I look over my shoulder at him. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I'm learning to read—soft around the edges, warm in the eyes. "And if it's not?"
He shrugs, but there's a hint of a smile. "Guess you'll have no choice but to stay another night."
The corner of his mouth twitches when he says it, but there's something real behind it too—hope, maybe, or fear that I'll actually leave.
I glance toward the ridge where I found the brass button. The wind's still moving faint lines across the snow, creating patterns like ripples on water. I came up here looking for treasure. Proof of a story my grandpa used to tell.
But the real story isn't buried under the snow. It's standing beside me, half-smiling like he doesn't know he's already given me everything I could ever want.
I take a slow breath, watching it cloud white in the cold air. "What if I did stay?"
His head turns sharply, eyes locking on mine with sudden intensity. "You mean today?"
"I mean…indefinitely." I gesture to the cabin, the trees, him. "There’s still gold out there, I’m sure of it. But even there’s not… there’syou. I don’t want to leave you, Thatcher.”
For a long beat, he says nothing. Then he sets his mug down and steps closer. "You sure about that?"
I lick my lips nervously. “Pretty damn sure.”
"What about your life down there?"
I think about my apartment—cramped and always too hot or too cold, the neighbor who plays music at 2 AM, the job that paysthe bills but doesn't make me want to get out of bed. "You mean my apartment that smells like reheated takeout and has a view of a brick wall? I think it'll survive without me."
That gets the smallest laugh out of him, low and genuine, the kind of laugh that makes his eyes crinkle. "You’ve seen what the mountain can dish out, and you still want to stay? You don't scare easy, do you?"
"Only when I think too much." I tilt my head, studying his face—the lines around his eyes, the silver threads in his beard, the way he's looking at me like I'm worth more than any gold treasure. "You okay with sharing your mountain?"
He reaches up, cupping my cheek, thumb tracing the edge of my smile. His palm is rough and warm, and I lean into it. "Guess it's about time it wasn't just mine anymore."
I rise on my toes and kiss him, soft and sweet, tasting the coffee on his lips, feeling the scratch of his beard, the way his arms come around me and pull me close. When we break apart, I'm grinning like an idiot.
"So that's a yes?"
"That's a yes," he confirms, and kisses me again.
We spend the afternoon in the workshop. He works on a new commission—a gate for someone in town, all scrollwork and careful welds—while I sort through his collection of salvaged pieces, organizing bolts by size and pretending I know what I'm doing.
The gold coin sits on the table between us, catching bits of light every time the fire flares. Beside it, the brass button I found that first day, and a small pile of other treasures I've been collecting—a railroad nail, a piece of green glass worn smooth, a gear from some long-dead machine.
"I found it on your property,” I say, touching the coin. “So, I still say it’s yours.”
"So are you," he says, so simply it stops me mid-motion. “And I want you to have it.”
He thinks I’mhis?
He’s not wrong.
I look up, heart pounding in my chest. "That was smooth, Thatcher"
"Didn't mean it to be."
"Even better."
I tuck the coin into my palm. It's warm in my hand and heavy in a way that feels like a solemn promise, like proof that fairy tales sometimes come true.
He sets down his torch, pulls off his safety glasses, and crosses to me. His hands find my waist, pull me close. "You really staying?"
"Try to get rid of me," I challenge.
