“Front window,” I said, without hesitation. “Eye level. So when people come to town, they know that I belong there.”
He nodded. His quiet acceptance felt like the opposite of surrender and exactly like love.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Before the first station opens.”
“No, now,” I said, feeling brave and bossy.
He blinked, then laughed, and the line of men who’d followed him into every fight of his life looked like they didn’t quite know what to do with the sound. Thatcher’s jaw eased. Holt’s shoulders dropped a notch. Dane bumped Rowan with his hip and got an elbow in the ribs in return.
We walked together to the outfitter at the corner, Bubbles trotting at our heels like the everything in his world had finally clicked into place. Harlan unlocked the door and reached for the lights, pausing like superstition or gratitude had snagged him by the wrist.
“Ready?” he asked.
I looked at the dim interior that had smelled like dust and forgotten dreams the day I walked in. The same space that held the mugs I’d ordered, the maps I’d marked, the gear we’d tested, the life I thought I wasn’t allowed to want.
“Ready,” I said.
He flipped the switch. Warm light filled the windows. We stood shoulder to shoulder, and together we set the plaque in the front display, centered and level, where anyone who walked past would see my name and understand what it meant.
It wasn’t confetti or a balloon release. It was a small, carved truth, placed where it would last longer than the gossip that had swirled around us since our first kiss.
It was enough.
Behind us, the crowd still at the square cheered for something else. Maybe a kid ringing the bell at the top of Trace’s wall, or the marshmallows being refilled at the s’mores table. Whatever it was, I didn’t care. Harlan slid his fingers between mine and squeezed once, a silent if you want me, I’m here. I squeezed back I do.
Thatcher approached first. He looked at me for a long beat—me, not Harlan—and then nodded, steady as the ridgeline at dawn. “You good?” he asked.
“I am,” I said. “And before you get too upset, this isn’t about you. This is about me. And what I want. And what I want is him. So if you’ve got a problem with that, you can take it up with me.”
He lifted his brows and grunted, which in Thatcher meant okay, and drifted three steps to the side where he could still keep an eye on me.
Holt came next, his eyes flinty, his jaw tight. He looked at Harlan, at our joined hands, at the sign in the window. He didn’t say a word, just reached for Lane’s shoulder with one hand and Calla with the other, anchoring them both to his sides. It was warning and acceptance in one move. I nodded so he’d know I understood both.
Dane slid in last, light as chaos. He clapped Harlan’s shoulder. “Welcome to the family doghouse,” he said. “It’s spacious. Good ventilation. I ought to know, I’ve spent a lot of time there.”
Harlan leaned in, his mouth close to my ear. “You sure about this?”
“About you?” I said, turning so he could see the truth in my eyes and never have to guess again. “I’ve been sure since the first time you glared at me for moving a lantern two inches to the left.”
His laugh curled around me like a warm blanket. He kissed me once, quick, for us and not for the town, and then we walked toward the square and let the town swallow us back up.
I’d thought loving Harlan meant making my life smaller. Instead, it made everything feel bigger. I looked back at the plaque in the window of Big Package Outfitters, at my name carved where I could see it, and felt the ache that had lived under my ribs since I’d come home finally ease.
When I came back, I hadn’t wanted roots. I’d wanted proof that I was capable, that I could build something, that I wasn’t the girl who’d failed at making it out. I thought if I proved myself, I could finally leave.
But I didn’t need to run anymore. The proof was already in front of me, in every flyer tacked up across town, in every kid laughing through Adventure Weekend, in the store that looked alive again because I’d put my stamp on it.
And because the man who’d once thought keeping his feelings to himself was the only way to survive was standing beside me, open-handed, open-hearted, trusting me to choose.
I chose this. I chose him. And for the first time, it felt like enough. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was more than enough. It was everything.
“Ready for day two?” I asked, giddy with happiness and nerves.
He looked down at me like surrender didn’t scare him anymore. “With you,” he said, “I’m ready for all of it.”
We turned toward the fire, toward the noise and the work and whatever would come after. The square roared, the night settled cold and sweet around us, and somewhere behind us a small carved sign caught the light and held it.
It was better than anything I could have ever imagined.
