"No," I say simply. "It doesn't scare me."
"Why not?"
"Because some things don't need time to be true." I cup her face in my gloved hands, studying the features I've already memorized. "I've spent decades reading people, situations, making life-or-death decisions based on gut instinct. And my gut says this is real."
She searches my eyes, looking for doubt or hesitation. She won't find any.
"I've never felt anything like this," she admits. "This... certainty. Like I've been looking for something without knowing what it was, and then there you were."
"I know the feeling."
"Do you?" Her smile is soft, wondering. "Because I was starting to think I was losing my mind."
"You're not losing your mind." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, feeling the warmth of her skin even through my glove. "You're finding something most people spend their whole lives looking for."
"What's that?"
"Home."
The word hangs between us in the cold air, simple and true. I watch her absorb it, see the way her eyes brighten with recognition and something that might be relief.
"Home," she repeats softly, testing the weight of it. "I like the sound of that."
"Good." I lean down to press a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair mixed with pine and snow. "Because I'm not planning to let you go anytime soon."
She laughs, the sound carrying clearly in the mountain air. "Is that so?"
"That's so." I pull her closer, feeling the solid warmth of her against my chest. "Fair warning—I don't do anything halfway. When I commit to something, I commit completely."
"Lucky for you," she says, rising on her toes to brush her lips against mine, "so do I."
The kiss is soft, unhurried, a promise rather than a demand.
When we break apart, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes hold a certainty that matches my own.
"So what happens now?" she asks.
"Now we figure out the details." I turn so we're both facing the vista again, one arm around her shoulders, anchoring her against my side. "You have a life somewhere else. Job, apartment, responsibilities."
"I'm a freelance photographer," she says. "I can work from anywhere with an internet connection. And my lease is up next month, I was already planning to move, just didn't know where."
The pieces are falling into place too easily, like fate arranging itself around us.
I should be suspicious of such convenience, but I'm not. Sometimes the universe hands you exactly what you need, and the smart play is to take it.
"The cabin has good internet," I tell her. "Satellite connection. And there's a darkroom in the basement, my grandfather liked photography too."
Her eyes widen. "Really?"
"Really. It's probably outdated, but the bones are there."
She turns to look at me, studying my face with that same attention she gives her photography. "You're serious about this. About us."
"Dead serious." I meet her gaze steadily, letting her see the truth in my eyes. "I told you, I don't do anything halfway."
"Neither do I," she says again, and this time there's decision in her voice. "I want this, Joel. I want to try building something real with you."
The words hit me like a tactical confirmation—mission parameters accepted, objectives clear. But underneath the military language my brain defaults to, there's something warmer, deeper. Relief, maybe. Or recognition.
