We were always like this. Years of running wild on her family’s ranch, sneaking into the hayloft, falling asleep in a tangle of limbs after long days in the sun. Half the time, Callie was asleep on Maverick’s shoulder or poking at my ribs with her frozen toes, giggling while we tried to push her off the couch. It was messy and close and loud, and somehow, it always made sense.
