake now.
Extremely awake.
Painfully awake.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Glen:
Darlin’…
That was the intention.
Billie squeaks again — a quiet, high-pitched little inhale that betrays her entire soul.
Sloane claws at the steering wheel.
“I CAN’T DRIVE LIKE THIS!” she yells, laughing so hard she nearly swerves. “This man is ILLEGAL.”
Billie covers her face but somehow types again:
Billie:
I hate you.
I really, really hate you.
Glen:
Mm, you sure peach?
Because I’m picturing your face right now
and it does not look like hate.
Her pulse kicks fast and hot.
Billie:
It feels like suffering.
DEEP suffering.
Please put a shirt on.
Or don’t.
I don’t know anymore.
Another message comes through, slower, lower.
Glen:
If you were here
you could take it off me yourself.
Billie chokes.
Sloane slaps the wheel and HOWLS.
“I need you to UNDERSTAND,” she says, tears forming from laughter, “that if you don’t marry this man, I WILL.”
Billie is flushed from her chest to her ears, heat curling through her stomach in tight spirals.
She types one more time:
Billie:
You are evil.
Evil and wrong.
And I’m trapped in a moving vehicle, suffering.
Glen’s next message softens everything.
Glen:
Can't wait to see you baby.
Billie melts back into her seat — all flustered heat and soft, aching anticipation — as Texas rolls out in front of them in wild, sunlit stretches.
She’s never wanted to reach a place so badly.
-----
Glen
Glen is already awake when the morning sun stretches across his chest, warm and lazy. He’s lying on his back, one arm behind his head, scrolling through Billie’s messages for the fourth time.
The last one still kills him:
You are evil.
Evil and wrong.
And I’m trapped in a moving vehicle, suffering.
A slow, satisfied grin spreads across his face.
Yeah.
Yeah, he knew that picture would get her.
But what really gets him — what hits low and sharp — is imagining the exact sound she must’ve made the moment she opened it.
That tiny breath catch.
That soft little gasp she tries to hide but never quite can.
The one that slips out when she’s flustered or wanting.
He loves that sound.
Loves knowing he can pull it from her without even touching her.
Loves knowing she’s in a car across Texas somewhere, thighs squeezing together, biting her lip like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
His phone glows in his hand.
He rereads her line — painfully awake — and laughs under his breath.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Should’ve been here.”
Because if she were here, this morning would look very, very different.
He lets his eyes fall shut, sinking into the thought.
Billie half-asleep beside him, skin warm, lips parted softly, hair a wild, dark halo on his pillow.
He’d roll toward her, hook an arm around her waist, pull her right onto him — soft, warm weight settling exactly where he wants her.
She’d make that little waking-up hum in her throat.
God, he lives for that sound.
He’d kiss her slow at first — her shoulder, her jaw, that sensitive spot under her ear that makes her inhale sharply and dig her fingers into his chest.
He knows every curve of her, every place that reacts instantly to his touch.
He’d map each one with his mouth while she melted under him, pliant and sleepy and his.
Her leg over his hip.
Her body arching into his hands.
Her breath catching again and again as he coaxed those soft morning noises from her — the ones that unravel him more than anything he’s ever known.
A low heat rolls through him, tightening everything.
Yeah.
If she were here, they’d still be in bed.
They wouldn’t get out for hours.
He’s halfway through imagining the way she’d whisper his name when—
A crash downstairs.
Brisket barking.
Someone yelling, “WHY IS THE MILK ON THE FLOOR?”
Glen sighs.
Presses a hand to his face.
Reality is rude as hell.
He sits up, needing a full minute to rein himself back into something passably decent. Breath steady. Shoulders loose. Mind anywhere other than between Billie’s thighs.
When he finally trusts himself not to go downstairs looking feral, he picks up his phone and types the message he’s been thinking since before sunrise:
We're so close guys! Here's the full road trip - the best friend chaos of Billie and Sloane (and Nugget!). Buckle up, it's long haha. Thank you for all the love on this fic 🩵
Billie
They leave Palm Springs under a wash of mid-afternoon heat just before three — the kind that blurs the horizon and makes the air shimmer like glass. The buildings peel away behind them, palms giving way to open desert, the road unspooling into long, sun-baked stretches that feel endless and promising all at once.
Billie drives with both windows cracked, warm air rushing through the cab and catching her hair so it whips loose around her shoulders. The desert changes shape with every mile — pale sand bleeding into deeper rusts and oranges, jagged mountains rising in blue-grey silhouettes like old giants watching them pass.
Nugget sprawls across the backseat, limbs everywhere, drifting in and out of sleep with the occasional dramatic sigh like the journey is deeply taxing.
Sloane, meanwhile, has decided this is a concert.
They blast through an entire Coldplay playlist — not highlights, not favourites, the whole thing — and then circle straight back to the beginning like it’s a spiritual commitment. A Sky Full of Stars pours out into the desert air, Billie humming along while Sloane belts every chorus with reckless sincerity, one hand out the window like she’s blessing the land.
“This is my truth,” Sloane announces at top volume.
“You don’t even know the words!” Billie laughs.
“That has never stopped me before!”
When Coldplay finally ends, the descent into chaos is immediate.
The speakers explode with the opening beat of Everybody (Backstreet’s Back).
They absolutely lose it.
Billie screams the opening line like it’s a religious chant. Sloane is already standing half out of her seat, hair flipping dramatically, choreographing moves that haven’t been relevant since 2001. Billie pounds the steering wheel like a drum kit, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“AM I ORIGINAL?” Sloane shrieks.
“YEAHHHHH!” Billie yells back, nearly missing a sign.
Nugget lifts his head just in time to unleash a long, mournful howl as Bye Bye Bye kicks in next — perfectly timed, completely unintentional — and they collapse.
“Oh my God,” Billie gasps, wheezing. “He’s harmonising.”
“He’s featured,” Sloane sobs.
They tear through the best boy-band hits of their childhoods — Backstreet Boys, *NSYNC, Hanson, Britney sneaking in because rules are fake — voices cracking, laughing, screaming lyrics out of order, joy vibrating through the cab like static.
Outside, the desert blurs into something cinematic — soft orange mountains melting into shadow, the sky stretching wider and wider, endless and forgiving. Sloane leans halfway out the window to film the scenery for her stories, narrating loudly over the wind.
“DESERT! ROAD! FRIENDSHIP! DOG!”
Bec messages constantly — reactions, unhinged voice notes of her laughing, demands for Nugget content.
Sloane delivers like it’s a public service.
By the time they roll into Phoenix, the afternoon has softened into a warm apricot glow.
They pull into a roadside café, grab a quick dinner to go, and Billie ducks into the bathroom to splash cool water on her face, grounding herself in the mirror for half a second.
When they return to the truck, she fills the tank. Red Arizona dust clings to everything. She scrolls, chooses the photo from the border — sky blazing behind them, Sloane mid-pose, Nugget front and center — and uploads it.
She doesn’t check anything after hitting post.
Her stomach flips too easily when she thinks about who might’ve seen it.
At 7:45 p.m., a can of Red Bull cracks open, fizz sharp in the cooling air.
They point the truck toward Tucson.
Night is creeping in.
Music is still loud.
The thirteen and a half remaining hours suddenly feeling possible as they drive.
---
The stretch from Phoenix to Tucson melts into night.
The highway hums beneath the tyres, steady and hypnotic, the desert on either side reduced to dark silhouettes and the occasional flash of scrub caught in the headlights. The air cools quickly once the sun disappears, slipping in through the cracked windows and raising goosebumps along Billie’s forearms.
Inside the cab, the chaos softens.
The music drops lower — still playing, but gentler now — and the road settles into something almost meditative. Nugget lifts his head once, reassesses the darkness, then resettles with a long, content sigh.
By the time the Tucson lights bloom ahead of them, Billie’s eyes burn just slightly.
She yawns — wide, unguarded — and immediately groans.
“Oh no.”
Sloane glances over. “Don’t you dare.”
Billie blinks a few times, blinking harder than necessary. “I’m fine.”
“You just yawned like you've been awake for three straight business days."
“I did not.”
“Your face strongly disagrees babe. We’re stopping when we hit the next city.”
They roll into Tucson just after 9:15 p.m., the city lights spilling out into the desert like embers. Billie pulls off the highway into a rest stop — not busy, just enough light to feel safe, the air cooler here, quieter.
She cuts the engine.
The silence lands.
Nugget is instantly awake, tail thudding once. Twice. He whines pointedly.
“Yes,” Billie laughs, unbuckling. “I hear you.”
They stretch under buzzing lights — arms overhead, backs cracking, bodies readjusting to standing upright. Nugget bounds in a loose circle on his lead, nose down, thrilled by the smells of a place that exists purely for him.
Sloane returns with an armful of chaos: two energy drinks, a ridiculously large bag of sour gummy candy, two bags of chicken flavoured chips and a pair of cactus shaped sunglasses.
“Really?” Billie asks, eyeing the glasses.
“Road trip morale,” Sloane says proudly. “Very Western, very Texas.”
They take another obligatory photo — Billie leaning against the truck, Sloane with the glasses, Tucson sign glowing behind them, Nugget sitting obediently at her feet like he understands branding. Another post. Another timestamp. Another breadcrumb along the map.
They climb back into the car - Sloane at the wheel this time because Billie is definitely due for a nap and Sloane is only just reaching peak Sloane chaos. Sloane adjusts the mirrors with exaggerated seriousness and slides her fresh red bull into the cup holder like it’s sacred.
“Alright,” she says, settling in and turning to Billie, “Shotgun DJ?”
Billie sinks into the passenger seat, relief immediate and undeniable. She sighs, lips tugging into a soft smile. “Absolutely. But no complaining about my music choices.”
"No promises."
Billie pulls out her phone and presses play on a Rufus Du Sol playlist, smiling when it makes her immediately think of the first time she met Glen. As they merge back onto the highway, a message pops up on her phone.
Glen:
Hey, peach. Just checkin’ in. Where are you now?
Her chest warms.
Billie:
Just left Tucson.
Sloane’s driving now — I’ve been officially demoted to passenger princess.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Glen:
Good.
You’ve been pushin’ hard all week — don’t need you drivin’ tired on top of that.
You drinkin’ water?
She smiles to herself.
Billie:
Yes, Dad.
Glen:
Don’t get cute with me, darlin’.
Another message follows.
Glen:
Some of the weekend crew already rolled in.
Dinner was… loud.
A lotta hugging. A lotta yelling.
Aunt Honey cried over a casserole.
Brisket’s been fed like five times — they think I can’t see ’em sneakin’ him food under the table.
Her heart flutters at the ordinariness of it. The family. The chaos. His world.
Billie:
That sounds perfect.
A pause.
Then—
Glen:
Also Gwen wants to know if you like horses.
And if Nugget will be allowed to sleep on the bed.
I told her yes to both, but she wants confirmation from you.
Billie presses her lips together, smiling too hard.
Billie:
Tell Gwen yes — chestnut ponies are my favourite.
And Nugget sleeps wherever Nugget wants.
A photo comes through then — a child’s drawing of a horse in wild rainbow crayon colours, a very large golden dog beside it.
Her throat warms unexpectedly.
Glen:
She worked real hard on that.
Says it’s you ridin’ with Nugget.
Another beat.
Glen:
Also just asked if you’ll braid her hair when you get here.
Her heart tips.
Billie:
I’d love that.
Tell her I can't wait to meet her.
The reply comes gently.
Glen:
She smiled real big at that.
So did I.
Sloane glances over, instantly clocking the expression on Billie’s face.
“He being sweet?”
Billie exhales, soft and helpless. She doesn’t even try to deny it. “Painfully.”
Sloane reaches for her own phone without looking, snaps a photo of herself in the driver’s seat — one hand on the wheel, tongue out, night road stretching ahead — and uploads it instantly, tagging Billie.
Sloane Spencer’s time to shine ✨
Taking the wheel so Billie can text her cowboy 🚗🤠
Billie rolls her eyes and laughs. “You’re insufferable Slo.”
“You’re welcome,” Sloane says sweetly, winking one pale blue eye wickedly.
Another message buzzes.
Glen:
Tell Sloane thanks for takin’ care of you.
And tell her if she posts something else while she’s driving I will personally lecture her when she gets here.
Billie laughs out loud.
Billie:
She says she fears nothing.
Glen:
That checks out.
Then, softer:
Glen:
Get some rest if you can, alright?
I’ll be right here, peach. Waitin' for you.
Billie:
💙
Billie smiles and locks the phone, tucks it into her lap, and leans her head back against the seat.
Outside, the desert rushes past — darkness and stars, wide and endless. Inside the truck, the hum of tyres and music wraps around her like a cocoon.
She closes her eyes — just for a moment — heart light, body safe, the road unfolding ahead of them.
And for the first time in a long while, Billie lets herself rest while the world keeps moving.
---
The temperature drops without warning.
One minute the cab is warm from the day’s heat, the next there’s a cool edge slipping in through the cracks. Billie reaches for her hoodie in the backseat, tugging it over her head and pulling the sleeves down over her hands. The fabric is soft, familiar — grounding.
Outside, the night has fully claimed the desert.
The road stretches endlessly ahead, a pale ribbon unfurling beneath the headlights. On either side, the land disappears into shadow, vast and unmarked. Above them, the sky feels impossibly high — black velvet scattered with stars, so many it almost feels crowded. No city glow. No haze. Just space. Endless and ancient and quietly breathtaking.
The music has slowed too.
Sam Smith hums low through the speakers, followed by Chris Stapleton, then Ed Sheeran — songs that don’t push, don’t demand, just exist. Billie lets the rhythm wash over her, sinking deeper into the seat, the steady hum of the tyres syncing with her breathing.
She glances sideways.
Sloane.
One hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the window, eyes sharp and calm. There’s something quietly impressive about the way she holds the road — relaxed, alert, unshakeable. Billie watches her for a moment, affection blooming warm and deep for her best friend.
She wonders if this is what Sloane looks like on night shifts — lights flashing, lives hanging in the balance — steady where others might unravel. The kind of person you’d trust without question. Calm in the middle of chaos.
Her phone buzzes softly in her lap then, and she looks down at the screen.
Glen:
You alright over there, peach?
Her chest warms.
Billie:
Yeah.
Hoodie on. Music’s slow.
Night’s kind of unreal out here. Wish you could see this sky.
A pause.
Glen:
I’m picturin’ it.
Wish I was ridin’ shotgun with you.
Before she can reply, Sloane eases off the accelerator.
“Billie, babe,” she says quietly. “There it is.”
The Entering New Mexico sign rises out of the dark, reflective letters glowing faintly beneath the stars.
They pull over.
The engine ticks softly as it cools. The night air hits the moment Billie steps out — cold, clean, startling after the warmth of the cab. She pulls her hoodie tighter, breath puffing faintly as she looks up.
The sky steals what little breath she has left.
Thousands of stars, layered and bright, stretching forever in every direction. The kind of sky that makes you feel small in the best way. Billie cranes her head back, breath leaving her in a quiet exhale. It reminds her of home in Jervis Bay and for a moment she just stares.
They take photos because Sloane insists they must — Billie smiling beneath the sign, Sloane throwing an arm around her as they both grin, then both of them holding Nugget like a giant baby, his tongue lolling happily like he knows this matters.
Back in the truck, Billie snaps a sleepy selfie — hair loose, glasses on, hoodie framing her face, stars like a billion diamonds bright through the window behind her. Her smile is soft and tired. Not effort. Just honest.
She sends it to Glen.
The reply comes slower this time.
Glen:
Sweetheart… you look soft under that sky. I wish I was seeing it with you.
Then another.
Glen:
House finally went quiet.
Everyone’s asleep.
Just me and Brisket now.
A photo comes through of exactly that— Glen sprawled on the couch with Brisket tucked behind his head. His hair is tucked under a backwards cap, a soft, lazy smile on his lips that she loves.
Her chest tightens at the image.
Glen:
I keep thinkin’ how you’d feel here.
I’d tuck you in close so it was just us and let the world stay quiet for a while.
Billie exhales slowly, smile soft and helpless.
Billie:
Soon, handsome.
You should sleep too.
Three dots. Stop. Start again.
Glen:
I’m tryin’ to stay awake for you.
Feels wrong not knowin’ you’re settled.
She smiles — tender, steady.
Billie:
Hey.
I’m safe. Sloane’s got me.
I promise.
You don’t have to hold the night for me.
A pause stretches — gentle, thoughtful.
Glen:
Alright peach.
You win.
Then, quieter—
Glen:
Wish I was there anyway.
Would’ve kissed your hair till you fell asleep.
Her throat tightens.
Billie:
That sounds perfect.
Another pause.
Glen:
Alright sweetheart I'm turnin' in.
Phone’ll be on loud.
If you need me, I’m there.
Then—
Glen:
💙
The blue heart sits quietly on her screen — steady, sure, enough.
Billie smiles, something soft loosening in her chest. She locks the phone and tucks it away, settling back into her seat as the car eases onto the highway again.
The music hums. The stars stretch on forever. Sloane drives, steady and sure, the desert rolling out beneath the night.
Billie glances once more at the sky, heart full and tender and a little terrified in the best way.
And somewhere between one slow song fading into the next, with Nugget’s warm breath brushing her arm on the center console and the road carrying her forward, Billie lets her eyes close — drifting into sleep under a sky that feels like it’s watching over her.
---
Billie startles awake to a sharp little woof.
Her heart jumps before her brain catches up.
“Nug—” she breathes, looking over her shoulder into the backseat.
Nugget’s paws twitch in his sleep, tail thumping once against the seat like he’s chasing something glorious and just out of reach. He lets out a soft, offended huff and settles again, nose burrowing into the blanket.
Billie exhales, the adrenaline ebbing, and reaches into the backseat on instinct. Her fingers find warm fur.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You got ’em.”
Nugget sighs deeply — dramatic, satisfied — and goes still.
Up front, Sloane laughs under her breath. Not loud. Just fond.
“Puppy dreams,” she says. “Main character behaviour. Just like his mum.”
Billie lets out a laugh and rubs her eyes, blinking the road back into shape. Everything feels slower now — softened at the edges. The clock on the dash glows 1:47 a.m.
La Cruces.
They pull in for a quick pit stop at a service station — fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the night air cool and oddly still. Billie moves on autopilot, hoodie tugged tight around her, hands disappearing into the sleeves. The world feels hushed at this hour, like it’s agreed to leave them alone.
Back in the truck, Sloane eases onto the highway again, smooth and unhurried. Soft music continues drifting in the cab, slow, soft rhythm lulling Billie as they drive. She doesn't know how long they drive for, hovering somewhere between awake and asleep when Sloane's voice alerts her.
“Alright,” she says gently, reaching over to nudge Billie with her hand, “Heads up, sleepy.”
Billie squints ahead, eyes adjusting.
The sign rises out of the dark — reflective letters catching the headlights.
Welcome to Texas.
Something flips in her stomach.
“Oh,” she breathes.
They're in Texas. They're actually here.
Sloane smiles, soft and satisfied. “Told you I’d wake you.”
They pull over once more at the sign— brief, ceremonial, Nugget stretching his legs long when he jumps out of the car. Both of the girls are in hoodies now, their breath faint in the cool air. Billie looks half-asleep in the photo, eyes soft and unfocused behind her glasses, hair loose and mussed from the headrest. Sloane, somehow, looks bright — cheeks pink from the cold, eyes alive, like two in the morning is her natural habitat.
Nugget sits between them, patient and proud, tail sweeping the dirt.
Another photo. Another marker. Another promise kept to Bec. Another instagram upload documenting their road trip.
El Paso, Texas.
Back in the car, the engine hums low as they merge onto the road. A Luke Combs song slides onto the speakers — slow, familiar, that easy country drawl wrapping around the cab, singing about long roads and quiet nights and the kind of days you don’t forget.
It makes her think of Glen instantly — of the Smash Kitchen date, the way she sang in the car and then later, them dancing on the terrace like the world wasn’t watching. Like it was just them.
She exhales deeply, smiles.
Billie’s eyelids grow heavy again.
She shifts, folding her feet beneath her, leaning back. Nugget lifts his head and settles it on the center console, eyes half-lidded. Billie leans over, pressing her cheek into his fur and wrapping her arms around him, breathing him in — warm, grounding, home.
As she starts to drift, Sloane speaks. Not joking. Not loud. Just… there.
"Bills?"
"Mmm?" Billie mumbles back, eyes closed, fingers tangled in golden fur.
“You okay?” she asks softly. “Like — really okay? Tell me how your head's doing, babe.”
Billie blinks, and stares out at the dark for a moment, watching the road unfurl endlessly ahead. The sky above stretches endless, a billion stars bright and beautiful above.
“I think so,” she says. Then, quieter, more honest. “But I’m scared.”
Sloane nods, like she’s been expecting that answer for a while.
“Good.”
Billie opens one eye - hazy with sleep, frowning slightly. “Good?”
“Yeah,” Sloane says, voice calm, sure. “If you weren’t scared, it wouldn’t be real. Fear means you’ve found something worth losing.”
The words land — gentle but heavy.
Sometimes Billie forgets that beneath the chaos, the sarcasm, the relentless sparkle of Sloane’s energy, there is a steadiness. A sharpness. The kind of woman who moves toward emergencies while everyone else hesitates. The girl who grinned at her on their first day at Camp America — two newly transplanted girls, one Brit, one Aussie — and chose her instantly. The one who talked her down from the edge of panic and held her close when it felt like her world was quietly unraveling.
“You love him,” Sloane says quietly.
Billie doesn’t answer right away. The song rolls on, guitar steady and warm. She watches the road, the stars slipping past the windshield like they’re keeping pace.
She cuddles closer to Nugget, fingers threading into his fur.
“I—” She stops. Breathes in. Breathes out. “I don’t know if I’m at love yet. But whatever this is…”
Her throat tightens.
“It feels big. Really big.”
Sloane reaches over without looking, her hand finding Billie’s hair. She strokes it slowly, the way she used to when Billie couldn’t sleep after everything ended with Ben.
“Billie,” she says softly, “you light up when you talk about him. Even when you’re spiralling, it’s different. You don’t shut down. You don’t bolt. You don’t make jokes to deflect.”
Billie lets out a weak laugh. “Wow. Attack me next time.”
Sloane smiles — small, knowing. “You know I’m right babe.”
Billie doesn’t say anything for a moment, just reaches over and finds Sloane's hand, lacing their fingers together. Squeezes once. Feeling her heart warm in the way that only a best friend’s love would do.
“Yeah,” she admits, quietly. “You are.”
They drive in silence for a while — the good kind. The kind built on years of shared apartments and borrowed clothes and inside jokes and showing up without being asked.
Then Sloane adds, quieter still, like she doesn’t want to spook the moment.
“He’s good for you. And you’re good for him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” She pauses, searching. “Like you’re… I don’t know. Like you’re a sunrise.”
Billie’s throat tightens hard.
“That’s exactly how he makes me feel,” she whispers.
Luke Combs keeps singing. The road keeps rolling. Billie holds Sloane’s hand, curls closer to Nugget, and lets the night hold her.
And somewhere just past the Texas line, wrapped in music and friendship and the steady weight of a golden head against her arm, Billie drifts back to sleep — heart full, unguarded, and quietly certain she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.
---
The road out of El Paso stretches long and dark, the kind of darkness that feels almost hollow — endless asphalt, the faint glow of reflective signs sliding past like quiet sentinels. Billie blinks awake slowly, eyes heavy, body humming with that strange wired-tired sensation that only comes in the middle of the night.
Sloane, impossibly, is still humming.
Not loud. Just under her breath — tuneless, half-asleep, the ghost of a melody drifting through the cab.
Billie smiles to herself, then yawns, wide and unguarded, her jaw clicking slightly as she shakes her head and refocuses on the road.
Pecos creeps up on them just after five-thirty. A scattering of lights, a petrol station glowing like a mirage. They pull in, the truck crunching over gravel, the smell of fuel sharp in the cool pre-dawn air.
Billie fills the tank while Sloane stretches like a cat, hoodie dragged on, dark hair a mess. Nugget wakes long enough to demand freedom, tail wagging as he hops out to investigate the world with deep seriousness.
The diner next door is open — 24 HOURS flickering bravely in the window — and they don’t even discuss it.
Inside, the coffee is objectively terrible. Thin. Burnt. But absolutely essential.
Billie cradles the mug in both hands like it might keep her upright through sheer will alone, blowing across the surface before taking a cautious sip. It does the job. Just.
Sloane drinks hers with zero complaint, because of course she does - she’s probably used to terrible diner coffee on night shifts. The waitress eyes them with a mix of pity and efficiency — probably wondering why two thirty-something women are stopping at a random diner in Pecos before six a.m. She slides four hash browns into a paper bag, then pauses, a soft smile breaking through as she tucks an extra strip of bacon inside for Nugget.
“For the road,” she says. “Y’all look like you’ve got a long one ahead of you.”
Billie and Sloane accept it gratefully, a little wearily, fully aware they likely look as rough as they feel.
Back in the truck, Billie slides into the driver’s seat and adjusts the mirrors, shoulders rolling as she settles in. Sloane curls sideways in the passenger seat, hoodie wrapped around her, feet tucked up. Within minutes, she’s asleep — cheek pressed into Billie’s elbow, breathing slow and even.
Nugget snores in the backseat, a low, ridiculous rumble that makes Billie bite back a smile.
She pulls back onto the highway and queues up a soft country playlist. Nothing loud. Just gentle guitars and low voices singing about dancing barefoot, open fields, horses, long roads that lead somewhere meaningful.
Her hands rest steady on the wheel.
Texas unfolds in front of her — long, empty stretches, the road lit only by her headlights and the faint suggestion of dawn beginning to stir. The stars start to thin, the black sky softening at the edges into deep blues and bruised purples.
At 5:43 a.m., her phone lights up quietly in the console.
A voice note.
From Glen.
Her breath catches — not sharply, just enough to notice.
She taps it, lowering the volume, and lets it play softly through the speakers.
His voice is low. Sleep-rough. All Texas warmth and morning gravel.
“Hey, sweetheart…”
A soft breath, right into the mic.
“I’m still in bed… can’t stop thinkin’ about you out there.”
A pause. She can hear him shift slightly.
“I keep seein’ you — all wrapped up, hands on the wheel, lookin’ a little sleepy.”
His voice drops, intimate, unguarded.
“Kinda wish I could pull you under the covers with me.”
Another breath. A smile she can hear.
“Drive safe, baby. I can't wait to see you.”
Billie’s chest tightens — that familiar, aching fullness — and she presses her lips together, blinking once as the road blurs for a second.
She doesn’t reply yet. Just lets his voice settle into her, warm and steady, like a hand at the small of her back.
The sun begins to rise properly then — gold bleeding into pink, the sky slowly catching fire. Billie glances sideways at it, at the vastness of it all, stars fading one by one as the world wakes up around her.
She keeps driving.
Her hands on the wheel.
Her heart full.
--
They pull into Big Spring just after 7am, exhausted, jittery, wired from caffeine and emotion.
A small café is just opening. They stumble inside.
Billie washes her face, freshens up, and changes into the spare outfit she packed - keeping her Levi cut offs, but swapping the tank for a loose white linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to look effortless and not too put together, and certainly not I've-been-driving-for-eighteen-hours. She drags a brush through her waves and sprays her peach perfume, smiling at herself in the bathroom mirror. When she steps out, Sloane grins.
“Oh my god. That man isn’t ready. No one is ready.”
They eat quickly and drink more coffee - infinitely better than the last place's bitter brew.
Nugget charms the waitress into giving him bacon and Billie smiles lovingly at him as he chews quickly.
Sloane snaps a quick photo - coffees held up, wired smiles, Nugget panting happily between them, posting their final leg of the journey to her story.
Back in the car, Sloane is reborn and driving again — caffeine finally hitting her bloodstream with divine force. She turns the volume dial with the reverence of a priest preparing a ritual.
“Alright, sweet cheeks,” she announces. “We are in Texas now. So the playlist must reflect the culture.”
Before Billie can ask what that means, Luke Bryan explodes through the speakers, singing about a country girl shaking it.
Sloane shrieks triumphantly.
“Oh YES. THIS is my origin story.”
The scenery outside shifts quickly — flat stretches of land that go on forever, broken by clusters of wildflowers and fields dotted with grazing cattle. Pastures roll beneath a huge, open sky, the sun rising in bright, burning streaks of gold.
Every few miles, enormous pickup trucks roar past them — Rams, Silverados, F-250s — all looking like they could tow a small moon.
Sloane narrates the passing vehicles with enthusiasm usually reserved for celebrity sightings.
“Oh my god, that truck could run over my entire apartment building.”
“That one’s got six wheels, Billie. SIX.”
“Do you think anyone in this state drives something smaller than a bus?”
“I really feel like I should be wearing a Stetson right now.”
She’s practically line dancing while seated, shimmying her shoulders, tapping her heels, doing tiny yeehaw-finger-guns at passing ranch signs.
Shania Twain comes on next, and Sloane loses her entire mind — belting Any Man of Mine so loudly Nugget jolts awake and looks concerned.
Billie laughs despite her exhaustion, finally leaning her head against the seat, letting the Texas morning wash through her. The rhythm of the music, the energy, the vastness — it feels like something charging through her in warm waves.
The sunlight deepens as they drive, turning Sloane’s hair into a glossy curtain of gold and pulling freckles to the surface on Billie’s cheeks.
“Billie,” Sloane says, breathless between lyrics, “if I marry a cowboy on this trip, I want you to officiate.”
Billie snorts. “You’d be divorced before dessert.”
“Maybe, but I’d look amazing.”
She cranks up the music again, rolling her shoulders like she’s warming up for a two-step competition, and Billie can’t help smiling.
The landscape flickers by in a series of scenes so quintessentially Texas that Billie begins to understand why Glen sounds like he belongs to this place — wide fields, big skies, the feeling of home etched into everything.
A warmth spreads through her chest.
She opens her phone and types.
Billie:
Morning, handsome.
Left Big Spring just under an hour ago.
We should be there at lunch time.
His reply comes as if he’d been waiting.
Glen:
Three hours.
I’m up.
I’m ready.
And I can’t stop thinking about you.
Before she can even comprehend that, another message comes in — a photo — all the air leaving her lungs when she opens it.
Glen is in bed.
Morning sunlight slices across his bare chest, highlighting the defined lines of muscle, the warm tan of his skin.
The sheet sits low.
Too low.
His hair is tousled, eyes half-lidded, his expression that soft, intimate one he only gives her when he’s half-asleep and thinking thoughts he shouldn’t say out loud yet.
Underneath the photo:
Glen:
Wish you were right here next to me.
Billie makes a sound — a strangled, breathless, involuntary noise.
Sloane’s head whips around.
“What the fuck was THAT? Billie, what was that noise?"
“Um—, nothing—” Billie stammers, eyes wide and still glued to the screen.
“SHOW. ME.”
Sloane practically lunges for the phone across the center console.
Billie tries to shield it, but Sloane catches a one-second glimpse and absolutely shrieks.
“OH. MY. GOD. Billie. James. He is sending you SINFUL content.”
Billie’s face erupts into flames. She curls into the passenger seat like she can escape the heat pooling in every inch of her body.
Her fingers find the keyboard on autopilot, trembling.
Billie:
Sir.
You cannot be sending me THOSE when I’m stuck in a car.
I am VERY awake now.
Extremely awake.
Painfully awake.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Glen:
Darlin’…
That was the intention.
Billie squeaks again — a quiet, high-pitched little inhale that betrays her entire soul.
Sloane claws at the steering wheel.
“I CAN’T DRIVE LIKE THIS!” she yells, laughing so hard she nearly swerves. “This man is ILLEGAL.”
Billie covers her face but somehow types again:
Billie:
I hate you.
I really, really hate you.
Glen:
Mm, you sure peach?
Because I’m picturing your face right now
and it does not look like hate.
Her pulse kicks fast and hot.
Billie:
It feels like suffering.
DEEP suffering.
Please put a shirt on.
Or don’t.
I don’t know anymore.
Another message comes through, slower, lower.
Glen:
If you were here
you could take it off me yourself.
Billie chokes.
Sloane slaps the wheel and HOWLS.
“I need you to UNDERSTAND,” she says, tears forming from laughter, “that if you don’t marry this man, I WILL.”
Billie is flushed from her chest to her ears, heat curling through her stomach in tight spirals.
She types one more time:
Billie:
You are evil.
Evil and wrong.
And I’m trapped in a moving vehicle, suffering.
Glen’s next message softens everything.
Glen:
Can't wait to see you baby.
Billie melts back into her seat — all flustered heat and soft, aching anticipation — as Texas rolls out in front of them in wild, sunlit stretches.
She’s never wanted to reach a place so badly.
-----
Glen
Glen is already awake when the morning sun stretches across his chest, warm and lazy. He’s lying on his back, one arm behind his head, scrolling through Billie’s messages for the fourth time.
The last one still kills him:
You are evil.
Evil and wrong.
And I’m trapped in a moving vehicle, suffering.
A slow, satisfied grin spreads across his face.
Yeah.
Yeah, he knew that picture would get her.
But what really gets him — what hits low and sharp — is imagining the exact sound she must’ve made the moment she opened it.
That tiny breath catch.
That soft little gasp she tries to hide but never quite can.
The one that slips out when she’s flustered or wanting.
He loves that sound.
Loves knowing he can pull it from her without even touching her.
Loves knowing she’s in a car across Texas somewhere, thighs squeezing together, biting her lip like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
His phone glows in his hand.
He rereads her line — painfully awake — and laughs under his breath.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Should’ve been here.”
Because if she were here, this morning would look very, very different.
He lets his eyes fall shut, sinking into the thought.
Billie half-asleep beside him, skin warm, lips parted softly, hair a wild, dark halo on his pillow.
He’d roll toward her, hook an arm around her waist, pull her right onto him — soft, warm weight settling exactly where he wants her.
She’d make that little waking-up hum in her throat.
God, he lives for that sound.
He’d kiss her slow at first — her shoulder, her jaw, that sensitive spot under her ear that makes her inhale sharply and dig her fingers into his chest.
He knows every curve of her, every place that reacts instantly to his touch.
He’d map each one with his mouth while she melted under him, pliant and sleepy and his.
Her leg over his hip.
Her body arching into his hands.
Her breath catching again and again as he coaxed those soft morning noises from her — the ones that unravel him more than anything he’s ever known.
A low heat rolls through him, tightening everything.
Yeah.
If she were here, they’d still be in bed.
They wouldn’t get out for hours.
He’s halfway through imagining the way she’d whisper his name when—
A crash downstairs.
Brisket barking.
Someone yelling, “WHY IS THE MILK ON THE FLOOR?”
Glen sighs.
Presses a hand to his face.
Reality is rude as hell.
He sits up, needing a full minute to rein himself back into something passably decent. Breath steady. Shoulders loose. Mind anywhere other than between Billie’s thighs.
When he finally trusts himself not to go downstairs looking feral, he picks up his phone and types the message he’s been thinking since before sunrise:
We're so close guys! Here's the full road trip - the best friend chaos of Billie and Sloane (and Nugget!). Buckle up, it's long haha. Thank you for all the love on this fic 🩵
Billie
They leave Palm Springs under a wash of mid-afternoon heat just before three — the kind that blurs the horizon and makes the air shimmer like glass. The buildings peel away behind them, palms giving way to open desert, the road unspooling into long, sun-baked stretches that feel endless and promising all at once.
Billie drives with both windows cracked, warm air rushing through the cab and catching her hair so it whips loose around her shoulders. The desert changes shape with every mile — pale sand bleeding into deeper rusts and oranges, jagged mountains rising in blue-grey silhouettes like old giants watching them pass.
Nugget sprawls across the backseat, limbs everywhere, drifting in and out of sleep with the occasional dramatic sigh like the journey is deeply taxing.
Sloane, meanwhile, has decided this is a concert.
They blast through an entire Coldplay playlist — not highlights, not favourites, the whole thing — and then circle straight back to the beginning like it’s a spiritual commitment. A Sky Full of Stars pours out into the desert air, Billie humming along while Sloane belts every chorus with reckless sincerity, one hand out the window like she’s blessing the land.
“This is my truth,” Sloane announces at top volume.
“You don’t even know the words!” Billie laughs.
“That has never stopped me before!”
When Coldplay finally ends, the descent into chaos is immediate.
The speakers explode with the opening beat of Everybody (Backstreet’s Back).
They absolutely lose it.
Billie screams the opening line like it’s a religious chant. Sloane is already standing half out of her seat, hair flipping dramatically, choreographing moves that haven’t been relevant since 2001. Billie pounds the steering wheel like a drum kit, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“AM I ORIGINAL?” Sloane shrieks.
“YEAHHHHH!” Billie yells back, nearly missing a sign.
Nugget lifts his head just in time to unleash a long, mournful howl as Bye Bye Bye kicks in next — perfectly timed, completely unintentional — and they collapse.
“Oh my God,” Billie gasps, wheezing. “He’s harmonising.”
“He’s featured,” Sloane sobs.
They tear through the best boy-band hits of their childhoods — Backstreet Boys, *NSYNC, Hanson, Britney sneaking in because rules are fake — voices cracking, laughing, screaming lyrics out of order, joy vibrating through the cab like static.
Outside, the desert blurs into something cinematic — soft orange mountains melting into shadow, the sky stretching wider and wider, endless and forgiving. Sloane leans halfway out the window to film the scenery for her stories, narrating loudly over the wind.
“DESERT! ROAD! FRIENDSHIP! DOG!”
Bec messages constantly — reactions, unhinged voice notes of her laughing, demands for Nugget content.
Sloane delivers like it’s a public service.
By the time they roll into Phoenix, the afternoon has softened into a warm apricot glow.
They pull into a roadside café, grab a quick dinner to go, and Billie ducks into the bathroom to splash cool water on her face, grounding herself in the mirror for half a second.
When they return to the truck, she fills the tank. Red Arizona dust clings to everything. She scrolls, chooses the photo from the border — sky blazing behind them, Sloane mid-pose, Nugget front and center — and uploads it.
She doesn’t check anything after hitting post.
Her stomach flips too easily when she thinks about who might’ve seen it.
At 7:45 p.m., a can of Red Bull cracks open, fizz sharp in the cooling air.
They point the truck toward Tucson.
Night is creeping in.
Music is still loud.
The thirteen and a half remaining hours suddenly feeling possible as they drive.
---
The stretch from Phoenix to Tucson melts into night.
The highway hums beneath the tyres, steady and hypnotic, the desert on either side reduced to dark silhouettes and the occasional flash of scrub caught in the headlights. The air cools quickly once the sun disappears, slipping in through the cracked windows and raising goosebumps along Billie’s forearms.
Inside the cab, the chaos softens.
The music drops lower — still playing, but gentler now — and the road settles into something almost meditative. Nugget lifts his head once, reassesses the darkness, then resettles with a long, content sigh.
By the time the Tucson lights bloom ahead of them, Billie’s eyes burn just slightly.
She yawns — wide, unguarded — and immediately groans.
“Oh no.”
Sloane glances over. “Don’t you dare.”
Billie blinks a few times, blinking harder than necessary. “I’m fine.”
“You just yawned like you've been awake for three straight business days."
“I did not.”
“Your face strongly disagrees babe. We’re stopping when we hit the next city.”
They roll into Tucson just after 9:15 p.m., the city lights spilling out into the desert like embers. Billie pulls off the highway into a rest stop — not busy, just enough light to feel safe, the air cooler here, quieter.
She cuts the engine.
The silence lands.
Nugget is instantly awake, tail thudding once. Twice. He whines pointedly.
“Yes,” Billie laughs, unbuckling. “I hear you.”
They stretch under buzzing lights — arms overhead, backs cracking, bodies readjusting to standing upright. Nugget bounds in a loose circle on his lead, nose down, thrilled by the smells of a place that exists purely for him.
Sloane returns with an armful of chaos: two energy drinks, a ridiculously large bag of sour gummy candy, two bags of chicken flavoured chips and a pair of cactus shaped sunglasses.
“Really?” Billie asks, eyeing the glasses.
“Road trip morale,” Sloane says proudly. “Very Western, very Texas.”
They take another obligatory photo — Billie leaning against the truck, Sloane with the glasses, Tucson sign glowing behind them, Nugget sitting obediently at her feet like he understands branding. Another post. Another timestamp. Another breadcrumb along the map.
They climb back into the car - Sloane at the wheel this time because Billie is definitely due for a nap and Sloane is only just reaching peak Sloane chaos. Sloane adjusts the mirrors with exaggerated seriousness and slides her fresh red bull into the cup holder like it’s sacred.
“Alright,” she says, settling in and turning to Billie, “Shotgun DJ?”
Billie sinks into the passenger seat, relief immediate and undeniable. She sighs, lips tugging into a soft smile. “Absolutely. But no complaining about my music choices.”
"No promises."
Billie pulls out her phone and presses play on a Rufus Du Sol playlist, smiling when it makes her immediately think of the first time she met Glen. As they merge back onto the highway, a message pops up on her phone.
Glen:
Hey, peach. Just checkin’ in. Where are you now?
Her chest warms.
Billie:
Just left Tucson.
Sloane’s driving now — I’ve been officially demoted to passenger princess.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Glen:
Good.
You’ve been pushin’ hard all week — don’t need you drivin’ tired on top of that.
You drinkin’ water?
She smiles to herself.
Billie:
Yes, Dad.
Glen:
Don’t get cute with me, darlin’.
Another message follows.
Glen:
Some of the weekend crew already rolled in.
Dinner was… loud.
A lotta hugging. A lotta yelling.
Aunt Honey cried over a casserole.
Brisket’s been fed like five times — they think I can’t see ’em sneakin’ him food under the table.
Her heart flutters at the ordinariness of it. The family. The chaos. His world.
Billie:
That sounds perfect.
A pause.
Then—
Glen:
Also Gwen wants to know if you like horses.
And if Nugget will be allowed to sleep on the bed.
I told her yes to both, but she wants confirmation from you.
Billie presses her lips together, smiling too hard.
Billie:
Tell Gwen yes — chestnut ponies are my favourite.
And Nugget sleeps wherever Nugget wants.
A photo comes through then — a child’s drawing of a horse in wild rainbow crayon colours, a very large golden dog beside it.
Her throat warms unexpectedly.
Glen:
She worked real hard on that.
Says it’s you ridin’ with Nugget.
Another beat.
Glen:
Also just asked if you’ll braid her hair when you get here.
Her heart tips.
Billie:
I’d love that.
Tell her I can't wait to meet her.
The reply comes gently.
Glen:
She smiled real big at that.
So did I.
Sloane glances over, instantly clocking the expression on Billie’s face.
“He being sweet?”
Billie exhales, soft and helpless. She doesn’t even try to deny it. “Painfully.”
Sloane reaches for her own phone without looking, snaps a photo of herself in the driver’s seat — one hand on the wheel, tongue out, night road stretching ahead — and uploads it instantly, tagging Billie.
Sloane Spencer’s time to shine ✨
Taking the wheel so Billie can text her cowboy 🚗🤠
Billie rolls her eyes and laughs. “You’re insufferable Slo.”
“You’re welcome,” Sloane says sweetly, winking one pale blue eye wickedly.
Another message buzzes.
Glen:
Tell Sloane thanks for takin’ care of you.
And tell her if she posts something else while she’s driving I will personally lecture her when she gets here.
Billie laughs out loud.
Billie:
She says she fears nothing.
Glen:
That checks out.
Then, softer:
Glen:
Get some rest if you can, alright?
I’ll be right here, peach. Waitin' for you.
Billie:
💙
Billie smiles and locks the phone, tucks it into her lap, and leans her head back against the seat.
Outside, the desert rushes past — darkness and stars, wide and endless. Inside the truck, the hum of tyres and music wraps around her like a cocoon.
She closes her eyes — just for a moment — heart light, body safe, the road unfolding ahead of them.
And for the first time in a long while, Billie lets herself rest while the world keeps moving.
---
The temperature drops without warning.
One minute the cab is warm from the day’s heat, the next there’s a cool edge slipping in through the cracks. Billie reaches for her hoodie in the backseat, tugging it over her head and pulling the sleeves down over her hands. The fabric is soft, familiar — grounding.
Outside, the night has fully claimed the desert.
The road stretches endlessly ahead, a pale ribbon unfurling beneath the headlights. On either side, the land disappears into shadow, vast and unmarked. Above them, the sky feels impossibly high — black velvet scattered with stars, so many it almost feels crowded. No city glow. No haze. Just space. Endless and ancient and quietly breathtaking.
The music has slowed too.
Sam Smith hums low through the speakers, followed by Chris Stapleton, then Ed Sheeran — songs that don’t push, don’t demand, just exist. Billie lets the rhythm wash over her, sinking deeper into the seat, the steady hum of the tyres syncing with her breathing.
She glances sideways.
Sloane.
One hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the window, eyes sharp and calm. There’s something quietly impressive about the way she holds the road — relaxed, alert, unshakeable. Billie watches her for a moment, affection blooming warm and deep for her best friend.
She wonders if this is what Sloane looks like on night shifts — lights flashing, lives hanging in the balance — steady where others might unravel. The kind of person you’d trust without question. Calm in the middle of chaos.
Her phone buzzes softly in her lap then, and she looks down at the screen.
Glen:
You alright over there, peach?
Her chest warms.
Billie:
Yeah.
Hoodie on. Music’s slow.
Night’s kind of unreal out here. Wish you could see this sky.
A pause.
Glen:
I’m picturin’ it.
Wish I was ridin’ shotgun with you.
Before she can reply, Sloane eases off the accelerator.
“Billie, babe,” she says quietly. “There it is.”
The Entering New Mexico sign rises out of the dark, reflective letters glowing faintly beneath the stars.
They pull over.
The engine ticks softly as it cools. The night air hits the moment Billie steps out — cold, clean, startling after the warmth of the cab. She pulls her hoodie tighter, breath puffing faintly as she looks up.
The sky steals what little breath she has left.
Thousands of stars, layered and bright, stretching forever in every direction. The kind of sky that makes you feel small in the best way. Billie cranes her head back, breath leaving her in a quiet exhale. It reminds her of home in Jervis Bay and for a moment she just stares.
They take photos because Sloane insists they must — Billie smiling beneath the sign, Sloane throwing an arm around her as they both grin, then both of them holding Nugget like a giant baby, his tongue lolling happily like he knows this matters.
Back in the truck, Billie snaps a sleepy selfie — hair loose, glasses on, hoodie framing her face, stars like a billion diamonds bright through the window behind her. Her smile is soft and tired. Not effort. Just honest.
She sends it to Glen.
The reply comes slower this time.
Glen:
Sweetheart… you look soft under that sky. I wish I was seeing it with you.
Then another.
Glen:
House finally went quiet.
Everyone’s asleep.
Just me and Brisket now.
A photo comes through of exactly that— Glen sprawled on the couch with Brisket tucked behind his head. His hair is tucked under a backwards cap, a soft, lazy smile on his lips that she loves.
Her chest tightens at the image.
Glen:
I keep thinkin’ how you’d feel here.
I’d tuck you in close so it was just us and let the world stay quiet for a while.
Billie exhales slowly, smile soft and helpless.
Billie:
Soon, handsome.
You should sleep too.
Three dots. Stop. Start again.
Glen:
I’m tryin’ to stay awake for you.
Feels wrong not knowin’ you’re settled.
She smiles — tender, steady.
Billie:
Hey.
I’m safe. Sloane’s got me.
I promise.
You don’t have to hold the night for me.
A pause stretches — gentle, thoughtful.
Glen:
Alright peach.
You win.
Then, quieter—
Glen:
Wish I was there anyway.
Would’ve kissed your hair till you fell asleep.
Her throat tightens.
Billie:
That sounds perfect.
Another pause.
Glen:
Alright sweetheart I'm turnin' in.
Phone’ll be on loud.
If you need me, I’m there.
Then—
Glen:
💙
The blue heart sits quietly on her screen — steady, sure, enough.
Billie smiles, something soft loosening in her chest. She locks the phone and tucks it away, settling back into her seat as the car eases onto the highway again.
The music hums. The stars stretch on forever. Sloane drives, steady and sure, the desert rolling out beneath the night.
Billie glances once more at the sky, heart full and tender and a little terrified in the best way.
And somewhere between one slow song fading into the next, with Nugget’s warm breath brushing her arm on the center console and the road carrying her forward, Billie lets her eyes close — drifting into sleep under a sky that feels like it’s watching over her.
---
Billie startles awake to a sharp little woof.
Her heart jumps before her brain catches up.
“Nug—” she breathes, looking over her shoulder into the backseat.
Nugget’s paws twitch in his sleep, tail thumping once against the seat like he’s chasing something glorious and just out of reach. He lets out a soft, offended huff and settles again, nose burrowing into the blanket.
Billie exhales, the adrenaline ebbing, and reaches into the backseat on instinct. Her fingers find warm fur.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You got ’em.”
Nugget sighs deeply — dramatic, satisfied — and goes still.
Up front, Sloane laughs under her breath. Not loud. Just fond.
“Puppy dreams,” she says. “Main character behaviour. Just like his mum.”
Billie lets out a laugh and rubs her eyes, blinking the road back into shape. Everything feels slower now — softened at the edges. The clock on the dash glows 1:47 a.m.
La Cruces.
They pull in for a quick pit stop at a service station — fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the night air cool and oddly still. Billie moves on autopilot, hoodie tugged tight around her, hands disappearing into the sleeves. The world feels hushed at this hour, like it’s agreed to leave them alone.
Back in the truck, Sloane eases onto the highway again, smooth and unhurried. Soft music continues drifting in the cab, slow, soft rhythm lulling Billie as they drive. She doesn't know how long they drive for, hovering somewhere between awake and asleep when Sloane's voice alerts her.
“Alright,” she says gently, reaching over to nudge Billie with her hand, “Heads up, sleepy.”
Billie squints ahead, eyes adjusting.
The sign rises out of the dark — reflective letters catching the headlights.
Welcome to Texas.
Something flips in her stomach.
“Oh,” she breathes.
They're in Texas. They're actually here.
Sloane smiles, soft and satisfied. “Told you I’d wake you.”
They pull over once more at the sign— brief, ceremonial, Nugget stretching his legs long when he jumps out of the car. Both of the girls are in hoodies now, their breath faint in the cool air. Billie looks half-asleep in the photo, eyes soft and unfocused behind her glasses, hair loose and mussed from the headrest. Sloane, somehow, looks bright — cheeks pink from the cold, eyes alive, like two in the morning is her natural habitat.
Nugget sits between them, patient and proud, tail sweeping the dirt.
Another photo. Another marker. Another promise kept to Bec. Another instagram upload documenting their road trip.
El Paso, Texas.
Back in the car, the engine hums low as they merge onto the road. A Luke Combs song slides onto the speakers — slow, familiar, that easy country drawl wrapping around the cab, singing about long roads and quiet nights and the kind of days you don’t forget.
It makes her think of Glen instantly — of the Smash Kitchen date, the way she sang in the car and then later, them dancing on the terrace like the world wasn’t watching. Like it was just them.
She exhales deeply, smiles.
Billie’s eyelids grow heavy again.
She shifts, folding her feet beneath her, leaning back. Nugget lifts his head and settles it on the center console, eyes half-lidded. Billie leans over, pressing her cheek into his fur and wrapping her arms around him, breathing him in — warm, grounding, home.
As she starts to drift, Sloane speaks. Not joking. Not loud. Just… there.
"Bills?"
"Mmm?" Billie mumbles back, eyes closed, fingers tangled in golden fur.
“You okay?” she asks softly. “Like — really okay? Tell me how your head's doing, babe.”
Billie blinks, and stares out at the dark for a moment, watching the road unfurl endlessly ahead. The sky above stretches endless, a billion stars bright and beautiful above.
“I think so,” she says. Then, quieter, more honest. “But I’m scared.”
Sloane nods, like she’s been expecting that answer for a while.
“Good.”
Billie opens one eye - hazy with sleep, frowning slightly. “Good?”
“Yeah,” Sloane says, voice calm, sure. “If you weren’t scared, it wouldn’t be real. Fear means you’ve found something worth losing.”
The words land — gentle but heavy.
Sometimes Billie forgets that beneath the chaos, the sarcasm, the relentless sparkle of Sloane’s energy, there is a steadiness. A sharpness. The kind of woman who moves toward emergencies while everyone else hesitates. The girl who grinned at her on their first day at Camp America — two newly transplanted girls, one Brit, one Aussie — and chose her instantly. The one who talked her down from the edge of panic and held her close when it felt like her world was quietly unraveling.
“You love him,” Sloane says quietly.
Billie doesn’t answer right away. The song rolls on, guitar steady and warm. She watches the road, the stars slipping past the windshield like they’re keeping pace.
She cuddles closer to Nugget, fingers threading into his fur.
“I—” She stops. Breathes in. Breathes out. “I don’t know if I’m at love yet. But whatever this is…”
Her throat tightens.
“It feels big. Really big.”
Sloane reaches over without looking, her hand finding Billie’s hair. She strokes it slowly, the way she used to when Billie couldn’t sleep after everything ended with Ben.
“Billie,” she says softly, “you light up when you talk about him. Even when you’re spiralling, it’s different. You don’t shut down. You don’t bolt. You don’t make jokes to deflect.”
Billie lets out a weak laugh. “Wow. Attack me next time.”
Sloane smiles — small, knowing. “You know I’m right babe.”
Billie doesn’t say anything for a moment, just reaches over and finds Sloane's hand, lacing their fingers together. Squeezes once. Feeling her heart warm in the way that only a best friend’s love would do.
“Yeah,” she admits, quietly. “You are.”
They drive in silence for a while — the good kind. The kind built on years of shared apartments and borrowed clothes and inside jokes and showing up without being asked.
Then Sloane adds, quieter still, like she doesn’t want to spook the moment.
“He’s good for you. And you’re good for him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” She pauses, searching. “Like you’re… I don’t know. Like you’re a sunrise.”
Billie’s throat tightens hard.
“That’s exactly how he makes me feel,” she whispers.
Luke Combs keeps singing. The road keeps rolling. Billie holds Sloane’s hand, curls closer to Nugget, and lets the night hold her.
And somewhere just past the Texas line, wrapped in music and friendship and the steady weight of a golden head against her arm, Billie drifts back to sleep — heart full, unguarded, and quietly certain she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.
---
The road out of El Paso stretches long and dark, the kind of darkness that feels almost hollow — endless asphalt, the faint glow of reflective signs sliding past like quiet sentinels. Billie blinks awake slowly, eyes heavy, body humming with that strange wired-tired sensation that only comes in the middle of the night.
Sloane, impossibly, is still humming.
Not loud. Just under her breath — tuneless, half-asleep, the ghost of a melody drifting through the cab.
Billie smiles to herself, then yawns, wide and unguarded, her jaw clicking slightly as she shakes her head and refocuses on the road.
Pecos creeps up on them just after five-thirty. A scattering of lights, a petrol station glowing like a mirage. They pull in, the truck crunching over gravel, the smell of fuel sharp in the cool pre-dawn air.
Billie fills the tank while Sloane stretches like a cat, hoodie dragged on, dark hair a mess. Nugget wakes long enough to demand freedom, tail wagging as he hops out to investigate the world with deep seriousness.
The diner next door is open — 24 HOURS flickering bravely in the window — and they don’t even discuss it.
Inside, the coffee is objectively terrible. Thin. Burnt. But absolutely essential.
Billie cradles the mug in both hands like it might keep her upright through sheer will alone, blowing across the surface before taking a cautious sip. It does the job. Just.
Sloane drinks hers with zero complaint, because of course she does - she’s probably used to terrible diner coffee on night shifts. The waitress eyes them with a mix of pity and efficiency — probably wondering why two thirty-something women are stopping at a random diner in Pecos before six a.m. She slides four hash browns into a paper bag, then pauses, a soft smile breaking through as she tucks an extra strip of bacon inside for Nugget.
“For the road,” she says. “Y’all look like you’ve got a long one ahead of you.”
Billie and Sloane accept it gratefully, a little wearily, fully aware they likely look as rough as they feel.
Back in the truck, Billie slides into the driver’s seat and adjusts the mirrors, shoulders rolling as she settles in. Sloane curls sideways in the passenger seat, hoodie wrapped around her, feet tucked up. Within minutes, she’s asleep — cheek pressed into Billie’s elbow, breathing slow and even.
Nugget snores in the backseat, a low, ridiculous rumble that makes Billie bite back a smile.
She pulls back onto the highway and queues up a soft country playlist. Nothing loud. Just gentle guitars and low voices singing about dancing barefoot, open fields, horses, long roads that lead somewhere meaningful.
Her hands rest steady on the wheel.
Texas unfolds in front of her — long, empty stretches, the road lit only by her headlights and the faint suggestion of dawn beginning to stir. The stars start to thin, the black sky softening at the edges into deep blues and bruised purples.
At 5:43 a.m., her phone lights up quietly in the console.
A voice note.
From Glen.
Her breath catches — not sharply, just enough to notice.
She taps it, lowering the volume, and lets it play softly through the speakers.
His voice is low. Sleep-rough. All Texas warmth and morning gravel.
“Hey, sweetheart…”
A soft breath, right into the mic.
“I’m still in bed… can’t stop thinkin’ about you out there.”
A pause. She can hear him shift slightly.
“I keep seein’ you — all wrapped up, hands on the wheel, lookin’ a little sleepy.”
His voice drops, intimate, unguarded.
“Kinda wish I could pull you under the covers with me.”
Another breath. A smile she can hear.
“Drive safe, baby. I can't wait to see you.”
Billie’s chest tightens — that familiar, aching fullness — and she presses her lips together, blinking once as the road blurs for a second.
She doesn’t reply yet. Just lets his voice settle into her, warm and steady, like a hand at the small of her back.
The sun begins to rise properly then — gold bleeding into pink, the sky slowly catching fire. Billie glances sideways at it, at the vastness of it all, stars fading one by one as the world wakes up around her.
She keeps driving.
Her hands on the wheel.
Her heart full.
--
They pull into Big Spring just after 7am, exhausted, jittery, wired from caffeine and emotion.
A small café is just opening. They stumble inside.
Billie washes her face, freshens up, and changes into the spare outfit she packed - keeping her Levi cut offs, but swapping the tank for a loose white linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to look effortless and not too put together, and certainly not I've-been-driving-for-eighteen-hours. She drags a brush through her waves and sprays her peach perfume, smiling at herself in the bathroom mirror. When she steps out, Sloane grins.
“Oh my god. That man isn’t ready. No one is ready.”
They eat quickly and drink more coffee - infinitely better than the last place's bitter brew.
Nugget charms the waitress into giving him bacon and Billie smiles lovingly at him as he chews quickly.
Sloane snaps a quick photo - coffees held up, wired smiles, Nugget panting happily between them, posting their final leg of the journey to her story.
Back in the car, Sloane is reborn and driving again — caffeine finally hitting her bloodstream with divine force. She turns the volume dial with the reverence of a priest preparing a ritual.
“Alright, sweet cheeks,” she announces. “We are in Texas now. So the playlist must reflect the culture.”
Before Billie can ask what that means, Luke Bryan explodes through the speakers, singing about a country girl shaking it.
Sloane shrieks triumphantly.
“Oh YES. THIS is my origin story.”
The scenery outside shifts quickly — flat stretches of land that go on forever, broken by clusters of wildflowers and fields dotted with grazing cattle. Pastures roll beneath a huge, open sky, the sun rising in bright, burning streaks of gold.
Every few miles, enormous pickup trucks roar past them — Rams, Silverados, F-250s — all looking like they could tow a small moon.
Sloane narrates the passing vehicles with enthusiasm usually reserved for celebrity sightings.
“Oh my god, that truck could run over my entire apartment building.”
“That one’s got six wheels, Billie. SIX.”
“Do you think anyone in this state drives something smaller than a bus?”
“I really feel like I should be wearing a Stetson right now.”
She’s practically line dancing while seated, shimmying her shoulders, tapping her heels, doing tiny yeehaw-finger-guns at passing ranch signs.
Shania Twain comes on next, and Sloane loses her entire mind — belting Any Man of Mine so loudly Nugget jolts awake and looks concerned.
Billie laughs despite her exhaustion, finally leaning her head against the seat, letting the Texas morning wash through her. The rhythm of the music, the energy, the vastness — it feels like something charging through her in warm waves.
The sunlight deepens as they drive, turning Sloane’s hair into a glossy curtain of gold and pulling freckles to the surface on Billie’s cheeks.
“Billie,” Sloane says, breathless between lyrics, “if I marry a cowboy on this trip, I want you to officiate.”
Billie snorts. “You’d be divorced before dessert.”
“Maybe, but I’d look amazing.”
She cranks up the music again, rolling her shoulders like she’s warming up for a two-step competition, and Billie can’t help smiling.
The landscape flickers by in a series of scenes so quintessentially Texas that Billie begins to understand why Glen sounds like he belongs to this place — wide fields, big skies, the feeling of home etched into everything.
A warmth spreads through her chest.
She opens her phone and types.
Billie:
Morning, handsome.
Left Big Spring just under an hour ago.
We should be there at lunch time.
His reply comes as if he’d been waiting.
Glen:
Three hours.
I’m up.
I’m ready.
And I can’t stop thinking about you.
Before she can even comprehend that, another message comes in — a photo — all the air leaving her lungs when she opens it.
Glen is in bed.
Morning sunlight slices across his bare chest, highlighting the defined lines of muscle, the warm tan of his skin.
The sheet sits low.
Too low.
His hair is tousled, eyes half-lidded, his expression that soft, intimate one he only gives her when he’s half-asleep and thinking thoughts he shouldn’t say out loud yet.
Underneath the photo:
Glen:
Wish you were right here next to me.
Billie makes a sound — a strangled, breathless, involuntary noise.
Sloane’s head whips around.
“What the fuck was THAT? Billie, what was that noise?"
“Um—, nothing—” Billie stammers, eyes wide and still glued to the screen.
“SHOW. ME.”
Sloane practically lunges for the phone across the center console.
Billie tries to shield it, but Sloane catches a one-second glimpse and absolutely shrieks.
“OH. MY. GOD. Billie. James. He is sending you SINFUL content.”
Billie’s face erupts into flames. She curls into the passenger seat like she can escape the heat pooling in every inch of her body.
Her fingers find the keyboard on autopilot, trembling.
Billie:
Sir.
You cannot be sending me THOSE when I’m stuck in a car.
I am VERY awake now.
Extremely awake.
Painfully awake.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Glen:
Darlin’…
That was the intention.
Billie squeaks again — a quiet, high-pitched little inhale that betrays her entire soul.
Sloane claws at the steering wheel.
“I CAN’T DRIVE LIKE THIS!” she yells, laughing so hard she nearly swerves. “This man is ILLEGAL.”
Billie covers her face but somehow types again:
Billie:
I hate you.
I really, really hate you.
Glen:
Mm, you sure peach?
Because I’m picturing your face right now
and it does not look like hate.
Her pulse kicks fast and hot.
Billie:
It feels like suffering.
DEEP suffering.
Please put a shirt on.
Or don’t.
I don’t know anymore.
Another message comes through, slower, lower.
Glen:
If you were here
you could take it off me yourself.
Billie chokes.
Sloane slaps the wheel and HOWLS.
“I need you to UNDERSTAND,” she says, tears forming from laughter, “that if you don’t marry this man, I WILL.”
Billie is flushed from her chest to her ears, heat curling through her stomach in tight spirals.
She types one more time:
Billie:
You are evil.
Evil and wrong.
And I’m trapped in a moving vehicle, suffering.
Glen’s next message softens everything.
Glen:
Can't wait to see you baby.
Billie melts back into her seat — all flustered heat and soft, aching anticipation — as Texas rolls out in front of them in wild, sunlit stretches.
She’s never wanted to reach a place so badly.
-----
Glen
Glen is already awake when the morning sun stretches across his chest, warm and lazy. He’s lying on his back, one arm behind his head, scrolling through Billie’s messages for the fourth time.
The last one still kills him:
You are evil.
Evil and wrong.
And I’m trapped in a moving vehicle, suffering.
A slow, satisfied grin spreads across his face.
Yeah.
Yeah, he knew that picture would get her.
But what really gets him — what hits low and sharp — is imagining the exact sound she must’ve made the moment she opened it.
That tiny breath catch.
That soft little gasp she tries to hide but never quite can.
The one that slips out when she’s flustered or wanting.
He loves that sound.
Loves knowing he can pull it from her without even touching her.
Loves knowing she’s in a car across Texas somewhere, thighs squeezing together, biting her lip like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
His phone glows in his hand.
He rereads her line — painfully awake — and laughs under his breath.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Should’ve been here.”
Because if she were here, this morning would look very, very different.
He lets his eyes fall shut, sinking into the thought.
Billie half-asleep beside him, skin warm, lips parted softly, hair a wild, dark halo on his pillow.
He’d roll toward her, hook an arm around her waist, pull her right onto him — soft, warm weight settling exactly where he wants her.
She’d make that little waking-up hum in her throat.
God, he lives for that sound.
He’d kiss her slow at first — her shoulder, her jaw, that sensitive spot under her ear that makes her inhale sharply and dig her fingers into his chest.
He knows every curve of her, every place that reacts instantly to his touch.
He’d map each one with his mouth while she melted under him, pliant and sleepy and his.
Her leg over his hip.
Her body arching into his hands.
Her breath catching again and again as he coaxed those soft morning noises from her — the ones that unravel him more than anything he’s ever known.
A low heat rolls through him, tightening everything.
Yeah.
If she were here, they’d still be in bed.
They wouldn’t get out for hours.
He’s halfway through imagining the way she’d whisper his name when—
A crash downstairs.
Brisket barking.
Someone yelling, “WHY IS THE MILK ON THE FLOOR?”
Glen sighs.
Presses a hand to his face.
Reality is rude as hell.
He sits up, needing a full minute to rein himself back into something passably decent. Breath steady. Shoulders loose. Mind anywhere other than between Billie’s thighs.
When he finally trusts himself not to go downstairs looking feral, he picks up his phone and types the message he’s been thinking since before sunrise:
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Yay road trip! I had so much fun writing this chapter (and the next one)! Can't wait to hear what you all think. I had to split it into two parts because it's so long, so will post the next one ASAP! x
Glen
His flight touches down in Austin at 2:06 p.m., the wheels kissing the runway with a shudder that vibrates up his spine.
Through the tiny oval window, the horizon glows a hazy gold — Texas heat already shimmering off the tarmac like it’s alive. The second he steps out of the jet bridge, it hits him: blistering, heavy, familiar. The kind of heat that smells like sunburnt cedar, exhaust, and nostalgia.
Home.
He flicks off flight mode before he’s even cleared the ramp.
Billie:
Just picked up Sloane.
Texas here we come 🤠
Fly safe, handsome.
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale.
She’s coming. She’s actually doing this — crossing two states, driving twenty hours, just to be where he is.
And God, he hopes he deserves that.
Leslie is waiting near baggage claim, waving both arms like she’s signaling a rescue helicopter.
“MY favourite brother!”
He doesn’t even break stride. “I’m your only brother, Les.”
“Semantics!” She launches herself at him, hugging him so tightly his ribs click. Brisket yips in the carrier like excuse me? I’m fragile.
She immediately scoops him out. “Hi, tiny prince! Did Daddy traumatise you with turbulence? Oh yes he did!”
Glen shakes his head, grinning despite the ache growing behind his sternum — nerves, anticipation, something warm and terrifying.
Leslie chatters nonstop as they walk through the Austin terminal — a wide, airy space of glass windows and polished floors, sunlight pouring in like honey.
“Gwen landed her first jump in the arena! Mom cried, obviously. Witt is going through some macho phase and arm-wrestled the UPS guy this morning like Dwayne Johnson. And Dad bought a new smoker, Glen. A forty-pound monstrosity. It’s blocking the porch. I think he loves it more than us.”
Glen huffs a laugh. “He probably named it.”
“Oh he did. ‘The Holy Smoker.’ It has cupholders.”
They push through the sliding doors into the unforgiving heat, the sky a relentless, endless blue. Leslie’s SUV is baking like a tin can in the sun, and the first blast of air conditioning inside feels like salvation.
The moment they pull onto the highway, she glances sideways at him — assessing, perceptive in that surgical, sisterly way.
“Okay,” she says, tapping the steering wheel. “What’s up with you?”
He blinks. “Nothing.”
Leslie gives him a look that could shatter glass.
“You’re vibrating with nerves, Glen. Like a chihuahua in denim.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. And I haven’t seen you like this since junior prom.”
He drops his head back against the seat and stares at the sky through the windshield — wide and bright and somehow making everything inside him feel more exposed.
“It’s just…” he starts, swallowing. “This weekend is a lot. For anyone. For someone who’s never met the family, who doesn’t know how insane we can be—”
“Glen.” Leslie softens instantly — voice dropping, teasing gone. “She’s not some fragile baby deer.”
“I know, but—”
“No. Listen to me.” She flicks her blinker on and merges with the confidence of someone who fears nothing, least of all death. “She handled me just fine in L.A., which means Billie can handle an entire ranch of Powells in their natural habitat.”
He cracks a smile despite himself.
Leslie continues, gentler now.
“I think you’re worrying about the wrong thing.”
He turns to her, brow raised.
“You’re scared of what this weekend means,” she says simply, “Because you like her — and I mean really like her. And that hasn’t happened in… forever.”
The truth lands so cleanly it knocks the wind from him.
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I just don’t want it to be too much. Too fast.”
Leslie bumps his shoulder with hers, warm and reassuring.
“Then you’ll protect her from the chaos. You always do that — you anchor people. You make them feel safe.”
He swallows hard, throat tight.
“And anyway,” she adds with a grin, “she’s literally driving twenty-something hours for you - which is, insane by the way. That girl is in, Glen. Like… in in.”
His heart kicks — not panic, not dread. Something warmer. Softer. Unfamiliar in a way that scares him more than the paparazzi ever have.
He opens Instagram to distract himself.
Sloane's post loads first on his feed - because of course she followed him almost immediately after Wednesday night.
The selfie hits him like sunlight.
Billie in the driver’s seat, Nugget squished between her and Sloane. Billie’s hair loose and windswept, cheeks a warm sun-kissed bronze, that wide smile that looks like it could power the state grid.
Her honey-green eyes squint with delight, freckles dusting across her cheekbones. The fitted white tank she’s wearing clings in a way that makes his throat close.
She looks… happy.
The caption:
Road trip baby 🤠
📍 LA ➜ Texas
He comments with zero hesitation:
Texas ain’t ready 🔥🤠
Leslie shrieks. “You COMMENTED? Oh my god, you simp.”
“I’m blocking you.”
“No you’re not. You need me. I offer sister advice that you clearly need.”
He ignores her and opens his message thread with Billie. His fingers hover for a moment — nerves fluttering low and hot in his stomach.
He types:
Glen:
Just landed, darlin’. Ridin’ home with Leslie now.
Promise me you’ll stop often, drink water, stretch your legs.
And message me every time you do.
Need you safe.
He hesitates — then adds another, softer:
Glen:
Brisket keeps lookin’ at the road like he’s expectin’ Nugget already.
…And I keep doin’ the same with you, peach.
He hits send and releases a breath.
Outside the window, fields stretch endlessly — golden grass waving in the wind, the sky so wide it feels like it could swallow him whole.
Twenty hours.
Twenty hours until he sees her again.
And for the first time in his life, home doesn’t feel complete without someone who isn’t even here yet.
---
Billie
Billie turns out of Sloane’s street, tyres whispering over the asphalt as she heads toward the highway. The midday sun is bright but not punishing yet, the kind of California warmth that dances across her forearms as she lowers the window. A breeze rushes in — dry, clean, tinged with eucalyptus and ocean salt — filling her lungs with that familiar pre-adventure thrill.
Beside her, Sloane is already in full chaos mode: shoes off, feet kicked onto the dashboard, iced coffee in hand, phone tapping at a speed that probably violates several state laws.
“Alright,” she declares, dramatic as ever, “ready for this? Playlist number one out of four.” She scrolls through Spotify with flair. “It’s giving—Sloane and Billie, nostalgia, best-friends-forever-core. Very us.”
Before Billie can ask what any of that means, the opening of California Gurls blasts out of the speakers so loudly Nugget jolts upright in the backseat.
Billie bursts into laughter — pure, involuntary — because instantly she’s thrown back to seven years ago: a newly transplanted Sloane with a British accent and zero traffic awareness, the two of them driving through LA at midnight, singing badly and loving every second.
“ROAD TRIP BABY!” Sloane screams, flinging one hand to the sky and nearly baptising herself in iced coffee. Nugget barks in solidarity.
“…You could travel the world!”
They’re already screaming.
“…But nothing comes close to the golden coast!”
Nugget howls now, long and dramatic, head tipped back like he’s auditioning for a wolf pack.
“...Once you party with us--”
“...You'll be falling in love--”
“Oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!”
Sloane and Billie lose it completely.
They dance while seated, they drumming the dash, shoulders shaking, voices cracking on every high note. Billie almost misses her exit twice. They sound awful. It’s perfect.
The city thins around them — tall buildings shrinking into desert scrub, the sky widening into an endless blue bowl overhead. Girl pop continues: P!nk, Kelly Clarkson, Beyoncé, the kind of soundtrack that feels like nostalgia, friendship, freedom and reckless joy.
Sloane documents everything.
Selfies. Videos. Nugget’s ears in HD.
“Billie smile—no with your eyes, no with your soul—YES QUEEN—okay that’s going on the story.”
They’re halfway through TEXAS HOLD ‘EM when Sloane suddenly shrieks — the kind of sound that makes Billie physically jolt and nearly skim the Palm Springs exit lane.
“Jesus, Slo!” Billie gasps, clutching the wheel and grimacing at the horn that beeps behind her. “What the fuck?”
“He commented on our photo!” Sloane practically screeches, vibrating with delight. “GLEN. Commented. On. Our. SELFIE.”
Billie’s stomach flips so violently she’s actually grateful for the seatbelt.
Sloane spins her phone around triumphantly.
“Oh my GOD, it’s on my public account too. Like public-public. Anyone can see it. The man is smitten.”
Billie opens her mouth but nothing comes out except air. Warm air. Very warm. Her cheeks are burning.
She’s still trying to process what this means — how it looks, what it implies, whether she’s supposed to faint — when the in-dash voice chimes:
“New message from Glen Powell”
Sloane lunges like a jungle cat, grabbing Billie’s phone from the console before she can blink.
“Oh YES, let Mama read this.”
Billie’s pulse thuds in her throat as Sloane unlocks it and reads aloud, voice melting into exaggerated romance-novel coos.
Sloane squeals. “Oh my GOD, he’s obsessed with you. He’s so obsessed with you. Bec needs to hear this immediately.”
Before Billie can stop her, Sloane is FaceTiming Bec with manic enthusiasm.
Bec answers on ring two — Aubrey babbling in the background — just in time for Sloane to scream-shout the entire update at her.
They fill Bec in on the road trip so far — the playlist, Nugget’s dramatic howling, Billie’s near-death experience via Sloane’s scream, Glen’s comment, Glen’s text.
“Okay, babes, Aubrey’s trying to eat a crayon,” Bec laughs, “send me hourly selfie updates or I’ll cry.”
“We love you!” Sloane and Billie shout in unison before she hangs up.
Silence returns — the good kind — warm wind rushing through the windows, the palm trees along the highway flicking past like green brushstrokes.
Billie glances sideways.
“You are so damn dramatic, you know that?”
Sloane grins like a Cheshire cat and shrugs. “I know. It’s one of the top five reasons you adore me.”
Billie snorts, pushing her shoulder playfully. “Sadly true.”
Sloane wiggles her brows. “And ONE of the reasons Glen likes you? Your taste in friends. You’re welcome.”
Dua Lipa’s voice fades in as Sloane cranks up the volume, and Billie settles back into her seat. She exhales slowly — the kind that feels like it leaves her bones.
Her heart is doing too many things at once.
Excitement. Nerves. Hope.
A kind of quiet thrill she hasn’t let herself feel in years.
Ahead, the road stretches toward Palm Springs — wide, sun-bleached, full of possibility.
Two hours down.
Eighteen to go.
And she can’t stop smiling.
---
Glen
The ranch driveway curves up like a familiar song — the kind he could hum in his sleep. Oak trees arch overhead, their leaves whispering in the warm Texas breeze, cicadas buzzing like an old summer soundtrack. Sunlight spills across the fields, turning everything gold as Leslie’s SUV rolls over the gravel.
“Home sweet chaos,” Leslie mutters, popping her gum.
Brisket whines excitedly in the backseat, nose pressed to the window as if he remembers every inch of this place.
Glen’s chest loosens the moment the house comes into view — huge sandstone walls glowing in the late-afternoon light, porch swing drifting lazily. His childhood, framed neatly in stone, wood and sunlight.
They park under the carport.
The second Glen steps out, the Texas heat hits him all over again, and then the front door slams open.
“UNCLE GLEN!”
Gwen and Witt sprint across the porch — boots thudding, hair flying, pure joy on legs.
Gwen reaches him first, leaping into his arms with the force of a small meteor.
“I JUMPED TODAY!” she announces breathlessly. “A REAL JUMP OVER A REAL POLE!”
“You did?” Glen laughs, lifting her easily and pressing a kiss to her temple, “That’s amazing, sweetheart.”
Witt skids to a stop beside them, arms crossed, attempting seriousness.
“I could jump higher,” he declares.
“No you can’t,” Gwen fires back.
“Yes I can!”
“No you can’t!”
His Dad’s voice booms from inside, “Lord help us.”
Glen sets Gwen down, the kids already sprinting ahead, their argument heating back up with the fierceness of a trial verdict. Then Brisket trots past them, tail wagging, and everything shifts — the debate forgotten as they chase after him in a flurry of boots and laughter. Glen watches the chaos fondly before following them into the cool living room.
Inside the house is bright, familiar — exposed sandstone walls, old hardwood floor, the scent of lemon cleaner, the hum of family.
Leslie steps in behind him. “MOM! I found a stray wanderin’ around LAX!”
His mom appears from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. The moment she sees him, her whole face softens.
“Oh, baby!” She throws her arms around him, squeezing him tight. “Let me look at you — oh sweetheart, L.A. hasn’t fed you properly.”
“Mom, I—”
“Hush, you’re home now.”
Dad hugs him next. “Good to have you home, son.”
Lauren rounds the corner, dropping a laundry basket instantly.
“There he is! My baby brother!”
“Still not a baby,” he says with rolled eyes, already in her embrace.
Will appears behind her, warm handshake, half-hug. “Welcome back, man.”
Then Tom enters the foyer, phone to his ear, suit pants wrinkled like he actually tried to leave work early but got dragged back in.
He covers the receiver with his hand. “Glen! One sec—yeah, Jeff, we’ll revisit those projections Tuesday—Tuesdaayyy—okay, goodbye.” He hangs up, exhales dramatically, then grins and pulls Glen into a hug. “Brother. Welcome home.”
“Tom,” Glen says, laughing. “Still chained to your desk, huh?”
“Until the moment I crack open a beer,” Tom replies. “Which should be in… twenty minutes.”
Mom beams as she ushers everyone toward the kitchen.
“People are coming in all afternoon! Aunt Honey, Uncle Mark, your school boys, the Walkers… and the entire McDaniels family tomorrow for the barbecue.”
Glen’s eyebrows lift. “All of them?”
Dad nods proudly. “Need an audience for The Holy Smoker.”
Lauren snorts. “It’s a grill, Dad.”
“It’s art,” he corrects.
The noise rises in overlapping waves — Lauren and Dad laughing, Leslie teasing Tom, Will desperately trying to mediate the escalating argument between Gwen and Witt. It’s warm and chaotic and everything Glen remembers.
And he thinks — God, I hope this won’t overwhelm Billie.
He slips upstairs to his room, suitcase dragging behind him.
He stops in the doorway.
Still his room — but grown.
Grey-blue paint.
A king bed with a thick navy comforter.
A renovated walk-in bathroom.
Bigger windows overlooking the pasture.
But the childhood pieces remain:
A shelf of fading baseball trophies.
Photos of him and Lauren with gummy smiles.
A cracked, sun-bleached Longhorns poster.
The stuffed armadillo from the state fair still sitting proudly on the shelf.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed.
And immediately imagines Billie here.
Her suitcase by the chair.
Her perfume in the bedding.
Her laughter filling the quiet.
Her legs tucked beneath his on this oversized mattress.
Nugget curled beside Brisket at the foot of the bed.
It hits him hard — unexpectedly tender.
His phone buzzes.
Billie.
It’s a photo of her, leaning against the car in warm, desert sun, hair loose and shining in soft, glossy waves. Her honey-green eyes squint with a soft smile, lips parted happily. Nugget sits proudly beside her, tongue hanging out.
She looks golden.
Happy.
Beautiful in that effortless way she doesn’t even notice.
His heart flips.
Billie:
First stop, cowboy 🤠
Palm Springs is already roasting us alive.
Nugget’s thriving.
Sloane’s inside getting coffee #2.
How’s home?
Glen types slowly, honesty softening every word.
Glen:
You look beautiful, darlin’.
Sun loves you.
Home’s loud as always.
Feels better knowin’ you’re gettin’ closer.
Where’s your next stop?
Three dots.
Then—
Billie:
Phoenix.
Nugget’s supervising.
He says you owe him a treat.
Glen laughs, warmth blooming through his chest.
From downstairs, Gwen shrieks:
“UNCLE GLEN IS TEXTING HIS GIRLFRIEND!”
He groans, dragging a hand over his face as he types.
Glen:
Gwen just yelled that you’re my girlfriend.
Whole house went quiet for a second.
Didn’t hate how that sounded.
Hope Palm Springs is calmer than this house.
Three dots pulse again, soft and steady.
Billie:
Your family is sweet.
I can’t wait to meet them.
We’re heading out again soon.
Next stop in
Peach out 🍑✌️
He stares at the last message, smiling like someone just shifted the world half an inch into place.
He’s still smiling when a soft voice appears in the doorway.
“Well,” his mom says gently, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, “that’s a look I haven’t seen on you in a long time.”
Glen startles just a little, then huffs a breath that’s half laugh, half caught-off-guard affection.
“You okay in here, sweetheart? You disappeared on us.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… catching up.”
Her eyes dip to the phone in his hand.
She raises an eyebrow — knowing, patient, soft.
“Who’s got my boy smiling like that?”
Glen hesitates for half a second before turning the screen toward her, thumb tapping the photo open.
“It’s Billie.”
His mom steps closer, taking the phone carefully as if it’s something delicate.
The Palm Springs photo lights up the remodeled room — Billie golden in the desert sun, eyes bright, hair tousled by heat and wind, Nugget panting happily beside her.
“Oh…” she breathes. “She’s lovely.”
Glen swallows. “Yeah. She is.”
His mom studies the picture a moment longer — not judging, just taking her in.
“She looks happy,” she says softly. “And kind. And… real.”
A beat.
“And she makes you happy. I can see that.”
Glen’s chest warms, tightens, unwinds all at once.
He nods. “Yeah. She does.”
She reaches out and smooths his hair like she did when he was little — a quiet, grounding gesture.
“Good,” she says simply. “I like her already.”
He laughs under his breath.
His mom hands the phone back, then gestures around the room with a small smile.
“You know this room’s barely yours anymore,” she teases. “We updated it a few years back. King bed, new bathroom, better light… but I left a few things. Thought you might want pieces of where you came from.”
Glen looks around — the navy comforter, the new walk-in bathroom, the larger windows — and then the old trophies, crooked longhorns posters, childhood photos.
It somehow feels like the perfect blend of past and future.
Like a place he could bring someone home to.
Someone like Billie.
His mom watches the look on his face soften.
“Feels like it fits you now,” she says quietly. “All grown up.”
He glances at the bed — imagining Billie stretched out there, hair spilling across the pillow, Nugget curled at her feet, Brisket claiming whatever space he can.
His mom catches the flicker in his expression.
“That girl of yours,” she says slowly, “I have a feeling she’s gonna fit here too.”
Glen’s breath stutters — not in fear, but in something dangerously close to hope.
His mom pats his arm once, gentle. “Come down whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”
And she slips out, leaving him alone in the quiet, the warmth of her words lingering, and Billie’s photo still glowing in his hand.
Yay road trip! I had so much fun writing this chapter (and the next one)! Can't wait to hear what you all think. I had to split it into two parts because it's so long, so will post the next one ASAP! x
Glen
His flight touches down in Austin at 2:06 p.m., the wheels kissing the runway with a shudder that vibrates up his spine.
Through the tiny oval window, the horizon glows a hazy gold — Texas heat already shimmering off the tarmac like it’s alive. The second he steps out of the jet bridge, it hits him: blistering, heavy, familiar. The kind of heat that smells like sunburnt cedar, exhaust, and nostalgia.
Home.
He flicks off flight mode before he’s even cleared the ramp.
Billie:
Just picked up Sloane.
Texas here we come 🤠
Fly safe, handsome.
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale.
She’s coming. She’s actually doing this — crossing two states, driving twenty hours, just to be where he is.
And God, he hopes he deserves that.
Leslie is waiting near baggage claim, waving both arms like she’s signaling a rescue helicopter.
“MY favourite brother!”
He doesn’t even break stride. “I’m your only brother, Les.”
“Semantics!” She launches herself at him, hugging him so tightly his ribs click. Brisket yips in the carrier like excuse me? I’m fragile.
She immediately scoops him out. “Hi, tiny prince! Did Daddy traumatise you with turbulence? Oh yes he did!”
Glen shakes his head, grinning despite the ache growing behind his sternum — nerves, anticipation, something warm and terrifying.
Leslie chatters nonstop as they walk through the Austin terminal — a wide, airy space of glass windows and polished floors, sunlight pouring in like honey.
“Gwen landed her first jump in the arena! Mom cried, obviously. Witt is going through some macho phase and arm-wrestled the UPS guy this morning like Dwayne Johnson. And Dad bought a new smoker, Glen. A forty-pound monstrosity. It’s blocking the porch. I think he loves it more than us.”
Glen huffs a laugh. “He probably named it.”
“Oh he did. ‘The Holy Smoker.’ It has cupholders.”
They push through the sliding doors into the unforgiving heat, the sky a relentless, endless blue. Leslie’s SUV is baking like a tin can in the sun, and the first blast of air conditioning inside feels like salvation.
The moment they pull onto the highway, she glances sideways at him — assessing, perceptive in that surgical, sisterly way.
“Okay,” she says, tapping the steering wheel. “What’s up with you?”
He blinks. “Nothing.”
Leslie gives him a look that could shatter glass.
“You’re vibrating with nerves, Glen. Like a chihuahua in denim.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. And I haven’t seen you like this since junior prom.”
He drops his head back against the seat and stares at the sky through the windshield — wide and bright and somehow making everything inside him feel more exposed.
“It’s just…” he starts, swallowing. “This weekend is a lot. For anyone. For someone who’s never met the family, who doesn’t know how insane we can be—”
“Glen.” Leslie softens instantly — voice dropping, teasing gone. “She’s not some fragile baby deer.”
“I know, but—”
“No. Listen to me.” She flicks her blinker on and merges with the confidence of someone who fears nothing, least of all death. “She handled me just fine in L.A., which means Billie can handle an entire ranch of Powells in their natural habitat.”
He cracks a smile despite himself.
Leslie continues, gentler now.
“I think you’re worrying about the wrong thing.”
He turns to her, brow raised.
“You’re scared of what this weekend means,” she says simply, “Because you like her — and I mean really like her. And that hasn’t happened in… forever.”
The truth lands so cleanly it knocks the wind from him.
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I just don’t want it to be too much. Too fast.”
Leslie bumps his shoulder with hers, warm and reassuring.
“Then you’ll protect her from the chaos. You always do that — you anchor people. You make them feel safe.”
He swallows hard, throat tight.
“And anyway,” she adds with a grin, “she’s literally driving twenty-something hours for you - which is, insane by the way. That girl is in, Glen. Like… in in.”
His heart kicks — not panic, not dread. Something warmer. Softer. Unfamiliar in a way that scares him more than the paparazzi ever have.
He opens Instagram to distract himself.
Sloane's post loads first on his feed - because of course she followed him almost immediately after Wednesday night.
The selfie hits him like sunlight.
Billie in the driver’s seat, Nugget squished between her and Sloane. Billie’s hair loose and windswept, cheeks a warm sun-kissed bronze, that wide smile that looks like it could power the state grid.
Her honey-green eyes squint with delight, freckles dusting across her cheekbones. The fitted white tank she’s wearing clings in a way that makes his throat close.
She looks… happy.
The caption:
Road trip baby 🤠
📍 LA ➜ Texas
He comments with zero hesitation:
Texas ain’t ready 🔥🤠
Leslie shrieks. “You COMMENTED? Oh my god, you simp.”
“I’m blocking you.”
“No you’re not. You need me. I offer sister advice that you clearly need.”
He ignores her and opens his message thread with Billie. His fingers hover for a moment — nerves fluttering low and hot in his stomach.
He types:
Glen:
Just landed, darlin’. Ridin’ home with Leslie now.
Promise me you’ll stop often, drink water, stretch your legs.
And message me every time you do.
Need you safe.
He hesitates — then adds another, softer:
Glen:
Brisket keeps lookin’ at the road like he’s expectin’ Nugget already.
…And I keep doin’ the same with you, peach.
He hits send and releases a breath.
Outside the window, fields stretch endlessly — golden grass waving in the wind, the sky so wide it feels like it could swallow him whole.
Twenty hours.
Twenty hours until he sees her again.
And for the first time in his life, home doesn’t feel complete without someone who isn’t even here yet.
---
Billie
Billie turns out of Sloane’s street, tyres whispering over the asphalt as she heads toward the highway. The midday sun is bright but not punishing yet, the kind of California warmth that dances across her forearms as she lowers the window. A breeze rushes in — dry, clean, tinged with eucalyptus and ocean salt — filling her lungs with that familiar pre-adventure thrill.
Beside her, Sloane is already in full chaos mode: shoes off, feet kicked onto the dashboard, iced coffee in hand, phone tapping at a speed that probably violates several state laws.
“Alright,” she declares, dramatic as ever, “ready for this? Playlist number one out of four.” She scrolls through Spotify with flair. “It’s giving—Sloane and Billie, nostalgia, best-friends-forever-core. Very us.”
Before Billie can ask what any of that means, the opening of California Gurls blasts out of the speakers so loudly Nugget jolts upright in the backseat.
Billie bursts into laughter — pure, involuntary — because instantly she’s thrown back to seven years ago: a newly transplanted Sloane with a British accent and zero traffic awareness, the two of them driving through LA at midnight, singing badly and loving every second.
“ROAD TRIP BABY!” Sloane screams, flinging one hand to the sky and nearly baptising herself in iced coffee. Nugget barks in solidarity.
“…You could travel the world!”
They’re already screaming.
“…But nothing comes close to the golden coast!”
Nugget howls now, long and dramatic, head tipped back like he’s auditioning for a wolf pack.
“...Once you party with us--”
“...You'll be falling in love--”
“Oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!”
Sloane and Billie lose it completely.
They dance while seated, they drumming the dash, shoulders shaking, voices cracking on every high note. Billie almost misses her exit twice. They sound awful. It’s perfect.
The city thins around them — tall buildings shrinking into desert scrub, the sky widening into an endless blue bowl overhead. Girl pop continues: P!nk, Kelly Clarkson, Beyoncé, the kind of soundtrack that feels like nostalgia, friendship, freedom and reckless joy.
Sloane documents everything.
Selfies. Videos. Nugget’s ears in HD.
“Billie smile—no with your eyes, no with your soul—YES QUEEN—okay that’s going on the story.”
They’re halfway through TEXAS HOLD ‘EM when Sloane suddenly shrieks — the kind of sound that makes Billie physically jolt and nearly skim the Palm Springs exit lane.
“Jesus, Slo!” Billie gasps, clutching the wheel and grimacing at the horn that beeps behind her. “What the fuck?”
“He commented on our photo!” Sloane practically screeches, vibrating with delight. “GLEN. Commented. On. Our. SELFIE.”
Billie’s stomach flips so violently she’s actually grateful for the seatbelt.
Sloane spins her phone around triumphantly.
“Oh my GOD, it’s on my public account too. Like public-public. Anyone can see it. The man is smitten.”
Billie opens her mouth but nothing comes out except air. Warm air. Very warm. Her cheeks are burning.
She’s still trying to process what this means — how it looks, what it implies, whether she’s supposed to faint — when the in-dash voice chimes:
“New message from Glen Powell”
Sloane lunges like a jungle cat, grabbing Billie’s phone from the console before she can blink.
“Oh YES, let Mama read this.”
Billie’s pulse thuds in her throat as Sloane unlocks it and reads aloud, voice melting into exaggerated romance-novel coos.
Sloane squeals. “Oh my GOD, he’s obsessed with you. He’s so obsessed with you. Bec needs to hear this immediately.”
Before Billie can stop her, Sloane is FaceTiming Bec with manic enthusiasm.
Bec answers on ring two — Aubrey babbling in the background — just in time for Sloane to scream-shout the entire update at her.
They fill Bec in on the road trip so far — the playlist, Nugget’s dramatic howling, Billie’s near-death experience via Sloane’s scream, Glen’s comment, Glen’s text.
“Okay, babes, Aubrey’s trying to eat a crayon,” Bec laughs, “send me hourly selfie updates or I’ll cry.”
“We love you!” Sloane and Billie shout in unison before she hangs up.
Silence returns — the good kind — warm wind rushing through the windows, the palm trees along the highway flicking past like green brushstrokes.
Billie glances sideways.
“You are so damn dramatic, you know that?”
Sloane grins like a Cheshire cat and shrugs. “I know. It’s one of the top five reasons you adore me.”
Billie snorts, pushing her shoulder playfully. “Sadly true.”
Sloane wiggles her brows. “And ONE of the reasons Glen likes you? Your taste in friends. You’re welcome.”
Dua Lipa’s voice fades in as Sloane cranks up the volume, and Billie settles back into her seat. She exhales slowly — the kind that feels like it leaves her bones.
Her heart is doing too many things at once.
Excitement. Nerves. Hope.
A kind of quiet thrill she hasn’t let herself feel in years.
Ahead, the road stretches toward Palm Springs — wide, sun-bleached, full of possibility.
Two hours down.
Eighteen to go.
And she can’t stop smiling.
---
Glen
The ranch driveway curves up like a familiar song — the kind he could hum in his sleep. Oak trees arch overhead, their leaves whispering in the warm Texas breeze, cicadas buzzing like an old summer soundtrack. Sunlight spills across the fields, turning everything gold as Leslie’s SUV rolls over the gravel.
“Home sweet chaos,” Leslie mutters, popping her gum.
Brisket whines excitedly in the backseat, nose pressed to the window as if he remembers every inch of this place.
Glen’s chest loosens the moment the house comes into view — huge sandstone walls glowing in the late-afternoon light, porch swing drifting lazily. His childhood, framed neatly in stone, wood and sunlight.
They park under the carport.
The second Glen steps out, the Texas heat hits him all over again, and then the front door slams open.
“UNCLE GLEN!”
Gwen and Witt sprint across the porch — boots thudding, hair flying, pure joy on legs.
Gwen reaches him first, leaping into his arms with the force of a small meteor.
“I JUMPED TODAY!” she announces breathlessly. “A REAL JUMP OVER A REAL POLE!”
“You did?” Glen laughs, lifting her easily and pressing a kiss to her temple, “That’s amazing, sweetheart.”
Witt skids to a stop beside them, arms crossed, attempting seriousness.
“I could jump higher,” he declares.
“No you can’t,” Gwen fires back.
“Yes I can!”
“No you can’t!”
His Dad’s voice booms from inside, “Lord help us.”
Glen sets Gwen down, the kids already sprinting ahead, their argument heating back up with the fierceness of a trial verdict. Then Brisket trots past them, tail wagging, and everything shifts — the debate forgotten as they chase after him in a flurry of boots and laughter. Glen watches the chaos fondly before following them into the cool living room.
Inside the house is bright, familiar — exposed sandstone walls, old hardwood floor, the scent of lemon cleaner, the hum of family.
Leslie steps in behind him. “MOM! I found a stray wanderin’ around LAX!”
His mom appears from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. The moment she sees him, her whole face softens.
“Oh, baby!” She throws her arms around him, squeezing him tight. “Let me look at you — oh sweetheart, L.A. hasn’t fed you properly.”
“Mom, I—”
“Hush, you’re home now.”
Dad hugs him next. “Good to have you home, son.”
Lauren rounds the corner, dropping a laundry basket instantly.
“There he is! My baby brother!”
“Still not a baby,” he says with rolled eyes, already in her embrace.
Will appears behind her, warm handshake, half-hug. “Welcome back, man.”
Then Tom enters the foyer, phone to his ear, suit pants wrinkled like he actually tried to leave work early but got dragged back in.
He covers the receiver with his hand. “Glen! One sec—yeah, Jeff, we’ll revisit those projections Tuesday—Tuesdaayyy—okay, goodbye.” He hangs up, exhales dramatically, then grins and pulls Glen into a hug. “Brother. Welcome home.”
“Tom,” Glen says, laughing. “Still chained to your desk, huh?”
“Until the moment I crack open a beer,” Tom replies. “Which should be in… twenty minutes.”
Mom beams as she ushers everyone toward the kitchen.
“People are coming in all afternoon! Aunt Honey, Uncle Mark, your school boys, the Walkers… and the entire McDaniels family tomorrow for the barbecue.”
Glen’s eyebrows lift. “All of them?”
Dad nods proudly. “Need an audience for The Holy Smoker.”
Lauren snorts. “It’s a grill, Dad.”
“It’s art,” he corrects.
The noise rises in overlapping waves — Lauren and Dad laughing, Leslie teasing Tom, Will desperately trying to mediate the escalating argument between Gwen and Witt. It’s warm and chaotic and everything Glen remembers.
And he thinks — God, I hope this won’t overwhelm Billie.
He slips upstairs to his room, suitcase dragging behind him.
He stops in the doorway.
Still his room — but grown.
Grey-blue paint.
A king bed with a thick navy comforter.
A renovated walk-in bathroom.
Bigger windows overlooking the pasture.
But the childhood pieces remain:
A shelf of fading baseball trophies.
Photos of him and Lauren with gummy smiles.
A cracked, sun-bleached Longhorns poster.
The stuffed armadillo from the state fair still sitting proudly on the shelf.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed.
And immediately imagines Billie here.
Her suitcase by the chair.
Her perfume in the bedding.
Her laughter filling the quiet.
Her legs tucked beneath his on this oversized mattress.
Nugget curled beside Brisket at the foot of the bed.
It hits him hard — unexpectedly tender.
His phone buzzes.
Billie.
It’s a photo of her, leaning against the car in warm, desert sun, hair loose and shining in soft, glossy waves. Her honey-green eyes squint with a soft smile, lips parted happily. Nugget sits proudly beside her, tongue hanging out.
She looks golden.
Happy.
Beautiful in that effortless way she doesn’t even notice.
His heart flips.
Billie:
First stop, cowboy 🤠
Palm Springs is already roasting us alive.
Nugget’s thriving.
Sloane’s inside getting coffee #2.
How’s home?
Glen types slowly, honesty softening every word.
Glen:
You look beautiful, darlin’.
Sun loves you.
Home’s loud as always.
Feels better knowin’ you’re gettin’ closer.
Where’s your next stop?
Three dots.
Then—
Billie:
Phoenix.
Nugget’s supervising.
He says you owe him a treat.
Glen laughs, warmth blooming through his chest.
From downstairs, Gwen shrieks:
“UNCLE GLEN IS TEXTING HIS GIRLFRIEND!”
He groans, dragging a hand over his face as he types.
Glen:
Gwen just yelled that you’re my girlfriend.
Whole house went quiet for a second.
Didn’t hate how that sounded.
Hope Palm Springs is calmer than this house.
Three dots pulse again, soft and steady.
Billie:
Your family is sweet.
I can’t wait to meet them.
We’re heading out again soon.
Next stop in
Peach out 🍑✌️
He stares at the last message, smiling like someone just shifted the world half an inch into place.
He’s still smiling when a soft voice appears in the doorway.
“Well,” his mom says gently, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, “that’s a look I haven’t seen on you in a long time.”
Glen startles just a little, then huffs a breath that’s half laugh, half caught-off-guard affection.
“You okay in here, sweetheart? You disappeared on us.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… catching up.”
Her eyes dip to the phone in his hand.
She raises an eyebrow — knowing, patient, soft.
“Who’s got my boy smiling like that?”
Glen hesitates for half a second before turning the screen toward her, thumb tapping the photo open.
“It’s Billie.”
His mom steps closer, taking the phone carefully as if it’s something delicate.
The Palm Springs photo lights up the remodeled room — Billie golden in the desert sun, eyes bright, hair tousled by heat and wind, Nugget panting happily beside her.
“Oh…” she breathes. “She’s lovely.”
Glen swallows. “Yeah. She is.”
His mom studies the picture a moment longer — not judging, just taking her in.
“She looks happy,” she says softly. “And kind. And… real.”
A beat.
“And she makes you happy. I can see that.”
Glen’s chest warms, tightens, unwinds all at once.
He nods. “Yeah. She does.”
She reaches out and smooths his hair like she did when he was little — a quiet, grounding gesture.
“Good,” she says simply. “I like her already.”
He laughs under his breath.
His mom hands the phone back, then gestures around the room with a small smile.
“You know this room’s barely yours anymore,” she teases. “We updated it a few years back. King bed, new bathroom, better light… but I left a few things. Thought you might want pieces of where you came from.”
Glen looks around — the navy comforter, the new walk-in bathroom, the larger windows — and then the old trophies, crooked longhorns posters, childhood photos.
It somehow feels like the perfect blend of past and future.
Like a place he could bring someone home to.
Someone like Billie.
His mom watches the look on his face soften.
“Feels like it fits you now,” she says quietly. “All grown up.”
He glances at the bed — imagining Billie stretched out there, hair spilling across the pillow, Nugget curled at her feet, Brisket claiming whatever space he can.
His mom catches the flicker in his expression.
“That girl of yours,” she says slowly, “I have a feeling she’s gonna fit here too.”
Glen’s breath stutters — not in fear, but in something dangerously close to hope.
His mom pats his arm once, gentle. “Come down whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”
And she slips out, leaving him alone in the quiet, the warmth of her words lingering, and Billie’s photo still glowing in his hand.
You can’t just add a Glen gif in the middle of a chapter because now I’m distracted and can’t stop looking at it and torn because I want to keep reading 😭😭😭😭😭
(but don’t ever stop because it definitely adds extra oomf 😮💨🥵)
Sooo I finished watching His & Hers over the weekend and had a minor conniption over Jon Bernthal. That man is FINE. I've always loved him in The Bear, The Punisher and in the Accountant (because Brax was THE BEST), but he absolutely killed it in this show.
Anyway, couldn't help myself, and wrote a mini fic (probably will have two or three parts), and full disclosure it's basically PWP, and extremely smutty and probably the most full on thing I've ever written. So, enjoy! I only own the ofc and obviously this is purely a work of fiction and has no bearing on JB the man himself x
Pairing: Jon Bernthal x OFC (Bea)
Words: 2.7K
Warnings: Swearing, SMUTTT, probably a bit of an implied age gap (Bea is early 30's, JB is mid 40's?)
**thank you to whoever created this gif 🙏
Bea
Bea pushes through the heavy wooden door of The Dead Rabbit, the January wind chasing her inside before the warmth engulfs her completely.
The pub pulses with life: low wooden beams overhead strung with amber Edison bulbs spilling golden light across scarred tables and crowded booths, the steady thrum of Irish folk rock weaving through bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses. Whiskey smoke curls thick in the air, mingling with the sweet bite of spilled cocktails and the faint vanilla of someone’s perfume. It’s Friday night in the Financial District—bodies pressed close, energy raw and electric.
She cuts through it like she owns every inch.
The black leather mini skirt clings to her thick hips and thighs, riding high with each step to tease golden skin above knee-high black boots. The tight white knit turtleneck molds to her full breasts, thin fabric hinting at the delicate white lace bra underneath—angelic, soft, a perfect deception for the fire burning in her veins. Matching white lace panties shift against her skin with every sway, a secret that makes her feel sinful even as the outfit whispers innocence. Long dark hair is swept into a high, glossy ponytail that bounces defiantly. Red lips bright and bold. Winged liner sharp as a knife.
Her friends tumble in behind her, already tipsy from pre-game wine at Jess’s loft.
Mia cradles a half-empty rosé like a baby. Jess grips a bright pink gin fizz, straw bobbing. They claim a high-top near the back, bags and jackets piling in chaos.
“Look at Miss Purity tonight,” Jess teases, eyes raking over the white turtleneck. “Lace bra peeking through? You’re giving Sunday school teacher who just discovered sin.”
Mia giggles into her glass. “But then she orders man drinks. Old Fashioned. Straight bourbon. Who is this woman?”
Bea slides onto a stool, crosses her legs so the leather skirt rides up another dangerous inch, ponytail swinging.
“I’m the one who runs the trauma bay at Mount Sinai,” she says calmly. “Tonight? I want someone else running me.”
They erupt—cheers, clinking glasses, Jess chanting, “Get railed! Get railed!”
Bea signals the server with a lazy wave. “An Old Fashioned, please. Extra cherries.”
The drinks land fast. Her friends sip their sweet, fruity things; she takes the bourbon like a challenge, the burn sliding down hot and smooth, spreading fire through her chest. One. Two. By the third, the room glows softer, her laughter sharper—bolder. The white lace underneath feels like armor: pure on the outside, wicked beneath.
She feels the pull before she sees him.
At the far end of the bar, surrounded by a loose knot of friends—three or four guys in dark jackets, laughing low, beers in hand—stands Jon Bernthal. The Walking Dead. The Punisher. The Bear. Jon fucking Bernthal.
Broad shoulders fill out a charcoal suit jacket, black button-down open at the throat, sleeves rolled to thick, veined forearms. Dark trousers hug powerful thighs. Stubble rough, eyes shadowed under heavy brows. Broody. Dangerous. Radiating that coiled intensity even while joking with his crew.
Their eyes lock across the crowded space.
No smile. Just heat—slow, deliberate, electric.
Bea holds it, lets her gaze drag over him: boots, long legs, chest, stubbled jaw, those dark eyes that look like they could devour her whole. Then she lifts her chin—a tiny, regal nod toward the bartender.
The bartender gets it. Pours a fresh whiskey neat, slides it toward Jon without a word.
Bea slips cash across the bar, fingers lingering a beat, then turns away. Her ponytail bounces once. Hips roll confidently as she walks back to the table like she didn’t just silently buy a Hollywood actor a drink in front of his friends.
Her friends miss nothing.
“Holy shit, B,” Mia whispers, eyes wide. “You just eye-fucked the entire bar and bought drinks for the guy with the Punisher face.”
Bea sips her drink, casual. “Actions speak louder.”
Twenty minutes later, her glass is empty again.
She stands—smooth, predatory—and heads back to the bar.
A fresh Old Fashioned waits: double pour, bitters, extra cherries speared like an offering. Next to it, his whiskey—refilled.
He’s separated from his group now, leaning one hip against the bar, body angled toward her spot. Up close, he’s overwhelming—tall, thick, radiating that raw, broody energy that makes her thighs clench.
She picks up her glass, takes a slow sip, eyes locked on his.
“You didn’t have to buy me back,” she says, voice low, teasing.
Jon’s crooked smile is pure danger. “Yeah, I did. You started it, sweetheart. I’m just playin’ along.”
His voice rolls over her—accent thick, gravel and smoke, the kind she already imagines growled low in her ear while he’s buried deep.
She leans in, breasts nearly brushing his chest, the thin knit doing nothing to hide how hard her nipples are under the white lace.
“Careful. I don’t do subtle when I’m tipsy.”
His eyes darken. “Good. Neither do I.”
He shifts—thigh sliding between hers, pressing firm, pinning her lightly against the bar. The contact sparks straight to her core.
“Name’s Jon,” he murmurs, like it’s just for her.
“Bea.” She lets the name hang, red lips curving. “And I know exactly who you are. But tonight? You’re just the guy staring like he wants to wreck me.”
Jon chuckles—low, rough, vibrating through the space between them.
“Wreck you? Nah. I wanna take my time. Peel that pretty white top off slow. See what’s underneath. Bet it’s lace. Bet you look like an angel even when you’re sinning.”
Her breath hitches. The lace bra suddenly feels too tight—too innocent—for the heat pooling between her legs.
She tilts her head, ponytail swinging, voice dropping to a whisper.
“Keep talking like that, and I might let you find out.”
His hand finally moves: fingertips grazing the bare skin above her skirt, tracing the edge slow and deliberate.
“Tempting. Real tempting.”
They stay like that—locked in heat, bodies inches apart, the bar noise fading. His friends glance over occasionally, smirking, but he doesn’t break eye contact.
The anticipation coils tighter.
Neither moves to leave.
Not yet.
The night is too good to rush.
Jon
Jon leans against the bar, one elbow braced on the polished wood, whiskey glass cradled in his palm like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
His crew is still laughing a few feet away—Mark telling some bullshit story about a set in Brooklyn, the others half-listening, beers in hand—but Jon’s attention is gone. Locked. Across the room, she’s moving back to her table like she didn’t just buy him a drink without a single word.
He watches her go: black leather skirt hugging those thick hips, swaying with every step; white knit top clinging to full curves, the faint outline of lace underneath catching the amber light like a promise; high ponytail bouncing, red lips curved in that quiet, dangerous way. She’s tall, confident, walking like the whole bar belongs to her.
And fuck—maybe it does.
He feels the pull low in his gut—raw, immediate. The kind he hasn’t felt in a long time.
The bartender slides the fresh whiskey toward him without asking. Jon lifts it in a silent toast across the room, even though she’s already turned away. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to. The message landed.
His boys notice.
“Yo, Bernthal,” Mark calls, smirking. “You good? You look like you just saw a ghost. Or a really hot one.”
Jon takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving her table.
“Shut up.”
They laugh. He doesn’t.
Twenty minutes drag. He talks when he has to—nods, grunts, half-listens—but his body stays angled toward her the whole time. Every laugh, every toss of that ponytail, every time she crosses those long legs and the leather rides higher, he feels it like a punch.
When she finally stands again—smooth, predatory—he’s already moving.
He separates from the group without a word, steps up to the bar, signals for another round. The bartender knows the drill now: bourbon Old Fashioned for her, bitters, extra cherries speared. His whiskey refilled.
She arrives like she was always coming straight to him.
Up close, she’s even more lethal.
Golden skin glowing under the lights, big green eyes sharp and smoky, winged liner cutting clean lines. Red lips glossy, parted just enough to make him imagine them wrapped around—
He cuts the thought. Barely.
She picks up the drink he bought her, takes a slow sip, eyes locked on his over the rim of the glass.
“You didn’t have to buy me back,” she says, voice low, teasing, a soft foreign lilt curling around her words that he can’t quite place.
Jon’s crooked smile comes slow.
“Yeah, I did. You started it, sweetheart. I’m just playin’ along.”
He steps in closer—close enough that her heat hits him, close enough that the thin white knit does nothing to hide how hard her nipples are. His thigh slides between hers, pressing firm, pinning her lightly against the bar. The contact is electric. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just arches a fraction, like she’s daring him to push further.
“Name’s Jon,” he murmurs, voice dropping low, thick with that smokey accent he knows women hear in their dreams.
“Bea.” She lets the name hang between them, red lips curving. “And I know exactly who you are. But tonight? You’re just the guy staring like he wants to wreck me.”
The words hit him like a shot of bourbon—hot, fast, straight to the bloodstream. He chuckles, low and rough, the sound vibrating in the inch of space left between their bodies.
“Wreck you?” He leans in, lips brushing the shell of her ear, breath hot.
“Nah. I wanna take my time. Peel that pretty white top off slow. See what’s underneath. Bet it’s lace. Bet you look like an angel even when you’re sinning.”
Her breath hitches—just a fraction—but he hears it. Feels it. The way her thighs clench around his, the way her fingers tighten on the glass.
She tilts her head, ponytail swinging, voice dropping to a whisper that goes straight to his cock.
“Keep talking like that, and I might let you find out.”
His hand moves—slow, deliberate—fingertips grazing the bare skin just above the waistband of her skirt, tracing the edge of leather and heat.
“Tempting. Real tempting.”
He pulls back just enough to look at her—really look. Green eyes dark with want, red lips parted, cheeks flushed from bourbon and whatever this is between them. She’s not pretending. Not playing coy. She’s all in, and it’s fucking intoxicating.
“You always this bold?” he asks, thumb stroking a slow circle over the soft skin at her hip.
“Only when I’ve had three of these,” she admits, lifting the glass between them, “and only when the guy looks like he could pin me to the nearest wall without breaking a sweat.”
Jon groans low in his throat, grip tightening just enough to make her gasp.
“Careful, sweetheart. Keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna test that theory right here.”
She smiles—slow, wicked, dangerous.
“Then test it.”
He doesn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he stays close—too close—letting the tension coil tighter. His thumb keeps tracing lazy circles on her hip. Her hand rests lightly on his chest, feeling the hard thud of his heart under the black shirt.
The bar noise fades. His friends glance over, smirking, but he doesn’t care.
All he sees is her.
All he wants is more time to let this build.
Because when it finally snaps?
It’s gonna be worth every second of the wait.
---
Bea’s hand lingers on his chest a second longer than necessary, fingers splayed over the hard thud of his heart beneath the black shirt.
Jon feels it like a brand—hot, deliberate, pulling him deeper into whatever this is. He doesn’t move his thigh from between hers; if anything he presses a fraction firmer, just enough to feel her pulse jump where their bodies meet. The bar is loud around them—laughter, glasses clinking, some guy yelling over the music—but it all fades to white noise. There’s only her: green eyes dark and steady, red lips parted, the faint scent of bourbon and something citrusy rising off her skin.
She tilts her head, ponytail swinging, and lets her voice drop low enough that only he can hear it over the noise.
“So, Jon,” she says, drawing out his name like she’s tasting it. “You gonna keep me pinned here all night, or are you actually gonna do something about the way you’re looking at me?”
He exhales a rough laugh through his nose, the sound more growl than anything else. “Sweetheart, if I do somethin’ about it right now, we’re both gettin’ arrested for public indecency.”
Her smile flashes—quick, wicked. “Is that a promise?”
Christ, she’s dangerous.
Jon shifts his weight, sliding his hand from her hip to the small of her back, palm flat and possessive against the dip of her spine. The thin knit does nothing to hide how warm she is, how soft the curve feels under his callused fingers. He leans in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear, voice gravel-thick.
“You know what I’m thinkin’ about?” he murmurs, breath hot against her skin. “How that lace is probably soaked through already. How those pretty thighs of yours are gonna shake when I finally get my mouth on you. How loud you’re gonna be when I’m buried so deep you forget your own name.”
Bea’s breath catches—sharp, audible—and her nails dig into his shirt just enough to sting. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t even try. Instead she turns her face toward his, red lips so close he can taste the bourbon on her exhale.
“You talk a big game,” she whispers, voice husky. “But I’m not the type to take someone’s word for it.”
His grip tightens on her back, thumb pressing into the soft flesh just above the waistband of her skirt. “Then let me prove it.”
He pulls back just enough to look at her—really look. Her pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed deeper than the bourbon alone can account for, lips glossy and slightly swollen from biting them. She’s not pretending. She’s burning, same as him.
Jon glances sideways—his friends are still at the far end of the bar, Mark raising his beer in a mocking salute, the others grinning like idiots. He doesn’t give a shit. Let them watch. Let the whole damn place watch.
He brings his free hand up, slow, deliberate, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his knuckles graze the line of her jaw.
“Tell me what you want, Bea,” he says, voice low and rough. “Right now. No games. You want me to walk you out of here? Take you somewhere quiet? Or you want me to drag this out till you’re begging?”
She holds his gaze—unblinking, unflinching—and the corner of her mouth lifts in that dangerous little smile again.
“I want you to keep looking at me like that,” she says softly. “Like you’re already fucking me in your head. And then I want you to make it real.”
Jon’s jaw clenches so hard he feels the muscle jump. His cock is straining against his trousers, aching, and he knows she can feel it where their bodies press together.
He leans in one last time, lips brushing hers—not a kiss, not yet, just the ghost of one.
“Then finish your drink, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Because the second you do, I’m taking you somewhere I can show you exactly how bad I want you.”
Bea lifts the glass between them, eyes never leaving his, and drains the rest of the Old Fashioned in one long, slow pull. The cherry slides between her red lips; she bites down, holds his stare, then swallows.
The glass clinks softly back onto the bar.
She licks a stray drop of bourbon from her lower lip.
“Lead the way,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
Jon doesn’t hesitate.
He takes her hand—big palm swallowing hers completely—and steers her toward the door, shoulder cutting through the crowd like it’s nothing.
His friends whoop behind him. He doesn’t look back.
All he can think about is the heat of her hand in his, the way her ponytail bounces with every step, the promise of white lace and golden skin waiting underneath that angelic outfit.
And how he’s going to spend the rest of the night ruining her for anyone else.
Yay road trip! I had so much fun writing this chapter (and the next one)! Can't wait to hear what you all think. I had to split it into two parts because it's so long, so will post the next one ASAP! x
Glen
His flight touches down in Austin at 2:06 p.m., the wheels kissing the runway with a shudder that vibrates up his spine.
Through the tiny oval window, the horizon glows a hazy gold — Texas heat already shimmering off the tarmac like it’s alive. The second he steps out of the jet bridge, it hits him: blistering, heavy, familiar. The kind of heat that smells like sunburnt cedar, exhaust, and nostalgia.
Home.
He flicks off flight mode before he’s even cleared the ramp.
Billie:
Just picked up Sloane.
Texas here we come 🤠
Fly safe, handsome.
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale.
She’s coming. She’s actually doing this — crossing two states, driving twenty hours, just to be where he is.
And God, he hopes he deserves that.
Leslie is waiting near baggage claim, waving both arms like she’s signaling a rescue helicopter.
“MY favourite brother!”
He doesn’t even break stride. “I’m your only brother, Les.”
“Semantics!” She launches herself at him, hugging him so tightly his ribs click. Brisket yips in the carrier like excuse me? I’m fragile.
She immediately scoops him out. “Hi, tiny prince! Did Daddy traumatise you with turbulence? Oh yes he did!”
Glen shakes his head, grinning despite the ache growing behind his sternum — nerves, anticipation, something warm and terrifying.
Leslie chatters nonstop as they walk through the Austin terminal — a wide, airy space of glass windows and polished floors, sunlight pouring in like honey.
“Gwen landed her first jump in the arena! Mom cried, obviously. Witt is going through some macho phase and arm-wrestled the UPS guy this morning like Dwayne Johnson. And Dad bought a new smoker, Glen. A forty-pound monstrosity. It’s blocking the porch. I think he loves it more than us.”
Glen huffs a laugh. “He probably named it.”
“Oh he did. ‘The Holy Smoker.’ It has cupholders.”
They push through the sliding doors into the unforgiving heat, the sky a relentless, endless blue. Leslie’s SUV is baking like a tin can in the sun, and the first blast of air conditioning inside feels like salvation.
The moment they pull onto the highway, she glances sideways at him — assessing, perceptive in that surgical, sisterly way.
“Okay,” she says, tapping the steering wheel. “What’s up with you?”
He blinks. “Nothing.”
Leslie gives him a look that could shatter glass.
“You’re vibrating with nerves, Glen. Like a chihuahua in denim.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. And I haven’t seen you like this since junior prom.”
He drops his head back against the seat and stares at the sky through the windshield — wide and bright and somehow making everything inside him feel more exposed.
“It’s just…” he starts, swallowing. “This weekend is a lot. For anyone. For someone who’s never met the family, who doesn’t know how insane we can be—”
“Glen.” Leslie softens instantly — voice dropping, teasing gone. “She’s not some fragile baby deer.”
“I know, but—”
“No. Listen to me.” She flicks her blinker on and merges with the confidence of someone who fears nothing, least of all death. “She handled me just fine in L.A., which means Billie can handle an entire ranch of Powells in their natural habitat.”
He cracks a smile despite himself.
Leslie continues, gentler now.
“I think you’re worrying about the wrong thing.”
He turns to her, brow raised.
“You’re scared of what this weekend means,” she says simply, “Because you like her — and I mean really like her. And that hasn’t happened in… forever.”
The truth lands so cleanly it knocks the wind from him.
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I just don’t want it to be too much. Too fast.”
Leslie bumps his shoulder with hers, warm and reassuring.
“Then you’ll protect her from the chaos. You always do that — you anchor people. You make them feel safe.”
He swallows hard, throat tight.
“And anyway,” she adds with a grin, “she’s literally driving twenty-something hours for you - which is, insane by the way. That girl is in, Glen. Like… in in.”
His heart kicks — not panic, not dread. Something warmer. Softer. Unfamiliar in a way that scares him more than the paparazzi ever have.
He opens Instagram to distract himself.
Sloane's post loads first on his feed - because of course she followed him almost immediately after Wednesday night.
The selfie hits him like sunlight.
Billie in the driver’s seat, Nugget squished between her and Sloane. Billie’s hair loose and windswept, cheeks a warm sun-kissed bronze, that wide smile that looks like it could power the state grid.
Her honey-green eyes squint with delight, freckles dusting across her cheekbones. The fitted white tank she’s wearing clings in a way that makes his throat close.
She looks… happy.
The caption:
Road trip baby 🤠
📍 LA ➜ Texas
He comments with zero hesitation:
Texas ain’t ready 🔥🤠
Leslie shrieks. “You COMMENTED? Oh my god, you simp.”
“I’m blocking you.”
“No you’re not. You need me. I offer sister advice that you clearly need.”
He ignores her and opens his message thread with Billie. His fingers hover for a moment — nerves fluttering low and hot in his stomach.
He types:
Glen:
Just landed, darlin’. Ridin’ home with Leslie now.
Promise me you’ll stop often, drink water, stretch your legs.
And message me every time you do.
Need you safe.
He hesitates — then adds another, softer:
Glen:
Brisket keeps lookin’ at the road like he’s expectin’ Nugget already.
…And I keep doin’ the same with you, peach.
He hits send and releases a breath.
Outside the window, fields stretch endlessly — golden grass waving in the wind, the sky so wide it feels like it could swallow him whole.
Twenty hours.
Twenty hours until he sees her again.
And for the first time in his life, home doesn’t feel complete without someone who isn’t even here yet.
---
Billie
Billie turns out of Sloane’s street, tyres whispering over the asphalt as she heads toward the highway. The midday sun is bright but not punishing yet, the kind of California warmth that dances across her forearms as she lowers the window. A breeze rushes in — dry, clean, tinged with eucalyptus and ocean salt — filling her lungs with that familiar pre-adventure thrill.
Beside her, Sloane is already in full chaos mode: shoes off, feet kicked onto the dashboard, iced coffee in hand, phone tapping at a speed that probably violates several state laws.
“Alright,” she declares, dramatic as ever, “ready for this? Playlist number one out of four.” She scrolls through Spotify with flair. “It’s giving—Sloane and Billie, nostalgia, best-friends-forever-core. Very us.”
Before Billie can ask what any of that means, the opening of California Gurls blasts out of the speakers so loudly Nugget jolts upright in the backseat.
Billie bursts into laughter — pure, involuntary — because instantly she’s thrown back to seven years ago: a newly transplanted Sloane with a British accent and zero traffic awareness, the two of them driving through LA at midnight, singing badly and loving every second.
“ROAD TRIP BABY!” Sloane screams, flinging one hand to the sky and nearly baptising herself in iced coffee. Nugget barks in solidarity.
“…You could travel the world!”
They’re already screaming.
“…But nothing comes close to the golden coast!”
Nugget howls now, long and dramatic, head tipped back like he’s auditioning for a wolf pack.
“...Once you party with us--”
“...You'll be falling in love--”
“Oh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!”
Sloane and Billie lose it completely.
They dance while seated, they drumming the dash, shoulders shaking, voices cracking on every high note. Billie almost misses her exit twice. They sound awful. It’s perfect.
The city thins around them — tall buildings shrinking into desert scrub, the sky widening into an endless blue bowl overhead. Girl pop continues: P!nk, Kelly Clarkson, Beyoncé, the kind of soundtrack that feels like nostalgia, friendship, freedom and reckless joy.
Sloane documents everything.
Selfies. Videos. Nugget’s ears in HD.
“Billie smile—no with your eyes, no with your soul—YES QUEEN—okay that’s going on the story.”
They’re halfway through TEXAS HOLD ‘EM when Sloane suddenly shrieks — the kind of sound that makes Billie physically jolt and nearly skim the Palm Springs exit lane.
“Jesus, Slo!” Billie gasps, clutching the wheel and grimacing at the horn that beeps behind her. “What the fuck?”
“He commented on our photo!” Sloane practically screeches, vibrating with delight. “GLEN. Commented. On. Our. SELFIE.”
Billie’s stomach flips so violently she’s actually grateful for the seatbelt.
Sloane spins her phone around triumphantly.
“Oh my GOD, it’s on my public account too. Like public-public. Anyone can see it. The man is smitten.”
Billie opens her mouth but nothing comes out except air. Warm air. Very warm. Her cheeks are burning.
She’s still trying to process what this means — how it looks, what it implies, whether she’s supposed to faint — when the in-dash voice chimes:
“New message from Glen Powell”
Sloane lunges like a jungle cat, grabbing Billie’s phone from the console before she can blink.
“Oh YES, let Mama read this.”
Billie’s pulse thuds in her throat as Sloane unlocks it and reads aloud, voice melting into exaggerated romance-novel coos.
Sloane squeals. “Oh my GOD, he’s obsessed with you. He’s so obsessed with you. Bec needs to hear this immediately.”
Before Billie can stop her, Sloane is FaceTiming Bec with manic enthusiasm.
Bec answers on ring two — Aubrey babbling in the background — just in time for Sloane to scream-shout the entire update at her.
They fill Bec in on the road trip so far — the playlist, Nugget’s dramatic howling, Billie’s near-death experience via Sloane’s scream, Glen’s comment, Glen’s text.
“Okay, babes, Aubrey’s trying to eat a crayon,” Bec laughs, “send me hourly selfie updates or I’ll cry.”
“We love you!” Sloane and Billie shout in unison before she hangs up.
Silence returns — the good kind — warm wind rushing through the windows, the palm trees along the highway flicking past like green brushstrokes.
Billie glances sideways.
“You are so damn dramatic, you know that?”
Sloane grins like a Cheshire cat and shrugs. “I know. It’s one of the top five reasons you adore me.”
Billie snorts, pushing her shoulder playfully. “Sadly true.”
Sloane wiggles her brows. “And ONE of the reasons Glen likes you? Your taste in friends. You’re welcome.”
Dua Lipa’s voice fades in as Sloane cranks up the volume, and Billie settles back into her seat. She exhales slowly — the kind that feels like it leaves her bones.
Her heart is doing too many things at once.
Excitement. Nerves. Hope.
A kind of quiet thrill she hasn’t let herself feel in years.
Ahead, the road stretches toward Palm Springs — wide, sun-bleached, full of possibility.
Two hours down.
Eighteen to go.
And she can’t stop smiling.
---
Glen
The ranch driveway curves up like a familiar song — the kind he could hum in his sleep. Oak trees arch overhead, their leaves whispering in the warm Texas breeze, cicadas buzzing like an old summer soundtrack. Sunlight spills across the fields, turning everything gold as Leslie’s SUV rolls over the gravel.
“Home sweet chaos,” Leslie mutters, popping her gum.
Brisket whines excitedly in the backseat, nose pressed to the window as if he remembers every inch of this place.
Glen’s chest loosens the moment the house comes into view — huge sandstone walls glowing in the late-afternoon light, porch swing drifting lazily. His childhood, framed neatly in stone, wood and sunlight.
They park under the carport.
The second Glen steps out, the Texas heat hits him all over again, and then the front door slams open.
“UNCLE GLEN!”
Gwen and Witt sprint across the porch — boots thudding, hair flying, pure joy on legs.
Gwen reaches him first, leaping into his arms with the force of a small meteor.
“I JUMPED TODAY!” she announces breathlessly. “A REAL JUMP OVER A REAL POLE!”
“You did?” Glen laughs, lifting her easily and pressing a kiss to her temple, “That’s amazing, sweetheart.”
Witt skids to a stop beside them, arms crossed, attempting seriousness.
“I could jump higher,” he declares.
“No you can’t,” Gwen fires back.
“Yes I can!”
“No you can’t!”
His Dad’s voice booms from inside, “Lord help us.”
Glen sets Gwen down, the kids already sprinting ahead, their argument heating back up with the fierceness of a trial verdict. Then Brisket trots past them, tail wagging, and everything shifts — the debate forgotten as they chase after him in a flurry of boots and laughter. Glen watches the chaos fondly before following them into the cool living room.
Inside the house is bright, familiar — exposed sandstone walls, old hardwood floor, the scent of lemon cleaner, the hum of family.
Leslie steps in behind him. “MOM! I found a stray wanderin’ around LAX!”
His mom appears from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. The moment she sees him, her whole face softens.
“Oh, baby!” She throws her arms around him, squeezing him tight. “Let me look at you — oh sweetheart, L.A. hasn’t fed you properly.”
“Mom, I—”
“Hush, you’re home now.”
Dad hugs him next. “Good to have you home, son.”
Lauren rounds the corner, dropping a laundry basket instantly.
“There he is! My baby brother!”
“Still not a baby,” he says with rolled eyes, already in her embrace.
Will appears behind her, warm handshake, half-hug. “Welcome back, man.”
Then Thomas enters the foyer, phone to his ear, suit pants wrinkled like he actually tried to leave work early but got dragged back in.
He covers the receiver with his hand. “Glen! One sec—yeah, Jeff, we’ll revisit those projections Tuesday—Tuesdaayyy—okay, goodbye.” He hangs up, exhales dramatically, then grins and pulls Glen into a hug. “Brother. Welcome home.”
“Tom,” Glen says, laughing. “Still chained to your desk, huh?”
“Until the moment I crack open a beer,” Thomas replies. “Which should be in… twenty minutes.”
Mom beams as she ushers everyone toward the kitche n.
“People are coming in all afternoon! Aunt Honey, Uncle Mark, your school boys, the Walkers… and the entire McDaniels family tomorrow for the barbecue.”
Glen’s eyebrows lift. “All of them?”
Dad nods proudly. “Need an audience for The Holy Smoker.”
Lauren snorts. “It’s a grill, Dad.”
“It’s art,” he corrects.
The noise rises in overlapping waves — Lauren and Dad laughing, Leslie teasing Thomas, Will desperately trying to mediate the escalating argument between Gwen and Witt. It’s warm and chaotic and everything Glen remembers.
And he thinks — God, I hope this won’t overwhelm Billie.
He slips upstairs to his room, suitcase dragging behind him.
He stops in the doorway.
Still his room — but grown.
Grey-blue paint.
A king bed with a thick navy comforter.
A renovated walk-in bathroom.
Bigger windows overlooking the pasture.
But the childhood pieces remain:
A shelf of fading baseball trophies.
Photos of him and Lauren with gummy smiles.
A cracked, sun-bleached Longhorns poster.
The stuffed armadillo from the state fair still sitting proudly on the shelf.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed.
And immediately imagines Billie here.
Her suitcase by the chair.
Her perfume in the bedding.
Her laughter filling the quiet.
Her legs tucked beneath his on this oversized mattress.
Nugget curled beside Brisket at the foot of the bed.
It hits him hard — unexpectedly tender.
His phone buzzes.
Billie.
It’s a photo of her, leaning against the car in warm, desert sun, hair loose and shining in soft, glossy waves. Her honey-green eyes squint with a soft smile, lips parted happily. Nugget sits proudly beside her, tongue hanging out.
She looks golden.
Happy.
Beautiful in that effortless way she doesn’t even notice.
His heart flips.
Billie:
First stop, cowboy 🤠
Palm Springs is already roasting us alive.
Nugget’s thriving.
Sloane’s inside getting coffee #2.
How’s home?
Glen types slowly, honesty softening every word.
Glen:
You look beautiful, darlin’.
Sun loves you.
Home’s loud as always.
Feels better knowin’ you’re gettin’ closer.
Where’s your next stop?
Three dots.
Then—
Billie:
Phoenix.
Nugget’s supervising.
He says you owe him a treat.
Glen laughs, warmth blooming through his chest.
From downstairs, Gwen shrieks:
“UNCLE GLEN IS TEXTING HIS GIRLFRIEND!”
He groans, dragging a hand over his face as he types.
Glen:
Gwen just yelled that you’re my girlfriend.
Whole house went quiet for a second.
Didn’t hate how that sounded.
Hope Palm Springs is calmer than this house.
Three dots pulse again, soft and steady.
Billie:
Your family is sweet.
I can’t wait to meet them.
We’re heading out again soon.
Next stop in
Peach out 🍑✌️
He stares at the last message, smiling like someone just shifted the world half an inch into place.
He’s still smiling when a soft voice appears in the doorway.
“Well,” his mom says gently, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, “that’s a look I haven’t seen on you in a long time.”
Glen startles just a little, then huffs a breath that’s half laugh, half caught-off-guard affection.
“You okay in here, sweetheart? You disappeared on us.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… catching up.”
Her eyes dip to the phone in his hand.
She raises an eyebrow — knowing, patient, soft.
“Who’s got my boy smiling like that?”
Glen hesitates for half a second before turning the screen toward her, thumb tapping the photo open.
“It’s Billie.”
His mom steps closer, taking the phone carefully as if it’s something delicate.
The Palm Springs photo lights up the remodeled room — Billie golden in the desert sun, eyes bright, hair tousled by heat and wind, Nugget panting happily beside her.
“Oh…” she breathes. “She’s lovely.”
Glen swallows. “Yeah. She is.”
His mom studies the picture a moment longer — not judging, just taking her in.
“She looks happy,” she says softly. “And kind. And… real.”
A beat.
“And she makes you happy. I can see that.”
Glen’s chest warms, tightens, unwinds all at once.
He nods. “Yeah. She does.”
She reaches out and smooths his hair like she did when he was little — a quiet, grounding gesture.
“Good,” she says simply. “I like her already.”
He laughs under his breath.
His mom hands the phone back, then gestures around the room with a small smile.
“You know this room’s barely yours anymore,” she teases. “We updated it a few years back. King bed, new bathroom, better light… but I left a few things. Thought you might want pieces of where you came from.”
Glen looks around — the navy comforter, the new walk-in bathroom, the larger windows — and then the old trophies, crooked longhorns posters, childhood photos.
It somehow feels like the perfect blend of past and future.
Like a place he could bring someone home to.
Someone like Billie.
His mom watches the look on his face soften.
“Feels like it fits you now,” she says quietly. “All grown up.”
He glances at the bed — imagining Billie stretched out there, hair spilling across the pillow, Nugget curled at her feet, Brisket claiming whatever space he can.
His mom catches the flicker in his expression.
“That girl of yours,” she says slowly, “I have a feeling she’s gonna fit here too.”
Glen’s breath stutters — not in fear, but in something dangerously close to hope.
His mom pats his arm once, gentle. “Come down whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”
And she slips out, leaving him alone in the quiet, the warmth of her words lingering, and Billie’s photo still glowing in his hand.
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Sorry this is late guys! I posted it on Sunday but Tumblr flagged it and then it wouldn't post! Has anyone had this happen before?
Also I know it feels like I'm drawing it out but I can't help it! The road trip is starting and it's loud and chaotic and I had so much fun writing it. I'll put the next chapter up really soon as this one is a little short.
Thank you for all the love!
Glen
Glen wakes before his alarm, the sky outside his window a muted wash of blue-grey — the kind of quiet dawn that feels suspended, holding its breath.
Brisket is already sitting proudly beside the packed suitcase, chest puffed out, tail swishing like a metronome. He looks like a tiny TSA agent guarding the luggage with his life.
Glen laughs softly.
“You’re real eager, huh?”
The house feels still in that early-hour way — cool hardwood under his feet, distant city hum beyond the glass, the faint warm smell of yesterday’s coffee lingering in the air.
He finishes folding his last few items: soft, worn tees; his favourite pair of jeans; the button-down his mama insists “photographs well”; and finally the Stetson he boxed with care so ridiculous that he'd never admit out loud.
Warm brown leather. Broken in. Honest.
He runs a thumb along the rim, the texture familiar under his skin.
And then his brain betrays him.
A flash —
Billie.
In nothing but that hat.
Soft freckles glowing under the Texas sun. Bare skin. Warm smile.
That curve of her hips he cannot get out of his head.
Heat punches low in his stomach.
“Yep,” he mutters, snapping the lid shut fast. “We are not goin’ there at six-thirty in the mornin’.”
Brisket bumps the side of the suitcase approvingly.
He crouches, takes a picture — Brisket beside the suitcase, tail blurred, the Stetson box just in frame.
Instagram Story:
Fourth of July weekend 🤠✈️
But he’s already opening Billie’s thread before the story even uploads.
Because he knows her.
Knows her mornings.
Knows she probably woke before the sun, tension coiled under her ribs, Nugget at her heels.
Knows she thinks in spirals and feels deeply — too deeply sometimes — and he loves that, loves how alive she is… but damn, he wishes he could always be beside her to ease the spin.
So he texts her.
Glen:
Last chance to get on this plane with me, peach.
He grins just imagining her expression — that sigh-laugh-eye-roll combo that kills him.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Return.
Billie:
Not a chance. Someone has to keep Sloane alive.
He chuckles, shoulders loosening.
Billie:
And Nugget is too big for a plane unless it’s private.
Which we are NOT having this argument about again.
He can practically hear her voice saying it.
Glen:
Alright, alright.
Text me before you hit the road, okay?
Gotta know my girl’s safe.
A pause — longer.
Billie:
Your girl?
He doesn’t even blink.
Glen:
Sure feels like it.
But we can talk titles when you get to Texas.
Then another.
Glen:
Address below, darlin’.
Take the right fork at the white fence.
If your GPS sends you down the road with the goat sign, ignore it.
Drive safe, peach.
A beat.
Billie:
Will do.
Glen:
Can’t wait to see you, peach.
I’ll be waiting on the porch.
Another beat.
Billie:
Can’t wait to see you too 💙
The little blue heart hits him harder than he expects. Warmth spreads across his chest — not the sharp spark of flirting, but something deeper. Something he’s not ready to name… but feels all the same.
He slides his phone into his pocket, scoops up Brisket, and grabs the suitcase handle.
“Texas, buddy,” he murmurs as he steps out into the cool morning air. “She’s actually comin’ to Texas.”
And the thought carries him the entire drive to LAX — excitement blooming into something that feels a lot like hope.
---
Billie
Billie puts her phone down on the bathroom counter, exhaling a heavy breath.
Glen’s messages.
My girl.
It’s nearly enough to make her need to sit.
She ties her long chocolate waves into a high pony, giving her outfit one last look — bright blue cropped gym tank and matching shorts, the colour matching the strange, fluttery anticipation sitting under her sternum.
Beside her, Nugget sits waiting — harness on, leaning against the shower door as he looks up at her, tail wagging happily like a big ball of patient sunshine.
“Ready, bud?”
His tail reaches helicopter speed, then he stands and bends into a big stretch, a soft “awoo” spilling out like he’s answering her.
Billie smiles affectionately and clips on his lead.
She swipes her headphones from the hallway table, settles them over her ears, presses play on something fast and uplifting, and heads out into the morning.
The world is soft and gold-tinted, the early sun threading through palm trees, storefronts yawning open, joggers weaving quietly along the sidewalk.
Nugget trots proudly at her side — big, bouncy, greeting every human within a ten-metre radius.
Billie inhales the crisp air, warmth blooming in her chest with each step.
Something is different today.
She doesn’t feel frantic. Or overwhelmed. Not even intimidated by the hours of driving ahead.
She feels… steady.
Steadier than she has in weeks.
Because of him. Because of that stupid, perfect message.
Because he calls her my girl like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
They turn the final corner toward her favourite café. The A-frame board out the front reads:
Espresso yourself.
And she can’t help but laugh when she sees it.
Nugget pulls ahead excitedly, eager for his morning biscuit from Maya.
Maya spots them immediately from behind the counter.
“Billie!” she beams, already reaching for the espresso handle. “Enjoying the sun this morning?”
Billie nods, and Nugget sneezes loudly, bumping Maya’s knee with the full weight of his head. She practically melts.
“Hi, handsome boy,” she coos, giving him an indulgent ear rub. “You’re too cute. It should be illegal.”
Billie laughs. “He knows.”
Maya sets about steaming milk for Billie’s order, glancing up at her with curious brown eyes.
“Fourth of July plans?”
Billie hesitates — then nods. “Yeah. Going to Texas actually.”
Maya’s eyebrows fly up. “Texas? That sounds fun. Family?”
Billie’s cheeks heat. She lifts a shoulder. “Uh… no. A guy.”
Maya gasps in delighted scandal, cheeks lifting into a happy grin.
“YES. Billie! Good for you.”
“It’s new,” Billie says with an embarrassed smile — and something warm fluttering in her chest. Saying it out loud makes it feel real.
Maya grins and slides the cup over with a wink.
“For bold choices.”
Billie chuckles. “God, I need it.”
Maya gestures to Nugget. “Tell Texas guy he’s got some competition — Nugget’s already the number one man in your life.”
Nugget barks like he agrees, jumping up on the counter as Maya hands over the biscuit.
Billie laughs and waves goodbye, stepping back out into the morning.
Outside, the sun is higher now — warm on her shoulders, bright against the concrete, the kind of day that feels like it’s offering something.
She inhales deeply.
Checks the time.
Work.
Deep breath.
Let’s go.
---
Glen
He moves through LAX unnoticed — cap low, sunglasses on, Brisket in a soft carrier he definitely doesn’t love.
He relaxes in the first-class lounge with a coffee until he’s ushered onto his flight, settling into his seat and propping Brisket at his feet. He gives him a reassuring pat and pulls out his phone, scrolling through Instagram and skimming through reactions to his Brisket post.
His heart jumps when he sees Billie’s name — her little profile photo of her and Nugget floating at the bottom of his notifications like a soft tap to the ribs.
He checks his watch — 9:02am.
Billie would have not long ago started work.
He smiles as he pictures her — quiet professionalism, the ease in her voice when she talks her athletes through complicated rehab, the spark in her eyes when she celebrates their PBs.
God.
He can’t wait to see her.
He’s been picturing her in Texas since he woke — meeting his family, charming them all with her sunshine. Gwen and Witt fawning over Nugget. Billie laughing with his sisters Lauren and Leslie. His mom glowing as she speaks to her.
His heart does something stupid behind his ribs — a soft ache of wanting this to go right, wanting her to feel at home in the place that made him.
Brisket licks his hand from his spot in his carrier — as if he knows Glen’s thinking about Billie and is saying me too.
His phone buzzes. A text from Leslie: she’ll collect him at 2pm. A three-hour flight, Texas two hours ahead.
He types back quickly.
Glen:
Thanks Les, can’t wait to see you.
Leslie:
Can’t wait to see you too, lover boy.
And to see your girl again. Mom hasn’t shut up about meeting her. Lauren too.
He grins.
Glen:
They’re gonna love her.
Leslie:
I know.
See you soon x
The air hostess begins the safety briefing. Glen clips his seatbelt, pops in his AirPods, and looks out the window, the sun beating strong on the LA tarmac.
Tomorrow she’ll be in Texas.
On his porch.
In his family’s orbit.
In his world.
It hits him again — not nerves.
The weight of wanting.
He’s excited.
He’s ready.
And god, he hopes she is too.
Billie
The clinic is buzzing — a pre–long weekend hum vibrating through every room.
Nugget struts in like he owns the place.
Tom is mid-rehab class in the gym, demonstrating single-leg squats when Nugget trots into the centre and lies down dramatically. A teenage sprinter Billie’s seen once or twice immediately abandons her rehab to cuddle him, cooing when he rolls right onto his back for belly rubs.
“Traitor,” Tom mutters, though he’s smiling.
Lisa pops her head out at the sound of Nugget’s name.
“The golden angel is here!” she cries. “Billie, you should bring him more often. He’s basically the clinic mascot.”
Billie laughs. “You say that every week.”
“That’s because I mean it!”
Shanya waves at Billie while walking an athlete toward her room for some in rooms treatment, immediately switching into therapist mode.
Billie sets her things down in her office and runs through her schedule — hands-on treatment for a sprinter, progress checks for her ACL classes, updated rehab plans, a phone call with a volleyball coach about load management.
Nugget naps under her treatment bed, occasionally wandering out to comfort whichever athlete looks the most emotionally fragile — he has a sixth sense for it.
She finishes her last rehab session at 12:04pm — four minutes later than intended because Tom hijacked her doorway with a tendon question, and because Nugget wandered into the gym mid–sprint drill and everyone had to stop and adore him. Again.
By the time she gathers her things, her brain is humming with adrenaline and something warmer that she refuses to examine too closely.
Nugget trots beside her, enormous tail thumping against walls.
“Have a great weekend, Bil!” Lisa calls. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
Shanya blows her a kiss.
Tom salutes her like she’s his captain.
Ross gives her a knowing nod that makes her cheeks warm.
Outside, the sunlight is bright, sharp, maybe a little too warm — but Nugget bounds across the car park like he’s heading into the adventure of his life.
Which, technically, he is.
Billie opens the back door of her truck.
Nugget leaps in, immediately panting with pure joy.
She snaps a photo: Nugget in the backseat, mouth open in bliss, suitcase beside him, sunlight turning his fur molten gold.
Story post:
4th Weekend starts now 🐾🤠
She slides into the driver’s seat, checks the time.
12:12pm.
She catches her reflection in the rear-view mirror — and there it is again. That feeling building behind her ribs.
She exhales, pulls her sunglasses down and starts the engine.
Texas, here we come.
---
Billie pulls up to Sloane’s apartment complex and before she can even text she’s arrived, Sloane comes floating down the driveway — suitcase wheeled behind her, iced coffee in one hand, duffle bag slung over her other shoulder. She looks casually glamorous and chaotically composed the way only Sloane can: an oversized designer tee tucked into high-waisted denim cut-offs, a sleek pair of black Prada sunglasses perched on her nose.
She opens the door before Billie can even shift into park, Nugget immediately sticking his head out the back window and barking happily.
“ROAD TRIP BABY!”
Billie laughs, stepping out of the car while Sloane fusses dramatically over Nugget, both hands on his face through the window. Billie tosses Sloane’s luggage into the tray with practiced ease.
“I brought snacks,” Sloane announces proudly as she slides into the passenger seat. “Also I’ve made four playlists, packed two emergency Red Bulls and a neck pillow shaped like a frog.”
Billie shakes her head, grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”
“No,” Sloane corrects primly, “I’m prepared.”
Nugget stretches over the centre console and licks her across the cheek with alarming enthusiasm.
Sloane squeals. “NUGGET MY BELOVED KING!”
Billie laughs and tugs at the strap of her white ribbed tank — flattering, bright, hugging her ribcage just right — then adjusts the waistband of her cut-off Levi’s. Her hair is loose and long, somehow falling in perfectly messy waves around her face. With her gold aviators resting on the dash, she looks like summer. Feels like summer.
“Photo?” Sloane demands, more statement than question, already unlocking her phone. “We have to document every stop of this.”
They lean together for a quick photo — Sloane pouting dramatically, Billie smiling wide, Nugget’s massive head shoved between them, tongue out, sunshine pouring across the windshield.
Sloane studies the photo, then grins with satisfaction. She uploads it immediately, tagging Billie so it appears on her feed within seconds.
Road trip baby 🤠
📍 LA → Texas
Sloane connects to the car’s Bluetooth and one of her playlists starts instantly — a Sabrina Carpenter song blasting through the speakers, bright and fizzy. Billie’s chest warms with something that feels like joy… and something else she isn’t ready to name.
She quickly opens her phone and pulls up her thread with Glen, typing the message she promised she’d send.
Sloane makes exaggerated kissing noises at her, earning the hardest eye roll Billie’s managed all morning.
Billie:
Just picked up Sloane.
Texas here we come 🤠
Fly safe, handsome.
She exhales, grounding herself as she slides the phone into the console.
Then she shifts the car out of park, sunlight glinting off the hood as they pull away from the curb.
And just like that, they’re officially on their way.
Sorry this is late guys! I posted it on Sunday but Tumblr flagged it and then it wouldn't post! Has anyone had this happen before?
Also I know it feels like I'm drawing it out but I can't help it! The road trip is starting and it's loud and chaotic and I had so much fun writing it. I'll put the next chapter up really soon as this one is a little short.
Thank you for all the love!
Glen
Glen wakes before his alarm, the sky outside his window a muted wash of blue-grey — the kind of quiet dawn that feels suspended, holding its breath.
Brisket is already sitting proudly beside the packed suitcase, chest puffed out, tail swishing like a metronome. He looks like a tiny TSA agent guarding the luggage with his life.
Glen laughs softly.
“You’re real eager, huh?”
The house feels still in that early-hour way — cool hardwood under his feet, distant city hum beyond the glass, the faint warm smell of yesterday’s coffee lingering in the air.
He finishes folding his last few items: soft, worn tees; his favourite pair of jeans; the button-down his mama insists “photographs well”; and finally the Stetson he boxed with care so ridiculous that he'd never admit out loud.
Warm brown leather. Broken in. Honest.
He runs a thumb along the rim, the texture familiar under his skin.
And then his brain betrays him.
A flash —
Billie.
In nothing but that hat.
Soft freckles glowing under the Texas sun. Bare skin. Warm smile.
That curve of her hips he cannot get out of his head.
Heat punches low in his stomach.
“Yep,” he mutters, snapping the lid shut fast. “We are not goin’ there at six-thirty in the mornin’.”
Brisket bumps the side of the suitcase approvingly.
He crouches, takes a picture — Brisket beside the suitcase, tail blurred, the Stetson box just in frame.
Instagram Story:
Fourth of July weekend 🤠✈️
But he’s already opening Billie’s thread before the story even uploads.
Because he knows her.
Knows her mornings.
Knows she probably woke before the sun, tension coiled under her ribs, Nugget at her heels.
Knows she thinks in spirals and feels deeply — too deeply sometimes — and he loves that, loves how alive she is… but damn, he wishes he could always be beside her to ease the spin.
So he texts her.
Glen:
Last chance to get on this plane with me, peach.
He grins just imagining her expression — that sigh-laugh-eye-roll combo that kills him.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Return.
Billie:
Not a chance. Someone has to keep Sloane alive.
He chuckles, shoulders loosening.
Billie:
And Nugget is too big for a plane unless it’s private.
Which we are NOT having this argument about again.
He can practically hear her voice saying it.
Glen:
Alright, alright.
Text me before you hit the road, okay?
Gotta know my girl’s safe.
A pause — longer.
Billie:
Your girl?
He doesn’t even blink.
Glen:
Sure feels like it.
But we can talk titles when you get to Texas.
Then another.
Glen:
Address below, darlin’.
Take the right fork at the white fence.
If your GPS sends you down the road with the goat sign, ignore it.
Drive safe, peach.
A beat.
Billie:
Will do.
Glen:
Can’t wait to see you, peach.
I’ll be waiting on the porch.
Another beat.
Billie:
Can’t wait to see you too 💙
The little blue heart hits him harder than he expects. Warmth spreads across his chest — not the sharp spark of flirting, but something deeper. Something he’s not ready to name… but feels all the same.
He slides his phone into his pocket, scoops up Brisket, and grabs the suitcase handle.
“Texas, buddy,” he murmurs as he steps out into the cool morning air. “She’s actually comin’ to Texas.”
And the thought carries him the entire drive to LAX — excitement blooming into something that feels a lot like hope.
---
Billie
Billie puts her phone down on the bathroom counter, exhaling a heavy breath.
Glen’s messages.
My girl.
It’s nearly enough to make her need to sit.
She ties her long chocolate waves into a high pony, giving her outfit one last look — bright blue cropped gym tank and matching shorts, the colour matching the strange, fluttery anticipation sitting under her sternum.
Beside her, Nugget sits waiting — harness on, leaning against the shower door as he looks up at her, tail wagging happily like a big ball of patient sunshine.
“Ready, bud?”
His tail reaches helicopter speed, then he stands and bends into a big stretch, a soft “awoo” spilling out like he’s answering her.
Billie smiles affectionately and clips on his lead.
She swipes her headphones from the hallway table, settles them over her ears, presses play on something fast and uplifting, and heads out into the morning.
The world is soft and gold-tinted, the early sun threading through palm trees, storefronts yawning open, joggers weaving quietly along the sidewalk.
Nugget trots proudly at her side — big, bouncy, greeting every human within a ten-metre radius.
Billie inhales the crisp air, warmth blooming in her chest with each step.
Something is different today.
She doesn’t feel frantic. Or overwhelmed. Not even intimidated by the hours of driving ahead.
She feels… steady.
Steadier than she has in weeks.
Because of him. Because of that stupid, perfect message.
Because he calls her my girl like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
They turn the final corner toward her favourite café. The A-frame board out the front reads:
Espresso yourself.
And she can’t help but laugh when she sees it.
Nugget pulls ahead excitedly, eager for his morning biscuit from Maya.
Maya spots them immediately from behind the counter.
“Billie!” she beams, already reaching for the espresso handle. “Enjoying the sun this morning?”
Billie nods, and Nugget sneezes loudly, bumping Maya’s knee with the full weight of his head. She practically melts.
“Hi, handsome boy,” she coos, giving him an indulgent ear rub. “You’re too cute. It should be illegal.”
Billie laughs. “He knows.”
Maya sets about steaming milk for Billie’s order, glancing up at her with curious brown eyes.
“Fourth of July plans?”
Billie hesitates — then nods. “Yeah. Going to Texas actually.”
Maya’s eyebrows fly up. “Texas? That sounds fun. Family?”
Billie’s cheeks heat. She lifts a shoulder. “Uh… no. A guy.”
Maya gasps in delighted scandal, cheeks lifting into a happy grin.
“YES. Billie! Good for you.”
“It’s new,” Billie says with an embarrassed smile — and something warm fluttering in her chest. Saying it out loud makes it feel real.
Maya grins and slides the cup over with a wink.
“For bold choices.”
Billie chuckles. “God, I need it.”
Maya gestures to Nugget. “Tell Texas guy he’s got some competition — Nugget’s already the number one man in your life.”
Nugget barks like he agrees, jumping up on the counter as Maya hands over the biscuit.
Billie laughs and waves goodbye, stepping back out into the morning.
Outside, the sun is higher now — warm on her shoulders, bright against the concrete, the kind of day that feels like it’s offering something.
She inhales deeply.
Checks the time.
Work.
Deep breath.
Let’s go.
---
Glen
He moves through LAX unnoticed — cap low, sunglasses on, Brisket in a soft carrier he definitely doesn’t love.
He relaxes in the first-class lounge with a coffee until he’s ushered onto his flight, settling into his seat and propping Brisket at his feet. He gives him a reassuring pat and pulls out his phone, scrolling through Instagram and skimming through reactions to his Brisket post.
His heart jumps when he sees Billie’s name — her little profile photo of her and Nugget floating at the bottom of his notifications like a soft tap to the ribs.
He checks his watch — 9:02am.
Billie would have not long ago started work.
He smiles as he pictures her — quiet professionalism, the ease in her voice when she talks her athletes through complicated rehab, the spark in her eyes when she celebrates their PBs.
God.
He can’t wait to see her.
He’s been picturing her in Texas since he woke — meeting his family, charming them all with her sunshine. Gwen and Witt fawning over Nugget. Billie laughing with his sisters Lauren and Leslie. His mom glowing as she speaks to her.
His heart does something stupid behind his ribs — a soft ache of wanting this to go right, wanting her to feel at home in the place that made him.
Brisket licks his hand from his spot in his carrier — as if he knows Glen’s thinking about Billie and is saying me too.
His phone buzzes. A text from Leslie: she’ll collect him at 2pm. A three-hour flight, Texas two hours ahead.
He types back quickly.
Glen:
Thanks Les, can’t wait to see you.
Leslie:
Can’t wait to see you too, lover boy.
And to see your girl again. Mom hasn’t shut up about meeting her. Lauren too.
He grins.
Glen:
They’re gonna love her.
Leslie:
I know.
See you soon x
The air hostess begins the safety briefing. Glen clips his seatbelt, pops in his AirPods, and looks out the window, the sun beating strong on the LA tarmac.
Tomorrow she’ll be in Texas.
On his porch.
In his family’s orbit.
In his world.
It hits him again — not nerves.
The weight of wanting.
He’s excited.
He’s ready.
And god, he hopes she is too.
Billie
The clinic is buzzing — a pre–long weekend hum vibrating through every room.
Nugget struts in like he owns the place.
Tommy is mid-rehab class in the gym, demonstrating single-leg squats when Nugget trots into the centre and lies down dramatically. A teenage sprinter Billie’s seen once or twice immediately abandons her rehab to cuddle him, cooing when he rolls right onto his back for belly rubs.
“Traitor,” Tommy mutters, though he’s smiling.
Lisa pops her head out at the sound of Nugget’s name.
“The golden angel is here!” she cries. “Billie, you should bring him more often. He’s basically the clinic mascot.”
Billie laughs. “You say that every week.”
“That’s because I mean it!”
Shanya waves at Billie while walking an athlete toward her room for some in rooms treatment, immediately switching into therapist mode.
Billie sets her things down in her office and runs through her schedule — hands-on treatment for a sprinter, progress checks for her ACL classes, updated rehab plans, a phone call with a volleyball coach about load management.
Nugget naps under her treatment bed, occasionally wandering out to comfort whichever athlete looks the most emotionally fragile — he has a sixth sense for it.
She finishes her last rehab session at 12:04pm — four minutes later than intended because Tommy hijacked her doorway with a tendon question, and because Nugget wandered into the gym mid–sprint drill and everyone had to stop and adore him. Again.
By the time she gathers her things, her brain is humming with adrenaline and something warmer that she refuses to examine too closely.
Nugget trots beside her, enormous tail thumping against walls.
“Have a great weekend, Bil!” Lisa calls. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
Shanya blows her a kiss.
Tommy salutes her like she’s his captain.
Ross gives her a knowing nod that makes her cheeks warm.
Outside, the sunlight is bright, sharp, maybe a little too warm — but Nugget bounds across the car park like he’s heading into the adventure of his life.
Which, technically, he is.
Billie opens the back door of her truck.
Nugget leaps in, immediately panting with pure joy.
She snaps a photo: Nugget in the backseat, mouth open in bliss, suitcase beside him, sunlight turning his fur molten gold.
Story post:
4th Weekend starts now 🐾🤠
She slides into the driver’s seat, checks the time.
12:12pm.
She catches her reflection in the rear-view mirror — and there it is again. That feeling building behind her ribs.
She exhales, pulls her sunglasses down and starts the engine.
Texas, here we come.
---
Billie pulls up to Sloane’s apartment complex and before she can even text she’s arrived, Sloane comes floating down the driveway — suitcase wheeled behind her, iced coffee in one hand, duffle bag slung over her other shoulder. She looks casually glamorous and chaotically composed the way only Sloane can: an oversized designer tee tucked into high-waisted denim cut-offs, a sleek pair of black Prada sunglasses perched on her nose.
She opens the door before Billie can even shift into park, Nugget immediately sticking his head out the back window and barking happily.
“ROAD TRIP BABY!”
Billie laughs, stepping out of the car while Sloane fusses dramatically over Nugget, both hands on his face through the window. Billie tosses Sloane’s luggage into the tray with practiced ease.
“I brought snacks,” Sloane announces proudly as she slides into the passenger seat. “Also I’ve made four playlists, packed two emergency Red Bulls and a neck pillow shaped like a frog.”
Billie shakes her head, grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”
“No,” Sloane corrects primly, “I’m prepared.”
Nugget stretches over the centre console and licks her across the cheek with alarming enthusiasm.
Sloane squeals. “NUGGET MY BELOVED KING!”
Billie laughs and tugs at the strap of her white ribbed tank — flattering, bright, hugging her ribcage just right — then adjusts the waistband of her cut-off Levi’s. Her hair is loose and long, somehow falling in perfectly messy waves around her face. With her gold aviators resting on the dash, she looks like summer. Feels like summer.
“Photo?” Sloane demands, more statement than question, already unlocking her phone. “We have to document every stop of this.”
They lean together for a quick photo — Sloane pouting dramatically, Billie smiling wide, Nugget’s massive head shoved between them, tongue out, sunshine pouring across the windshield.
Sloane studies the photo, then grins with satisfaction. She uploads it immediately, tagging Billie so it appears on her feed within seconds.
Road trip baby 🤠
📍 LA → Texas
Sloane connects to the car’s Bluetooth and one of her playlists starts instantly — a Sabrina Carpenter song blasting through the speakers, bright and fizzy. Billie’s chest warms with something that feels like joy… and something else she isn’t ready to name.
She quickly opens her phone and pulls up her thread with Glen, typing the message she promised she’d send.
Sloane makes exaggerated kissing noises at her, earning the hardest eye roll Billie’s managed all morning.
Billie:
Just picked up Sloane.
Texas here we come 🤠
Fly safe, handsome.
She exhales, grounding herself as she slides the phone into the console.
Then she shifts the car out of park, sunlight glinting off the hood as they pull away from the curb.
And just like that, they’re officially on their way.
How AMAZING did Glen look at the Golden Globes last night!? I am DECEASED. Please enjoy my next chapter of Glen and Billie! xx
Billie
By the time Billie drags herself up the front steps, her shoulders ache and her brain feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry.
Three back-to-back 12-hour days.
ACL rehabs, sprint mechanics sessions, a mentoring hour with Shanya, her favourite Tuesday class being as chaotic as usual, a dramatic footballer convinced he tore his hamstring (he did not), meetings with strength coaches about load management, and rewriting four rehab plans so they actually made sense.
She is running purely on caffeine, clinical efficiency, and spite.
But she’d promised herself, and Ross, that she would make it work — and she had.
Inside, she can already hear them.
“I swear to God, if she tries to pack neutral basics, I will riot.”
“Sloane, please eat your pad thai and stop threatening unrest.”
Billie pushes the door open.
Sloane and Bec look up like two golden retrievers in human clothing.
“FINALLY,” Sloane announces, standing and pointing her fork like a weapon. “You look dead, babe. Sit. Food.”
Billie drops her bag with a groan, kicks off her shoes, peels off her clinic polo — it smells like liniment, sweat, sprint drills, and having absolutely no time to breathe. Then Nugget barrels into her, forty kilos of enthusiasm and unconditional love. His whole back half wiggles like he's trying to detach it.
She squats, rubbing his ears. “Hi, baby. Mama survived.”
“Why are you here so early?” she asks then, standing up with her hands on her hips as she looks at each of them.
Bec jingles her spare key. “We let ourselves in. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Billie echoes, deadpan.
She collapses onto the couch. Thai containers are immediately shoved into her hands.
They recap their days —
Bec sharing how Aubrey refused to wear pants.
Sloane’s ambulance partner singing off-key Adele for an entire 10-hour shift.
With warm food and warmer company, Billie’s shoulders finally begin to loosen. But only briefly.
Because twenty minutes later, they’re in her bedroom — and Sloane is rifling through Billie’s wardrobe like a raccoon who’s tasted chaos.
“Okay,” Sloane declares, flinging a red string bikini onto the bed. “This one will make Glen spontaneously combust.”
“Sloane—” Billie groans.
“No, let her cook,” Bec says, sorting shorts. “She’s on a mission.”
Sloane holds up a tiny white bikini top next. “Billie. Rae. James. Why do you not own cowboy boots? We’re going to TEXAS.”
Billie splutters, frowning at her best friend across the room. “Because I live in Los Angeles and not a Dolly Parton music video?”
“Unacceptable,” Sloane announces, flicking her sleek black hair and holding up Billie's favourite pair of denim cut offs. “Also speaking of cowboys — Glen in a Stetson? Billie. Babe. Are you ready for that? You’re going to evaporate.”
Billie covers her face. “Please stop.”
“Oh my God,” Bec says. “She’s imagining it.”
A pillow is thrown.
They’re still laughing when—
The doorbell rings.
Billie freezes, hushing Nugget when he immediately starts barking.
“It’s probably Ryan or Lachlan returning my steamer.”
Sloane’s eyes gleam, already amused.
“I’ll get it,” she says lightly. “They love me.”
She glides down the hallway like a cat who absolutely knows she’s the favorite. Nugget trots after her, ready for duty.
Silence.
Then—
“…Oh. You’re not the neighbours.”
Billie’s forehead creases. She looks across at Bec, instantly suspicious.
“Who is it, Slo?”
Sloane reappears in the doorway — smug, slow, feline, savoring every second.
“Billie,” she says sweetly, “it’s your cowboy.”
Billie lets out a strangled sound and nearly dies on the spot.
She whips around, raking fingers through her messy bun, suddenly acutely aware she’s in nothing but a sports bra, shorts, and socks. No makeup. No warning. No dignity.
“Oh my god,” she mutters, launching herself forward and shoving past Sloane in the bedroom doorway.
“Run faster,” Sloane calls after her, grinning.
Billie sprints down the hall.
Heart pounding. Brain short-circuiting.
She rounds the corner—
And forgets how to breathe.
Glen stands there, framed in her doorway like a goddamn movie scene.
Backwards cap. Soft grey tee stretched across broad shoulders and arms that look unfairly thick doing absolutely nothing. That warm, devastating smile.
Fuck.
One hand holds a box of donuts.
The other cradles Brisket, who wriggles happily in his arms like a joyful, slightly unhinged loaf of sourdough.
“Hey peach,” he murmurs, easy and low, that grin knocking her knees loose on impact. “Surprise.”
Her heart stumbles—fluttering hard against her ribs in the way it’s been doing more and more since the moment he walked into her life.
“What—why are you—?”
He bends and sets Brisket down. The little dog immediately beelines for Nugget, who overwhelms him with excited snorts, enormous sniffs, and zero concept of personal space.
The girls coo in unison.
“Oh my GOD, he’s tiny,” Bec gushes from the hallway.
“Look at him,” Sloane whispers reverently beside her, bending to pat him, “A pocket-sized king.”
Glen laughs. “He likes to believe so.” He glances up at them. “Hi, ladies. Good to see you again.”
Bec lifts a hand in greeting. Sloane’s grin turns unmistakably wicked.
“You didn’t have to come—” Billie starts.
“Yes he did,” Sloane cuts in smoothly. “He brought sweets.”
Glen’s grin widens, effortlessly handsome, “Didn’t mean to crash girls’ night.”
“You’re not crashing,” Sloane corrects. “You’re elevating.”
Billie swats her arm. “STOP.”
Glen laughs and hands Billie the donut box. Their fingers brush — warm, familiar, grounding — and her pulse stutters like it’s forgotten how to behave.
“Thought you might need fuel,” he says quietly. “Packing looks… intense.”
“Understatement,” Bec mutters.
Glen’s gaze drifts back to Billie, softening, the rest of the room falling away.
“I’m flying out tomorrow,” he says gently. “Wanted to see you before… y’know. Everything.”
Something expands in her chest — warm and aching all at once — and she swallows hard around it.
Then he shakes his head. “Still can’t believe y’all are driving twenty hours.”
Billie smirks. “You already gave me that whole lecture on Monday", her mouth instantly stretching into a smile when she recalls how horrified he sounded when she told him they were driving.
Glen grins, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, and I meant every damn word of it.”
Sloane lifts her chin proudly. “Correction — we are driving twenty hours.”
Glen grins. “I offered her a plane.”
Billie glares. “And I said NO.”
Glen shrugs. “It wasn’t like I was buying a jet, peach—”
“No,” she repeats firmly.
Sloane chokes. “YOU TURNED DOWN THE PLANE?!”
Billie points at her. “We are NOT talking about this.”
Glen’s hand slides to her hip — a subtle, grounding touch that makes her inhale sharply.
“I should’ve known better than to argue with you,” he murmurs.
She smirks. “And yet you tried.”
His hand tightens at her hip. “Give me a minute. I’ll change tactics.”
She scoffs, but the smile gives her away.
They settle in her living room. Nugget stretches at Billie’s feet, Brisket curls up in Bec’s lap like a warm pastry.
Sloane opens the donut box with reverence.
“Blessed be the Texan,” she whispers dramatically, making Glen chuckle.
Glen sits on the arm of the couch, knee brushing Billie’s shoulder.
“Right,” Sloane says when she's passed the donuts around, clapping her hands once like she’s calling a town hall. “First things first Powell. Texas. Itinerary. No skipping details. I need to know what kind of emotional damage I’m preparing for.”
Glen laughs, already shaking his head. “Alright —Friday night’s the big family BBQ. And when I say big, I mean brisket on the smoker since sunrise, ribs, sausages, corn, about six sides, coolers everywhere. Someone’s got a guitar, kids runnin’ around barefoot—”
“What, no backyard football?” Billie cuts in, licking sugar off her thumb.
Glen points at her, mouth curling dangerously. “Oh, we’re getting there. My uncle Rob will absolutely turn a casual game of backyard football into a full-contact situation. Knees get bruised. Feelings get hurt.”
Sloane nods gravely. “As God intended.”
Billie smiles — the warmth in Glen’s voice when he talks about home softening his whole face.
“Saturday’s the lake,” Glen continues. “Swimmin’ off the dock, tubing and boarding till your arms feel like jelly, paddleboards in the late afternoon. Sunburns guaranteed.”
“And drinks?” Sloane cuts in. “Please say drinks.”
Glen chuckles. “Margaritas. Pitchers of ’em. My sister makes ’em strong.”
Sloane presses a hand to her chest. “I am spiritually prepared.”
“We grill again,” Glen says. “Beers, margaritas, and then it usually devolves into music and karaoke.”
Billie’s head snaps up. “Wait — you sing karaoke?”
Glen huffs a laugh. “Only when peer-pressured and mildly overconfident from too many margs”
“Important follow-up,” Sloane says seriously. “Are you good?”
He shrugs. “Depends how strong the margaritas were.”
“And,” he adds, eyes flicking to Billie, grin deepening, “probably line dancin’ if my mom gets her way. She gets… persuasive.”
Billie’s stomach flips, equal parts nerves and excitement.
“And Sunday?” she asks softly.
Glen’s smile goes gentle. “Slow mornin’. Big breakfast — eggs, bacon, pancakes the size of your head. Coffee on the porch. Afternoon’s lazy. Then fireworks that night. Dad goes a little overboard every year.”
Bec sighs, resting her chin in her hand. “Okay. I’m officially sad I’m missing all of this. Barbecue, lake days, fireworks… this is extremely rude timing.”
Billie reaches over and squeezes her hand. “I’ll send you approximately one thousand photos.”
“I expect nothing less,” Bec says, tearing off a piece of donut, “Preferably of Billie tackling people in backyard football.”
Glen’s brows lift. “Oh, is that so?”
Billie glares. “We’re not discussing my competitive nature.”
Glen laughs. “Casual during the day. Little more put-together at night.”
“Great,” Sloane says, satisfied. “I can work with that.”
“Think country music video,” Glen says. “Denim. Boots. Flannel. An irresponsible amount of denim.”
He pauses, grin deepening.
“Stetsons everywhere.”
Sloane freezes.
Then she very slowly fans herself with one hand, tips an imaginary hat with the other, and drops into a full, theatrical old-Western drawl.
“Well I’ll be…”
She squints into the middle distance, raising her hand dramatically - donut in her fingers.
“Cowboys. Everywhere.”
Billie groans. “Please don’t harass strangers.”
“No promises,” Sloane says brightly, returning to the present. “But I will flirt with intention, respect, and possibly a Southern accent I have not earned.”
Glen is openly laughing now, leaning back and watching her like this is the best unexpected entertainment he’s had all week.
“Y’know,” he says, amused, “I had a feelin’ you were gonna be trouble.”
Sloane smirks — slow, wicked, delighted — lifting her glass.
“Oh honey,” she says. “I’m a margarita-fuelled liability.”
Then Sloane smirks wickedly.
“So, final question. Gle-e-en,” she sings sweetly. “Hypothetically speaking, asking for a friend—the cowboy hat rule. Real or urban legend?”
Billie’s soul leaves her body. “SLOANE—”
Glen lets out a slow, amused chuckle, eyes sliding straight to Billie like he’s found his mark. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t need to.
“Definitely real” he drawls, shifting back in his chair, spreading his legs in a way that is entirely intentional, “where I’m from…”
Billie absolutely does not look at that.
She absolutely does.
“If a woman puts on a man’s hat…”
He leans forward now, forearms on his thighs, voice dropping low and smooth — all honeyed heat and Southern confidence — meant only for her.
“…she’s claimin’ him.”
Billie swallows.
“And that,” he adds softly, eyes flicking to her mouth, then back up again, “…means she’s gotta ride the cowboy.”
Billie combusts, her fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath her.
The girls shriek. Sloane claps like she’s won a prize. Bec is fully wheezing.
Glen just sits there, watching Billie duck her head, cheeks flaming, lips pressed together like she’s fighting a smile — and the smug, satisfied curve of his mouth says he absolutely knows he’ll be cashing that in later.
--
The girls vanish back into her bedroom, arguing at full volume about whether denim cut-offs should be “daisy duke hot” or “girl-next-door-but-make-it-feral.”
Billie barely has time to exhale before Glen taps his knee.
“C’mere, peach.”
She stands and steps between his legs without thinking, hands sliding to his chest — and only then does she actually realise what she looks like:
Messy bun piled on top of her head.
Sports bra.
Tiny shorts.
Socks that were white at the start of the day.
A whole day’s worth of Deep Heat and sweat still clinging to her skin.
She winces. “Sorry. I look—God, I look like I’ve been hit by a truck. If I knew you were coming I would’ve… done something about all this.”
She gestures down her own body, mortified.
Glen goes very, very still.
Then he lifts his gaze to hers, slow and disbelieving.
“Billie Rae James,” he murmurs, hands tightening at her hips, voice dropping into something low and sinful,
“Don't you dare apologise. If those girls weren’t here right now, you'd better believe I’d be havin' you right here on this couch.”
Her breath stops.
Heat shoots up her spine so fast her knees nearly give.
“Glen—”
“I’m serious.” His thumbs stroke her bare hips, unapologetically hungry. “You walk in here lookin’ like that — messy ponytail, tiny shorts, all soft and pretty and worn-out from work? Darlin’, that is dangerous for me.”
She feels her face — her whole body — go hot and wobbly.
“You like this?" he whispers, leaning in, brushing a kiss to the inside of her wrist that nearly ends her. “This ruins me.”
Her fingers curl into his shirt.
He softens then — heat melting into something tender.
“I’m sorry for ambushin’ you,” he says quietly. “I just… really wanted to see you again before I fly.”
Her chest shivers with something warm and stupid and full.
“I’m glad you came.”
He pulls her closer until her thighs brush his knees.
“You’re definitely okay to drive tomorrow?” he asks, voice tucked with worry. “Long trip, new roads… I just— I need to know you’re safe.”
She nods. “I promise. We’ll swap often. We’ll take breaks. I’ll text you.”
He exhales like she unknotted something inside him.
“Good. ‘Cause I’ll be thinkin’ about you the whole damn way.”
His eyes trail over her slowly — reverently — like he’s memorising her in this moment, this light, this softness.
Like he’s already picturing her under the Texas sun wearing his hat.
“Can’t wait to show you my world,” he murmurs.
She swallows, throat tight. “I can’t wait to see it.”
He sighs reluctantly. “I should go. Early flight.”
But his hands don’t move from her hips.
And his eyes absolutely don’t leave her mouth.
Which is why she blurts:
“You—could stay.”
His brows lift, wicked and honey-warm.
Her face explodes with heat. “I mean—no. Because if you stay the girls will never leave and you won’t sleep and you have a flight—”
He cuts her off with a low, sinful smile.
“Peach… if I stayed tonight, I absolutely wouldn’t be sleepin’.”
Her pulse detonates.
“Glen—”
“Not with you in my bed,” he adds, quiet and devastating.
She presses a hand to her face. “You need to leave before you cause cardiac arrest.”
He stands slowly — towering over her, solid, warm — and she walks him to the door, heart pounding so loud she swears he can hear it.
He kisses her again — slow, deep, addictive — and of course that’s when the girls wander back in.
“AWWWWWWWW,” Sloane crows.
Bec clutches her heart. “I love this.”
Billie hides in Glen’s chest. “Please leave.”
Glen just laughs, bending to press a kiss to her hairline and brushing a hand down her spine before stepping back.
“Night, Bec,” he says warmly.
She beams. “Safe flight!”
Then he turns to Sloane.
“Sloane. See you in Texas.”
Sloane flicks her hair dramatically. “I’ll be the one charming your entire hometown, cowboy.”
Glen laughs. “Somethin’ tells me you will.”
Then he looks at Billie.
And that smile — the soft, honey-warm one meant only for her — hits her like a full-body ache.
“Bye, peach,” he says, voice dipping, gaze trailing over her one last time.
He winks.
Winks.
And Billie nearly goes straight through the floor.
Brisket whines, not wanting to leave, so Glen scoops him up under one arm like an unruly toddler, gives her one last look that sends heat curling all through her ribs, and heads down the steps.
The door closes.
Silence.
Then Sloane collapses backward onto the couch like she’s been shot.
“I am OBSESSED with him.”
Bec nods solemnly. “Same.”
Billie stands frozen, heart pounding, lips tingling, Nugget leaning heavily into her shin like emotional support furniture.
She swallows, barely audible — to the room, to the girls, or maybe just to herself, her grin growing slow and wide.
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How AMAZING did Glen look at the Golden Globes last night!? I am DECEASED. Please enjoy my next chapter of Glen and Billie! xx
Billie
By the time Billie drags herself up the front steps, her shoulders ache and her brain feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry.
Three back-to-back 12-hour days.
ACL rehabs, sprint mechanics sessions, a mentoring hour with Shanya, her favourite Tuesday class being as chaotic as usual, a dramatic footballer convinced he tore his hamstring (he did not), meetings with strength coaches about load management, and rewriting four rehab plans so they actually made sense.
She is running purely on caffeine, clinical efficiency, and spite.
But she’d promised herself, and Ross, that she would make it work — and she had.
Inside, she can already hear them.
“I swear to God, if she tries to pack neutral basics, I will riot.”
“Sloane, please eat your pad thai and stop threatening unrest.”
Billie pushes the door open.
Sloane and Bec look up like two golden retrievers in human clothing.
“FINALLY,” Sloane announces, standing and pointing her fork like a weapon. “You look dead, babe. Sit. Food.”
Billie drops her bag with a groan, kicks off her shoes, peels off her clinic polo — it smells like liniment, sweat, sprint drills, and having absolutely no time to breathe. Then Nugget barrels into her, forty kilos of enthusiasm and unconditional love. His whole back half wiggles like he's trying to detach it.
She squats, rubbing his ears. “Hi, baby. Mama survived.”
“Why are you here so early?” she asks then, standing up with her hands on her hips as she looks at each of them.
Bec jingles her spare key. “We let ourselves in. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Billie echoes, deadpan.
She collapses onto the couch. Thai containers are immediately shoved into her hands.
They recap their days —
Bec sharing how Aubrey refused to wear pants.
Sloane’s ambulance partner singing off-key Adele for an entire 10-hour shift.
With warm food and warmer company, Billie’s shoulders finally begin to loosen. But only briefly.
Because twenty minutes later, they’re in her bedroom — and Sloane is rifling through Billie’s wardrobe like a raccoon who’s tasted chaos.
“Okay,” Sloane declares, flinging a red string bikini onto the bed. “This one will make Glen spontaneously combust.”
“Sloane—” Billie groans.
“No, let her cook,” Bec says, sorting shorts. “She’s on a mission.”
Sloane holds up a tiny white bikini top next. “Billie. Rae. James. Why do you not own cowboy boots? We’re going to TEXAS.”
Billie splutters, frowning at her best friend across the room. “Because I live in Los Angeles and not a Dolly Parton music video?”
“Unacceptable,” Sloane announces, flicking her sleek black hair and holding up Billie's favourite pair of denim cut offs. “Also speaking of cowboys — Glen in a Stetson? Billie. Babe. Are you ready for that? You’re going to evaporate.”
Billie covers her face. “Please stop.”
“Oh my God,” Bec says. “She’s imagining it.”
A pillow is thrown.
They’re still laughing when—
The doorbell rings.
Billie freezes, hushing Nugget when he immediately starts barking.
“It’s probably Ryan or Lachlan returning my steamer.”
Sloane’s eyes gleam, already amused.
“I’ll get it,” she says lightly. “They love me.”
She glides down the hallway like a cat who absolutely knows she’s the favorite. Nugget trots after her, ready for duty.
Silence.
Then—
“…Oh. You’re not the neighbours.”
Billie’s forehead creases. She looks across at Bec, instantly suspicious.
“Who is it, Slo?”
Sloane reappears in the doorway — smug, slow, feline, savoring every second.
“Billie,” she says sweetly, “it’s your cowboy.”
Billie lets out a strangled sound and nearly dies on the spot.
She whips around, raking fingers through her messy bun, suddenly acutely aware she’s in nothing but a sports bra, shorts, and socks. No makeup. No warning. No dignity.
“Oh my god,” she mutters, launching herself forward and shoving past Sloane in the bedroom doorway.
“Run faster,” Sloane calls after her, grinning.
Billie sprints down the hall.
Heart pounding. Brain short-circuiting.
She rounds the corner—
And forgets how to breathe.
Glen stands there, framed in her doorway like a goddamn movie scene.
Backwards cap. Soft grey tee stretched across broad shoulders and arms that look unfairly thick doing absolutely nothing. That warm, devastating smile.
Fuck.
One hand holds a box of donuts.
The other cradles Brisket, who wriggles happily in his arms like a joyful, slightly unhinged loaf of sourdough.
“Hey peach,” he murmurs, easy and low, that grin knocking her knees loose on impact. “Surprise.”
Her heart stumbles—fluttering hard against her ribs in the way it’s been doing more and more since the moment he walked into her life.
“What—why are you—?”
He bends and sets Brisket down. The little dog immediately beelines for Nugget, who overwhelms him with excited snorts, enormous sniffs, and zero concept of personal space.
The girls coo in unison.
“Oh my GOD, he’s tiny,” Bec gushes from the hallway.
“Look at him,” Sloane whispers reverently beside her, bending to pat him, “A pocket-sized king.”
Glen laughs. “He likes to believe so.” He glances up at them. “Hi, ladies. Good to see you again.”
Bec lifts a hand in greeting. Sloane’s grin turns unmistakably wicked.
“You didn’t have to come—” Billie starts.
“Yes he did,” Sloane cuts in smoothly. “He brought sweets.”
Glen’s grin widens, effortlessly handsome, “Didn’t mean to crash girls’ night.”
“You’re not crashing,” Sloane corrects. “You’re elevating.”
Billie swats her arm. “STOP.”
Glen laughs and hands Billie the donut box. Their fingers brush — warm, familiar, grounding — and her pulse stutters like it’s forgotten how to behave.
“Thought you might need fuel,” he says quietly. “Packing looks… intense.”
“Understatement,” Bec mutters.
Glen’s gaze drifts back to Billie, softening, the rest of the room falling away.
“I’m flying out tomorrow,” he says gently. “Wanted to see you before… y’know. Everything.”
Something expands in her chest — warm and aching all at once — and she swallows hard around it.
Then he shakes his head. “Still can’t believe y’all are driving twenty hours.”
Glen grins, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, and I meant every damn word of it.”
Billie smirks. “You already gave me that whole lecture on Monday", her mouth instantly stretching into a smile when she recalls how horrified he sounded when she told him they were driving.
Sloane lifts her chin proudly. “Correction — we are driving twenty hours.”
Glen grins. “I offered her a plane.”
Billie glares. “And I said NO.”
Glen shrugs. “It wasn’t like I was buying a jet, peach—”
“No,” she repeats firmly.
Sloane chokes. “YOU TURNED DOWN THE PLANE?!”
Billie points at her. “We are NOT talking about this.”
“I should’ve known better than to argue with you,” he murmurs.
Glen’s hand slides to her hip — a subtle, grounding touch that makes her inhale sharply.
She smirks. “And yet you tried.”
His hand tightens at her hip. “Give me a minute. I’ll change tactics.”
She scoffs, but the smile gives her away.
Sloane opens the donut box with reverence.
They settle in her living room. Nugget stretches at Billie’s feet, Brisket curls up in Bec’s lap like a warm pastry.
“Blessed be the Texan,” she whispers dramatically, making Glen chuckle.
Glen sits on the arm of the couch, knee brushing Billie’s shoulder.
“Right,” Sloane says when she's passed the donuts around, clapping her hands once like she’s calling a town hall. “First things first Powell. Texas. Itinerary. No skipping details. I need to know what kind of emotional damage I’m preparing for.”
Glen laughs, already shaking his head. “Alright —Friday night’s the big family BBQ. And when I say big, I mean brisket on the smoker since sunrise, ribs, sausages, corn, about six sides, coolers everywhere. Someone’s got a guitar, kids runnin’ around barefoot—”
“What, no backyard football?” Billie cuts in, licking sugar off her thumb.
Glen points at her, mouth curling dangerously. “Oh, we’re getting there. My uncle Rob will absolutely turn a casual game of backyard football into a full-contact situation. Knees get bruised. Feelings get hurt.”
Sloane nods gravely. “As God intended.”
Billie smiles — the warmth in Glen’s voice when he talks about home softening his whole face.
“Saturday’s the lake,” Glen continues. “Swimmin’ off the dock, tubing and boarding till your arms feel like jelly, paddleboards in the late afternoon. Sunburns guaranteed.”
“And drinks?” Sloane cuts in. “Please say drinks.”
Glen chuckles. “Margaritas. Pitchers of ’em. My sister makes ’em strong.”
Sloane presses a hand to her chest. “I am spiritually prepared.”
“We grill again,” Glen says. “Beers, margaritas, and then it usually devolves into music and karaoke.”
Billie’s head snaps up. “Wait — you sing karaoke?”
Glen huffs a laugh. “Only when peer-pressured and mildly overconfident from too many margs”
“Important follow-up,” Sloane says seriously. “Are you good?”
He shrugs. “Depends how strong the margaritas were.”
“And,” he adds, eyes flicking to Billie, grin deepening, “probably line dancin’ if my mom gets her way. She gets… persuasive.”
Billie’s stomach flips, equal parts nerves and excitement.
“And Sunday?” she asks softly.
Glen’s smile goes gentle. “Slow mornin’. Big breakfast — eggs, bacon, pancakes the size of your head. Coffee on the porch. Afternoon’s lazy. Then fireworks that night. Dad goes a little overboard every year.”
Bec sighs, resting her chin in her hand. “Okay. I’m officially sad I’m missing all of this. Barbecue, lake days, fireworks… this is extremely rude timing.”
Billie reaches over and squeezes her hand. “I’ll send you approximately one thousand photos.”
“I expect nothing less,” Bec says, tearing off a piece of donut, “Preferably of Billie tackling people in backyard football.”
Glen’s brows lift. “Oh, is that so?”
Billie glares. “We’re not discussing my competitive nature.”
Glen laughs. “Casual during the day. Little more put-together at night.”
“Great,” Sloane says, satisfied. “I can work with that.”
“Think country music video,” Glen says. “Denim. Boots. Flannel. An irresponsible amount of denim.”
He pauses, grin deepening.
“Cowboys everywhere.”
Sloane freezes.
Then she very slowly fans herself with one hand, tips an imaginary hat with the other, and drops into a full, theatrical old-Western drawl.
“Well I’ll be…”
She squints into the middle distance, raising her hand dramatically - donut in her fingers.
“Cowboys. Everywhere.”
Billie groans. “Please don’t harass strangers.”
“No promises,” Sloane says brightly, returning to the present. “But I will flirt with intention, respect, and possibly a Southern accent I have not earned.”
Glen is openly laughing now, leaning back and watching her like this is the best unexpected entertainment he’s had all week.
“Y’know,” he says, amused, “I had a feelin’ you were gonna be trouble.”
Sloane smirks — slow, wicked, delighted — lifting her glass.
“Oh honey,” she says. “I’m a margarita-fuelled liability.”
Then Sloane smirks wickedly.
“So, final question. Gle-e-en,” she sings sweetly. “Hypothetically speaking, asking for a friend—the cowboy hat rule. Real or urban legend?”
Billie’s soul leaves her body. “SLOANE—”
Glen lets out a slow, amused chuckle, eyes sliding straight to Billie like he’s found his mark. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t need to.
“Definitely real” he drawls, shifting back in his chair, spreading his legs in a way that is entirely intentional, “where I’m from…”
Billie absolutely does not look at that.
She absolutely does.
“If a woman puts on a man’s hat…”
He leans forward now, forearms on his thighs, voice dropping low and smooth — all honeyed heat and Southern confidence — meant only for her.
“…she’s claimin’ him.”
Billie swallows.
“And that,” he adds softly, eyes flicking to her mouth, then back up again, “…means she’s gotta ride the cowboy.”
Billie combusts, her fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath her.
The girls shriek. Sloane claps like she’s won a prize. Bec is fully wheezing.
Glen just sits there, watching Billie duck her head, cheeks flaming, lips pressed together like she’s fighting a smile — and the smug, satisfied curve of his mouth says he absolutely knows he’ll be cashing that in later.
--
The girls vanish back into her bedroom, arguing at full volume about whether denim cut-offs should be “daisy duke hot” or “girl-next-door-but-make-it-feral.”
Billie barely has time to exhale before Glen taps his knee.
“C’mere, peach.”
She stands and steps between his legs without thinking, hands sliding to his chest — and only then does she actually realise what she looks like:
Messy bun piled on top of her head.
Sports bra.
Tiny shorts.
Socks that were white at the start of the day.
A whole day’s worth of Deep Heat and sweat still clinging to her skin.
She winces. “Sorry. I look—God, I look like I’ve been hit by a truck. If I knew you were coming I would’ve… done something about all this.”
She gestures down her own body, mortified.
Glen goes very, very still.
Then he lifts his gaze to hers, slow and disbelieving.
“Billie Rae James,” he murmurs, hands tightening at her hips, voice dropping into something low and sinful,
“Don't you dare apologise. If those girls weren’t here right now, you'd better believe I’d be havin' you right here on this couch.”
Her breath stops.
Heat shoots up her spine so fast her knees nearly give.
“Glen—”
“I’m serious.” His thumbs stroke her bare hips, unapologetically hungry. “You walk in here lookin’ like that — messy ponytail, tiny shorts, all soft and pretty and worn-out from work? Darlin’, that is dangerous for me.”
She feels her face — her whole body — go hot and wobbly.
“You like this?" he whispers, leaning in, brushing a kiss to the inside of her wrist that nearly ends her. “This ruins me.”
Her fingers curl into his shirt.
He softens then — heat melting into something tender.
“I’m sorry for ambushin’ you,” he says quietly. “I just… really wanted to see you again before I fly.”
Her chest shivers with something warm and stupid and full.
“I’m glad you came.”
He pulls her closer until her thighs brush his knees.
“You’re definitely okay to drive tomorrow?” he asks, voice tucked with worry. “Long trip, new roads… I just— I need to know you’re safe.”
She nods. “I promise. We’ll swap often. We’ll take breaks. I’ll text you.”
He exhales like she unknotted something inside him.
“Good. ‘Cause I’ll be thinkin’ about you the whole damn way.”
His eyes trail over her slowly — reverently — like he’s memorising her in this moment, this light, this softness.
Like he’s already picturing her under the Texas sun wearing his hat.
“Can’t wait to show you my world,” he murmurs.
She swallows, throat tight. “I can’t wait to see it.”
He sighs reluctantly. “I should go. Early flight.”
But his hands don’t move from her hips.
And his eyes absolutely don’t leave her mouth.
Which is why she blurts:
“You—could stay.”
His brows lift, wicked and honey-warm.
Her face explodes with heat. “I mean—no. Because if you stay the girls will never leave and you won’t sleep and you have a flight—”
He cuts her off with a low, sinful smile.
“Peach… if I stayed tonight, I absolutely wouldn’t be sleepin’.”
Her pulse detonates.
“Glen—”
“Not with you in my bed,” he adds, quiet and devastating.
She presses a hand to her face. “You need to leave before you cause cardiac arrest.”
He stands slowly — towering over her, solid, warm — and she walks him to the door, heart pounding so loud she swears he can hear it.
He kisses her again — slow, deep, addictive — and of course that’s when the girls wander back in.
“AWWWWWWWW,” Sloane crows.
Bec clutches her heart. “I love this.”
Billie hides in Glen’s chest. “Please leave.”
Glen just laughs, bending to press a kiss to her hairline and brushing a hand down her spine before stepping back.
“Night, Bec,” he says warmly.
She beams. “Safe flight!”
Then he turns to Sloane.
“Sloane. See you in Texas.”
Sloane flicks her hair dramatically. “I’ll be the one charming your entire hometown, cowboy.”
Glen laughs. “Somethin’ tells me you will.”
Then he looks at Billie.
And that smile — the soft, honey-warm one meant only for her — hits her like a full-body ache.
“Bye, peach,” he says, voice dipping, gaze trailing over her one last time.
He winks.
Winks.
And Billie nearly goes straight through the floor.
Brisket whines, not wanting to leave, so Glen scoops him up under one arm like an unruly toddler, gives her one last look that sends heat curling all through her ribs, and heads down the steps.
The door closes.
Silence.
Then Sloane collapses backward onto the couch like she’s been shot.
“I am OBSESSED with him.”
Bec nods solemnly. “Same.”
Billie stands frozen, heart pounding, lips tingling, Nugget leaning heavily into her shin like emotional support furniture.
She swallows, barely audible — to the room, to the girls, or maybe just to herself, her grin growing slow and wide.
How AMAZING did Glen look at the Golden Globes last night!? I am DECEASED. Please enjoy my next chapter of Glen and Billie! xx
Billie
By the time Billie drags herself up the front steps, her shoulders ache and her brain feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry.
Three back-to-back 12-hour days.
ACL rehabs, sprint mechanics sessions, a mentoring hour with Shanya, her favourite Tuesday class being as chaotic as usual, a dramatic footballer convinced he tore his hamstring (he did not), meetings with strength coaches about load management, and rewriting four rehab plans so they actually made sense.
She is running purely on caffeine, clinical efficiency, and spite.
But she’d promised herself, and Ross, that she would make it work — and she had.
Inside, she can already hear them.
“I swear to God, if she tries to pack neutral basics, I will riot.”
“Sloane, please eat your pad thai and stop threatening unrest.”
Billie pushes the door open.
Sloane and Bec look up like two golden retrievers in human clothing.
“FINALLY,” Sloane announces, standing and pointing her fork like a weapon. “You look dead, babe. Sit. Food.”
Billie drops her bag with a groan, kicks off her shoes, peels off her clinic polo — it smells like liniment, sweat, sprint drills, and having absolutely no time to breathe. Then Nugget barrels into her, forty kilos of enthusiasm and unconditional love. His whole back half wiggles like he's trying to detach it.
She squats, rubbing his ears. “Hi, baby. Mama survived.”
“Why are you here so early?” she asks then, standing up with her hands on her hips as she looks at each of them.
Bec jingles her spare key. “We let ourselves in. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Billie echoes, deadpan.
She collapses onto the couch. Thai containers are immediately shoved into her hands.
They recap their days —
Bec sharing how Aubrey refused to wear pants.
Sloane’s ambulance partner singing off-key Adele for an entire 10-hour shift.
With warm food and warmer company, Billie’s shoulders finally begin to loosen. But only briefly.
Because twenty minutes later, they’re in her bedroom — and Sloane is rifling through Billie’s wardrobe like a raccoon who’s tasted chaos.
“Okay,” Sloane declares, flinging a red string bikini onto the bed. “This one will make Glen spontaneously combust.”
“Sloane—” Billie groans.
“No, let her cook,” Bec says, sorting shorts. “She’s on a mission.”
Sloane holds up a tiny white bikini top next. “Billie. Rae. James. Why do you not own cowboy boots? We’re going to TEXAS.”
Billie splutters, frowning at her best friend across the room. “Because I live in Los Angeles and not a Dolly Parton music video?”
“Unacceptable,” Sloane announces, flicking her sleek black hair and holding up Billie's favourite pair of denim cut offs. “Also speaking of cowboys — Glen in a Stetson? Billie. Babe. Are you ready for that? You’re going to evaporate.”
Billie covers her face. “Please stop.”
“Oh my God,” Bec says. “She’s imagining it.”
A pillow is thrown.
They’re still laughing when—
The doorbell rings.
Billie freezes, hushing Nugget when he immediately starts barking.
“It’s probably Ryan or Lachlan returning my steamer.”
Sloane’s eyes gleam, already amused.
“I’ll get it,” she says lightly. “They love me.”
She glides down the hallway like a cat who absolutely knows she’s the favorite. Nugget trots after her, ready for duty.
Silence.
Then—
“…Oh. You’re not the neighbours.”
Billie’s forehead creases. She looks across at Bec, instantly suspicious.
“Who is it, Slo?”
Sloane reappears in the doorway — smug, slow, feline, savoring every second.
“Billie,” she says sweetly, “it’s your cowboy.”
Billie lets out a strangled sound and nearly dies on the spot.
She whips around, raking fingers through her messy bun, suddenly acutely aware she’s in nothing but a sports bra, shorts, and socks. No makeup. No warning. No dignity.
“Oh my god,” she mutters, launching herself forward and shoving past Sloane in the bedroom doorway.
“Run faster,” Sloane calls after her, grinning.
Billie sprints down the hall.
Heart pounding. Brain short-circuiting.
She rounds the corner—
And forgets how to breathe.
Glen stands there, framed in her doorway like a goddamn movie scene.
Backwards cap. Soft grey tee stretched across broad shoulders and arms that look unfairly thick doing absolutely nothing. That warm, devastating smile.
Fuck.
One hand holds a box of donuts.
The other cradles Brisket, who wriggles happily in his arms like a joyful, slightly unhinged loaf of sourdough.
“Hey peach,” he murmurs, easy and low, that grin knocking her knees loose on impact. “Surprise.”
Her heart stumbles—fluttering hard against her ribs in the way it’s been doing more and more since the moment he walked into her life.
“What—why are you—?”
He bends and sets Brisket down. The little dog immediately beelines for Nugget, who overwhelms him with excited snorts, enormous sniffs, and zero concept of personal space.
The girls coo in unison.
“Oh my GOD, he’s tiny,” Bec gushes from the hallway.
“Look at him,” Sloane whispers reverently beside her, bending to pat him, “A pocket-sized king.”
Glen laughs. “He likes to believe so.” He glances up at them. “Hi, ladies. Good to see you again.”
Bec lifts a hand in greeting. Sloane’s grin turns unmistakably wicked.
“You didn’t have to come—” Billie starts.
“Yes he did,” Sloane cuts in smoothly. “He brought sweets.”
Glen’s grin widens, effortlessly handsome, “Didn’t mean to crash girls’ night.”
“You’re not crashing,” Sloane corrects. “You’re elevating.”
Billie swats her arm. “STOP.”
Glen laughs and hands Billie the donut box. Their fingers brush — warm, familiar, grounding — and her pulse stutters like it’s forgotten how to behave.
“Thought you might need fuel,” he says quietly. “Packing looks… intense.”
“Understatement,” Bec mutters.
Glen’s gaze drifts back to Billie, softening, the rest of the room falling away.
“I’m flying out tomorrow,” he says gently. “Wanted to see you before… y’know. Everything.”
Something expands in her chest — warm and aching all at once — and she swallows hard around it.
Then he shakes his head. “Still can’t believe y’all are driving twenty hours.”
Billie smirks. “You already gave me that whole lecture on Monday", her mouth instantly stretching into a smile when she recalls how horrified he sounded when she told him they were driving.
Glen grins, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, and I meant every damn word of it.”
Sloane lifts her chin proudly. “Correction — we are driving twenty hours.”
Glen grins. “I offered her a plane.”
Billie glares. “And I said NO.”
Glen shrugs. “It wasn’t like I was buying a jet, peach—”
“No,” she repeats firmly.
Sloane chokes. “YOU TURNED DOWN THE PLANE?!”
Billie points at her. “We are NOT talking about this.”
Glen’s hand slides to her hip — a subtle, grounding touch that makes her inhale sharply.
“I should’ve known better than to argue with you,” he murmurs.
She smirks. “And yet you tried.”
His hand tightens at her hip. “Give me a minute. I’ll change tactics.”
She scoffs, but the smile gives her away.
They settle in her living room. Nugget stretches at Billie’s feet, Brisket curls up in Bec’s lap like a warm pastry.
Sloane opens the donut box with reverence.
“Blessed be the Texan,” she whispers dramatically, making Glen chuckle.
Glen sits on the arm of the couch, knee brushing Billie’s shoulder.
“Right,” Sloane says when she's passed the donuts around, clapping her hands once like she’s calling a town hall. “First things first Powell. Texas. Itinerary. No skipping details. I need to know what kind of emotional damage I’m preparing for.”
Glen laughs, already shaking his head. “Alright —Friday night’s the big family BBQ. And when I say big, I mean brisket on the smoker since sunrise, ribs, sausages, corn, about six sides, coolers everywhere. Someone’s got a guitar, kids runnin’ around barefoot—”
“What, no backyard football?” Billie cuts in, licking sugar off her thumb.
Glen points at her, mouth curling dangerously. “Oh, we’re getting there. My uncle Rob will absolutely turn a casual game of backyard football into a full-contact situation. Knees get bruised. Feelings get hurt.”
Sloane nods gravely. “As God intended.”
Billie smiles — the warmth in Glen’s voice when he talks about home softening his whole face.
“Saturday’s the lake,” Glen continues. “Swimmin’ off the dock, tubing and boarding till your arms feel like jelly, paddleboards in the late afternoon. Sunburns guaranteed.”
“And drinks?” Sloane cuts in. “Please say drinks.”
Glen chuckles. “Margaritas. Pitchers of ’em. My sister makes ’em strong.”
Sloane presses a hand to her chest. “I am spiritually prepared.”
“We grill again,” Glen says. “Beers, margaritas, and then it usually devolves into music and karaoke.”
Billie’s head snaps up. “Wait — you sing karaoke?”
Glen huffs a laugh. “Only when peer-pressured and mildly overconfident from too many margs”
“Important follow-up,” Sloane says seriously. “Are you good?”
He shrugs. “Depends how strong the margaritas were.”
“And,” he adds, eyes flicking to Billie, grin deepening, “probably line dancin’ if my mom gets her way. She gets… persuasive.”
Billie’s stomach flips, equal parts nerves and excitement.
“And Sunday?” she asks softly.
Glen’s smile goes gentle. “Slow mornin’. Big breakfast — eggs, bacon, pancakes the size of your head. Coffee on the porch. Afternoon’s lazy. Then fireworks that night. Dad goes a little overboard every year.”
Bec sighs, resting her chin in her hand. “Okay. I’m officially sad I’m missing all of this. Barbecue, lake days, fireworks… this is extremely rude timing.”
Billie reaches over and squeezes her hand. “I’ll send you approximately one thousand photos.”
“I expect nothing less,” Bec says, tearing off a piece of donut, “Preferably of Billie tackling people in backyard football.”
Glen’s brows lift. “Oh, is that so?”
Billie glares. “We’re not discussing my competitive nature.”
Glen laughs. “Casual during the day. Little more put-together at night.”
“Great,” Sloane says, satisfied. “I can work with that.”
“Think country music video,” Glen says. “Denim. Boots. Flannel. An irresponsible amount of denim.”
He pauses, grin deepening.
“Stetsons everywhere.”
Sloane freezes.
Then she very slowly fans herself with one hand, tips an imaginary hat with the other, and drops into a full, theatrical old-Western drawl.
“Well I’ll be…”
She squints into the middle distance, raising her hand dramatically - donut in her fingers.
“Cowboys. Everywhere.”
Billie groans. “Please don’t harass strangers.”
“No promises,” Sloane says brightly, returning to the present. “But I will flirt with intention, respect, and possibly a Southern accent I have not earned.”
Glen is openly laughing now, leaning back and watching her like this is the best unexpected entertainment he’s had all week.
“Y’know,” he says, amused, “I had a feelin’ you were gonna be trouble.”
Sloane smirks — slow, wicked, delighted — lifting her glass.
“Oh honey,” she says. “I’m a margarita-fuelled liability.”
Then Sloane smirks wickedly.
“So, final question. Gle-e-en,” she sings sweetly. “Hypothetically speaking, asking for a friend—the cowboy hat rule. Real or urban legend?”
Billie’s soul leaves her body. “SLOANE—”
Glen lets out a slow, amused chuckle, eyes sliding straight to Billie like he’s found his mark. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t need to.
“Definitely real” he drawls, shifting back in his chair, spreading his legs in a way that is entirely intentional, “where I’m from…”
Billie absolutely does not look at that.
She absolutely does.
“If a woman puts on a man’s hat…”
He leans forward now, forearms on his thighs, voice dropping low and smooth — all honeyed heat and Southern confidence — meant only for her.
“…she’s claimin’ him.”
Billie swallows.
“And that,” he adds softly, eyes flicking to her mouth, then back up again, “…means she’s gotta ride the cowboy.”
Billie combusts, her fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath her.
The girls shriek. Sloane claps like she’s won a prize. Bec is fully wheezing.
Glen just sits there, watching Billie duck her head, cheeks flaming, lips pressed together like she’s fighting a smile — and the smug, satisfied curve of his mouth says he absolutely knows he’ll be cashing that in later.
--
The girls vanish back into her bedroom, arguing at full volume about whether denim cut-offs should be “daisy duke hot” or “girl-next-door-but-make-it-feral.”
Billie barely has time to exhale before Glen taps his knee.
“C’mere, peach.”
She stands and steps between his legs without thinking, hands sliding to his chest — and only then does she actually realise what she looks like:
Messy bun piled on top of her head.
Sports bra.
Tiny shorts.
Socks that were white at the start of the day.
A whole day’s worth of Deep Heat and sweat still clinging to her skin.
She winces. “Sorry. I look—God, I look like I’ve been hit by a truck. If I knew you were coming I would’ve… done something about all this.”
She gestures down her own body, mortified.
Glen goes very, very still.
Then he lifts his gaze to hers, slow and disbelieving.
“Billie Rae James,” he murmurs, hands tightening at her hips, voice dropping into something low and sinful,
“Don't you dare apologise. If those girls weren’t here right now, you'd better believe I’d be havin' you right here on this couch.”
Her breath stops.
Heat shoots up her spine so fast her knees nearly give.
“Glen—”
“I’m serious.” His thumbs stroke her bare hips, unapologetically hungry. “You walk in here lookin’ like that — messy ponytail, tiny shorts, all soft and pretty and worn-out from work? Darlin’, that is dangerous for me.”
She feels her face — her whole body — go hot and wobbly.
“You like this?" he whispers, leaning in, brushing a kiss to the inside of her wrist that nearly ends her. “This ruins me.”
Her fingers curl into his shirt.
He softens then — heat melting into something tender.
“I’m sorry for ambushin’ you,” he says quietly. “I just… really wanted to see you again before I fly.”
Her chest shivers with something warm and stupid and full.
“I’m glad you came.”
He pulls her closer until her thighs brush his knees.
“You’re definitely okay to drive tomorrow?” he asks, voice tucked with worry. “Long trip, new roads… I just— I need to know you’re safe.”
She nods. “I promise. We’ll swap often. We’ll take breaks. I’ll text you.”
He exhales like she unknotted something inside him.
“Good. ‘Cause I’ll be thinkin’ about you the whole damn way.”
His eyes trail over her slowly — reverently — like he’s memorising her in this moment, this light, this softness.
Like he’s already picturing her under the Texas sun wearing his hat.
“Can’t wait to show you my world,” he murmurs.
She swallows, throat tight. “I can’t wait to see it.”
He sighs reluctantly. “I should go. Early flight.”
But his hands don’t move from her hips.
And his eyes absolutely don’t leave her mouth.
Which is why she blurts:
“You—could stay.”
His brows lift, wicked and honey-warm.
Her face explodes with heat. “I mean—no. Because if you stay the girls will never leave and you won’t sleep and you have a flight—”
He cuts her off with a low, sinful smile.
“Peach… if I stayed tonight, I absolutely wouldn’t be sleepin’.”
Her pulse detonates.
“Glen—”
“Not with you in my bed,” he adds, quiet and devastating.
She presses a hand to her face. “You need to leave before you cause cardiac arrest.”
He stands slowly — towering over her, solid, warm — and she walks him to the door, heart pounding so loud she swears he can hear it.
He kisses her again — slow, deep, addictive — and of course that’s when the girls wander back in.
“AWWWWWWWW,” Sloane crows.
Bec clutches her heart. “I love this.”
Billie hides in Glen’s chest. “Please leave.”
Glen just laughs, bending to press a kiss to her hairline and brushing a hand down her spine before stepping back.
“Night, Bec,” he says warmly.
She beams. “Safe flight!”
Then he turns to Sloane.
“Sloane. See you in Texas.”
Sloane flicks her hair dramatically. “I’ll be the one charming your entire hometown, cowboy.”
Glen laughs. “Somethin’ tells me you will.”
Then he looks at Billie.
And that smile — the soft, honey-warm one meant only for her — hits her like a full-body ache.
“Bye, peach,” he says, voice dipping, gaze trailing over her one last time.
He winks.
Winks.
And Billie nearly goes straight through the floor.
Brisket whines, not wanting to leave, so Glen scoops him up under one arm like an unruly toddler, gives her one last look that sends heat curling all through her ribs, and heads down the steps.
The door closes.
Silence.
Then Sloane collapses backward onto the couch like she’s been shot.
“I am OBSESSED with him.”
Bec nods solemnly. “Same.”
Billie stands frozen, heart pounding, lips tingling, Nugget leaning heavily into her shin like emotional support furniture.
She swallows, barely audible — to the room, to the girls, or maybe just to herself, her grin growing slow and wide.
