“Professionally.”
She laughs, then sobers, then slides her left hand to my chest, fingers splaying where my heartbeat kicks, ring catching firelight. “You’re mine,” she says back to me, testing the words like a new key.
“Say it again.”
“You’re mine,” she repeats, firmer, and the mountain could collapse and I’d hold this line.
The snow fattens, soft and relentless. We let it gather in our hair, on our shoulders. I build the fire higher. We talk about nothing and everything—where the bedroom should go when we rebuild, whether Juniper pines or blue spruce will frame the porch better, how many shelves a woman who reads like she breathes needs. (A lot. The answer is always a lot.) She tells me she wants a deep window seat with a view of the river and anoutlet for a heated blanket; I tell her I’ll wire the place myself and then we argue about safety codes until she kisses me to shut me up.
Eventually the cold nips through our clothes and the fire dies. I scoop her up without asking and tuck her into my truck. She squeals into my neck and squeezes like she loves the way I ignore the laws of physics when I carry her over the threshold into my cabin. Inside, I set her on the rug in front of my—our—fireplace.
She studies me in the warm light, ring hand resting against her collarbone, eyes molten. “How long have you had that ring?”
“A while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
“Since the night with the letters at the firepit,” I admit. “When you took my hand and said you were done running.”
She exhales like I just solved some impossible equation. “You were certain.”
“Of you? Always.”
She crosses the room and climbs into my lap. Her knees bracket my hips. Her hands frame my jaw. “Congratulations,” she whispers.
“For what?”
“For winning Couple of the Year,” she says, teasing again to save us both from drowning. “And also for being mine.”
I grin then—the big, unguarded one the crew mocks and Savannah claims—and she kisses me like she intends to keep me laughing for the rest of my life.
The snow keeps falling. The ring keeps gleaming. The fire keeps flickering. And my heart keeps doing the simplest, most reckless thing it’s ever done.
It stays.
With her.
Epilogue
Savannah–one month later
Twilight slides down Devil’s Peak like a silk scarf, and the air smells like pine and snow and candle wax. The valley holds its breath with me. The world is blue and gold and our little overlook is threaded with strings of warm lights that look like captured constellations. Mason jars glow along the aisle. The river whispers beyond the trees.
“Ready?” Briar, the Captain’s wife, breathes, her fingers quick at the tiny buttons on the back of my dress.
“No,” I say honestly, then laugh at myself. “Yes. God, yes.”
She steps back, eyes shining. “You look lethal.”
“Good.”
“Make him suffer.”
“Plan to,” I murmur. The dress is simple—clean lines, deep V, bare back, long sleeves to my wrists where the ring glows like a brand. My hair is pinned up, wisps already escaping. I tuck a loose strand, then drop my hand and let it be—some things are better wild.
Behind us, the small crowd hums. Low laughter, the chime of a glass, a kid’s half-suppressed giggle. The firehouse has shown up in full dress uniform, crisp lines and polished shoes,caps tucked under arms, the whole mess of them trying to look solemn and failing miserably. Flames burn inside lanterns hung on iron hooks, light stroking brass buttons and silver nameplates. The banner someone made says:Two Fires, One Homein block letters, and underneath, in smaller scrawl,no one tell Levi I cried while painting this.
On the far side of the aisle, I catch Holly fidgeting with her flower basket, solemn as a tiny judge in white tights and a blush dress, curls bouncing and a gap-toothed grin. Beside her, Ash nudges her shoulder and points to the petals like he’s giving tactical advice for a mission. She nods gravely, then dumps a handful on his boot just to watch him sigh.
