Her face beams.
“Smells heavenly,” she says, taking a sip.
“So do you.”
She blushes, then grins. Steam curls between us. “For a grumpy, silent type, you’re pretty wordy today.”
“Inspired.”
We drink in silence, the kind that feels full instead of empty.
Finally, she speaks. “You were right about the quiet. It’s … loud, but in a good way.”
I nod, watching the way she studies the world outside the window—mist lifting off the trees, sunlight glancing off wet bark. “Takes getting used to. City noise hides things. Mountain quiet tells on you.”
Her gaze flicks to me. “What’s it telling on you now?”
“That I’m happier than I should be.”
She sets her mug down on the nightstand, fingers tangling into my beard as she pulls me in. “You’re allowed to be happy, Denver.”
“So are you.”
The truth sits between us, raw and solid.
After breakfast—eggs, toast, laughter that feels too easy for two people still figuring out what comes next—we walk down the trail to the Wheeler cabin. The air smells of rain and sawdust; puddles mirror the sky.
“Think it’s salvageable?” she asks.
“Anything can be fixed if you’ve got patience,” I tell her.
“Do you?”
I meet her eyes. “Used to think I didn’t. Guess I learned some.”
She smiles at that, and it hits me—how much I want her to stay, not because she needs rescuing, but because the place feels different with her here. Brighter. Real.
She runs a hand along the warped doorframe. “You think we could rebuild it together?”
We.
That word lands like an anchor and a promise all at once.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “We could.”
Wind picks up through the trees, carrying the scent of pine sap and wet earth. She shivers, and I tug her close on instinct. She fits there like she was meant to.
“Guess the challenge isn’t over,” she says into my shirt.
“Nope.” I brush a kiss against her hair. “But this time you’re not doing it alone.”
She leans back to look at me, eyes shining. “You sure about that, mountain man?”
I grin, slow and certain. “Never been surer.”
We stand there a long while—two stubborn souls, one ruined cabin, and a brand-new beginning rising out of the wreckage.
Maybe solitude had its season.
