I’m not sure why I asked him to take a walk with me. Usually, a solitary walk helps clear my head. Maybe I just wanted more time with him. More of this, of us. We crest the bluff, and the trees part to reveal the ridge and the valley below, dotted with snow-covered pines and rooftops of Granitehart Ridge in the distance. Beyond that, the Shenandoah Mountains rise like the edge of a dream. The sun is low, staining everything gold.
“Wow,” I whisper.
Jax doesn’t say anything. I feel his gaze on me, rather than the view. I lift my phone and frame the shot, the valley, sun, and trees. Then I lower it and turn toward him.
“Can I take your picture?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because you look like you belong here, like this place was waiting for you to show up.” The words land heavier than I meant them to. My throat feels tight, my breath shallow.
He doesn’t move, but something shifts in his expression like he doesn’t know what to do with the idea of being wanted in a frame. I raise my phone again, not to pressure him, just to wait. Slowly, he nods.
He doesn’t pose. He just stands there, arms loose at his sides, eyes on the horizon, wind stirring the edges of his hair. I take the shot. Then another. Then one more.
His gaze lingers, not just on my face, but lower; my mouth, the line of my neck, the fingers gripping my phone. He doesn’tmove, but I feel him everywhere. As if the air between us has shape now, and it’s pressing closer.
“You make it hard to breathe,” I say, before I can stop myself. My pulse stumbles, heat blooming low in my belly and tightening my pussy.
His gaze snaps to mine. He crosses the space between us in two slow steps. The world holds its breath with me. All the years I’ve spent posting images on social media, and now here I am, center frame, wanting more than a picture.
“Say that again,” he says.
I don’t. I can’t. My phone hangs limp in my hand as he reaches out, brushing my hair back from my face like he did last night. My skin burns where his fingers touch, not from cold but from recognition. Like my body knows him before my heart can catch up.
“I think about kissing you all the time,” I whisper. It’s the truth, stripped bare. I raise my hand and rest it on his chest. "The Christmas festival was supposed to be simple content for my travel blog. Lights and cookies, winter decorations and all that heartwarming small-town stuff people crave that disappears when the season’s over.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. He’s patient, intent, like he's memorizing every word.
"But looking at you, at this place, all of that stuff feels fake." The admission surprises me, but it feels true in ways my carefully curated posts never have. "Being here feels solid and real, like what I think the spirit of Christmas is supposed to be about. I’m supposed to go back to my life with holiday content, but I keep thinking about staying long enough to capture what this world really looks like."
Something shifts in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition.
"I research the places I visit, study the people who make them special. But I've never wanted to document a place or a life the way I want to document this." I gesture toward the overlook, eyes still locked with his. "The way you move through these mountains like you own them. How you read weather and terrain like other people read books.”
His thumb traces along my jawline. I lean into the touch without thinking.
"You want to stay," he says. Not a question.
"I want to understand what it means to belong somewhere." The words gain strength as I say them. "I've spent years chasing content, always moving, always looking for the next shot. But watching you in your own space, I've found what I’ve been searching for without knowing it."
"And what's that?"
"It’s something real. Something that doesn't need a filter or caption or carefully arranged backdrop. Something that just… is."
He studies my face like he's reading trail markers. When he speaks, his voice is rough with something that makes my stomach flip.
"When the retreat reopens in spring, we'll need someone to photograph the new season. Document the guides, the trails, the experiences we offer." His hand slides to cup the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. "It's not glamorous work. Long days, unpredictable weather, guests who think they're ready for mountains they've never seen."
"But it's yours," I say. Understanding floods through me. "Your world."
"Could be ours."
The words hang between us, heavy with possibility. Not just the job, but the life he's offering. A place in his world that makessense for both of us. Purpose beyond capturing moments that evaporate into digital ether.
"I'd be good at it." Confidence surprises me in my own voice. "I know how to make people look heroic, how to capture magic in ordinary moments. And I already understand what makes this place special."
"What's that?"
