The sign was crooked. Of course it was.
Holt had leveled it twice, grumbling about “uneven ground” and “damn soft dirt,” but I kind of loved it that way, tilted slightly to the left, perfectly imperfect, just like my life had been ever since Holt had told me he loved me.
Camp Braveheart. Est. Now.
The sign read exactly the way Lane had created it a year ago on that little flag. Back when my dream was just a box of plastic dinosaurs and so far out of reach, I didn’t dare hope.
Now, it was real. It was loud. It was messy. And it was all ours.
Kids raced between the activity stations we’d set up around the clearing, giggling and shrieking with the kind of unfiltered joy that could crack open even the hardest heart.
Lane was right in the thick of it, wearing a laminated "Junior Ranger" badge and a whistle he definitely wasn’t qualified to use. He had a clipboard, a walkie-talkie, and an extremely serious expression that made the other kids listen to him most of the time.
Holt stood a little off to the side, arms crossed, watching it all with the same quiet intensity he used to watch the tree line during a storm. Only now, he wasn’t looking for danger. He was watching me.
I made my way over, dodging a flying pool noodle and two kids armed with water guns.
"Did you check the archery line?" he asked without looking at me.
"They're using marshmallows," I said, trying not to laugh. "So yes. Extremely safe. Also delicious."
He grunted. Which, in Holt-speak, meant everything was okay.
I leaned into his side and tipped my head back to look up at him. "You know, you never asked me to marry you."
His gaze flicked down, slightly amused. “Don’t need to. You’re already mine."
"Still. Some women like a grand gesture."
He reached into his back pocket and handed me a folded sheet of paper.
I took it, wondering what he’d been up to, and opened it.
It was a permit application. Official, signed, and stamped.
Name: Camp Braveheart
Location: Ramsey Land Parcel 4B
Director: Calla Smith
Purpose: Outdoor education and therapeutic programming for youth and caregivers in need of safe emotional spaces.
I stared at it, my throat tightening.
Holt threaded his fingers with mine. "Figured you might want to make it permanent. You know. In case you aren’t done building stuff with us."
Tears hit faster than I expected. I blinked hard and held the paper to my chest. "You did this for me?"
"I did it for us. And for him." He nodded toward Lane, who was herding a group of kids toward the snack table like he was guiding a dinosaur dig team through enemy territory. "He still asks if you’re staying. Even now. Do you think putting a ring on your finger and making it official might help him feel more secure?”
“Only if that’s what you want,” I said, my heart too full for words.
He shook his head while he got down on one knee and pulled a small box out of his pocket. “I can’t think of anything I could ever want more than that, baby girl.”
The kids broke into an enthusiastic version of “Happy Birthday,” evidently the only song everyone knew, while Lane rushed over with a bouquet of flowers he must have picked from the perennials I’d planted around the cabin.
“Did she say yes?” He thrust the flowers at me, his smile eager and wide.
