Page 7 of Cole

The smell of something burning hit him before he reached the door.

Cole climbed the steps and pushed through the door, shaking his head at the smoke drifting from the kitchen. "Please tell me that's not dinner."

"It's called caramelization," Cory called from somewhere in the smoke. "It's a cooking technique."

"It's called arson." Timothy appeared in the doorway, waving smoke away from his face. "I told him not to cook the onions too long."

Cole moved into the kitchen, and the smell of grilling meat made his stomach growl. Cory stood at the stove, flipping steaks in a massive cast-iron skillet with the practiced efficiency of a man who knew his way around a kitchen. A pot of rice simmered on the back burner, and a salad sat ready on the counter.

"About time you showed up." Cory glanced over his shoulder, grinning. "Steaks are almost done."

"Smells good." Cole grabbed a beer from the fridge, taking in the bunkhouse kitchen. Clean counters, dishes already loaded in the dishwasher, everything squared away the way you'd expect from former military. These men might be bachelors, but they ran a tight ship.

He'd lived in the bunkhouse when he first arrived in Montana. Six bedrooms, shared bathrooms, a common area where everything had its place and stayed there. It had been comfortable, the kind of structured environment that felt familiar after years of service. But three months ago, he'd moved into an apartment outside Cut Bank, needing his own space where he could think without the constant presence of others, even others he liked. Plus, now he had a roommate.

But he still hung out for nights like this with fun, food, and good conversation.

"Grab some plates, would you?" Cory asked. "Dalton's supposed to be doing it, but he's out on the porch avoiding work."

"I heard that," Dalton called from outside. "I'm setting up the chairs."

"Excuses." But Cory was smiling as he plated the steaks.

Cole carried dishes and silverware past the long table in the bunkhouse to the outdoor folding tables where they could watch the sunset. They’d discovered long ago that after watching the sun set from points around the world while in the service, it was a brilliant reminder of where they were now.

Frazier and Timothy had already claimed spots. The view from here stretched across rolling hills toward distant mountains, painted gold and amber in the fading light.

Cory brought out the food, and they began passing plates and popping the tops off cold beer. The steaks were cooked to order, and the caramelized onions were the perfect topper. These men knew how to take care of themselves, having learned that discipline extended beyond the battlefield into every aspect of life.

"So Logan's got me on standby for New Mexico?" Timothy asked, cutting into his steak.

"Maybe. Still developing." Cole watched the light change across the mountains. "Could be this week, could be next month. You know how these things go."

"Hurry up and wait." Timothy reached for the salad bowl. "Story of my life."

"Better than constant chaos." Frazier took a long pull from his beer. "I'll take boring over bullets any day."

"You say that now," Dalton said. "Give it another month, and you'll be itching for action."

"Probably." But Frazier grinned. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate the downtime while I have it."

The conversation drifted, leisurely and unhurried—sports, weather, and the latest compound upgrades Bert was overseeing. Someone mentioned Cutter's Pub in town and whether they should head there later. Timothy told a story about his last flight training session that had everyone laughing. Dalton gave his brother grief about the cabinet project that was taking longer than expected, and Frazier shot back with a comment about Dalton's tendency to measure once and cut twice.

Cole let it wash over him, contributing when appropriate but mostly just absorbing the moment. These men had become his brothers. Not by blood like Dalton and Frazier, but by choice. By shared purpose and the kind of trust you couldn't fake.

They cleaned up together after dinner, the kitchen restored to order in minutes with everyone pitching in before they grabbed fresh beers and headed back to the porch.

As the sun touched the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, Cole felt that familiar settling in his chest. This was right. This was home. Not the bunkhouse itself, but what it represented.

"You heading out?" Timothy asked as Cole stood, collecting empty beer bottles.

"Yeah. My roommate thinks she'll starve if I'm gone more than eight hours." Cole grinned at the groans that followed. "What? She's good company."

"You need a girlfriend, man," Frazier said, as the others chuckled. "Not a cat."

"A cat is less complicated." But Cole was still smiling as he headed for his truck. "See you guys tomorrow."

The drive to his apartment took twenty minutes, the road cutting through land that rolled and dipped like waves frozen in grass and stone. His apartment complex sat on the edge of town, nothing fancy but clean and quiet, with a view of the mountains from his living room window.