"Must be the rain. Makes me philosophical."
"Must be." His voice carries that hint of gravel it always has first thing in the morning, rough with sleep and affection. "Coffee ready?"
I pour two mugs while he tends to the fire, adding logs with the same precise efficiency he brings to everything. The flames catch and spread, sending warm light dancing across the cabin walls.
Outside, the rain continues its steady rhythm, punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance.
Joel settles at the table with his coffee and the wooden frame he's been repairing—a piece from his grandfather's photography equipment that I want to display some of my mountain shots in.
His hands move with practiced skill, adjusting joints and testing the strength of corners. I love watching him work, love the quiet concentration on his face, the way his fingers know exactly how to coax broken things back to wholeness.
"Hand me that small clamp?" he asks without looking up, and I reach for it automatically.
I return to sorting prints while he works, occasionally glancing up to find him watching me with that particular intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly. He doesn't look away when I catch him, just lets his gaze linger with the kind of possessive appreciation that still makes me shiver.
"See something you like?" I tease, echoing the words I said that first morning.
"Always." His response is immediate, matter-of-fact, delivered in that straightforward way he has of stating truths. "Even when you're covered in darkroom chemicals and cursing at contact sheets."
"I don't curse at contact sheets."
"You absolutely curse at contact sheets. Last week you called a perfectly good print a 'stubborn piece of—'"
"Okay, fine." I laugh, nudging his knee with my bare foot under the table. "Maybe I curse a little."
"A little." Joel's grin transforms his face, softening the hard edges and making him look years younger. "Remember when you tried to print that shot of the elk herd? Pretty sure you invented new curse words that day."
The memory makes me groan. Three days of fighting with exposure times and paper grades, only to discover I'd been using the wrong filter the entire time. Joel had found me in the darkroom at midnight, surrounded by failed prints, ready to throw the enlarger out the window.
"You brought me chocolate," I remember. "And that bottle of wine."
"Had to do something before you murdered my grandfather's equipment."
"Your grandfather's equipment survived. My dignity, not so much."
Joel reaches across the table to trace a finger along my wrist, the touch light but electric. "Your dignity survived just fine. Along with your stubbornness, your perfectionism, and your habit of talking to inanimate objects when you're frustrated."
"I do not talk to inanimate objects."
"This morning you told the coffee maker to hurry up because you had important work to do."
I open my mouth to protest, then close it. He's not wrong.
The rain picks up outside, drumming harder against the windows and making the cabin feel even more like a sanctuary. Joel sets aside the frame and stretches, muscles pulling tight across his chest and shoulders. The movement draws my attention to the scar along his ribs—one of many that map hispast, each one a story he's shared with me in quiet moments like this.
"Come here," he says suddenly, pushing back from the table.
"I'm working."
"Work can wait." He stands and extends a hand to me, that commanding tone creeping into his voice. Not harsh, but brooking no argument. "Come with me."
I let him pull me to my feet, curious about what has caught his attention. He leads me to the front door, opening it to reveal the covered porch where rain cascades from the roof in steady streams. The air smells like wet pine and earth, clean and fresh and alive.
"Listen," Joel says, settling behind me on the porch swing, his arms wrapping around my waist.
I lean back against his chest and let the sound wash over me—rain on leaves, water rushing in the gutters, the distant rumble of the creek swollen with runoff. It's peaceful in a way that goes deeper than mere quiet, the kind of peace that seeps into your bones and stays.
"Remember our first storm?" Joel's voice is soft against my ear.
