I back her up against the nearest stall, my hands sliding down to grip her waist, her hips, pulling her against me so she can feel what she does to me. She gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders over my layers, but she doesn’t stop. She kisses me harder, deeper, like she’s trying to erase every second we’ve spent apart, every misunderstanding, every tear shed. Snow begins to fall around us, just flurries, but it melts in our hair, on our faces. The world could freeze or burn, and I wouldn’t notice, not when she’s kissing me like this.
When we finally break apart, our breaths come in ragged, desperate gasps. Her lips are swollen, her eyes glazed with desire, her hair tousled from my hands. I rest my forehead against hers, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure she can feel it.
“Come home with me,” I whisper, my voice rough with need. “Let me take you home, and I’ll spend the rest of the night showing you how much I’ve missed you.”
She nods, then pauses. “I never got the content I came for, but now it seems so meaningless,” she says softly, voice catching on the wind. She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, and hands it to me. For a moment, I think it might be another of Cal’s notes. Instead, it’s a photo. She must have printed from her phone at the drugstore this morning. It’s of me,standing on the porch, half in shadow, the snow falling behind me like a fairy tale.
“I wanted to give you this,” she says. “But I thought it would hurt too much.”
I tuck the photo into my coat pocket. “I’m not letting you go again,” I tell her. “You belong with me.”
Chapter seven
Claire
The drive back to the cabin is quiet, but it’s not the awkward kind. It’s the kind of comfortable silence you don’t need words to fill. My fingers rest on the soft wool of Jax’s coat sleeve as he drives. Every now and then, I catch him looking at me as if I’m a dream he hasn’t quite woken up from. I ride home with him because I don’t want to be apart. We can deal with picking up my car later.
The town fades into forest beyond the truck windows, lights replaced by snow-draped trees and the winding hush of the roads. The tires crunch over ice in patches. I watch as the branches sway gently under the weight of white. It feels like the world has gone still around us, pulling us back to where everything started, only now we’re not strangers in a storm. We’re something more.
At the cabin, he hops out and comes around before I can open the door. His hands are careful as they help me down. Maybe he thinks I’m still breakable even after everything we’ve been through. I don’t say anything, just let my hand linger in his for a moment longer than I need to.
The cabin smells like the fireplace. Something faintly sweet from the pine cones stacked near the hearth hangs in the air. The fire flickers, and there’s enough warmth left in the stone to welcome us home. It feels smaller now, in the way a place shrinks when it wraps around you. When it belongs to you.
My gaze sweeps across the room. The blanket on the couch, the teacup I left behind, a pair of socks drying near the heater. And there, hanging right in the center of the Christmas tree, is the ornament I’d placed on the table before I left.
The tiny red camera.
My breath catches. I move toward it slowly, as if getting too close might change what I’m seeing. It’s not tucked away. It’s not just placed. It’s front and center, strung up on a piece of thin twine like it belongs there. Like I belong here.
I don’t realize I’ve touched it until my fingers are brushing the wood. My throat tightens.
Jax’s voice comes from behind me. “I almost didn’t put it up.”
I turn toward him. His eyes are on me as if he’s still waiting to see if I’ll leave again. He’s giving me every second I need to decide.
“But then I thought…” He shifts, the words coming as if he practiced them. “That it was never just a decoration. It was a promise.”
I swallow down the ache in my chest. “You’re not really the type for promises.”
“I wasn’t,” he says. “Not until you.”
His eyes find mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"On the drive into town, I couldn't stop thinking about all the things you didn't have. All the ways I could’ve made you more comfortable.”
My heart stutters. "What do you mean?" Heat climbs my neck as I process what he's saying.
He didn't just hope, he actively planned.
"I’ll stock the cabin with your tea, and real cream for your coffee instead of the powdered stuff I usually keep." His eyes never leave mine. "Art supplies, because I noticed how you look at things. You're always seeing compositions, always thinking about how to capture beauty.”
My throat tightens. "Jax…”
"I made some plans in my head for a reading nook in the corner where the afternoon light hits just right, with cushions and a throw soft enough for someone used to city comfort." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "And I’ll clear out half the closet. Half the dresser. I’ll make space for someone who might want to stay."
The tears I've been fighting finally spill over. He didn't just want me back, he came up with ways to adjust his life to include me. He’ll make room in a space that had been perfectly complete for one person.
"I’m calling Cade tomorrow to tell him I’ve found the right kind of person to handle the retreat's photography when we reopen. Someone who understands what this place really is."
