"Ready?" she asks quietly.
I look at her. At the mountains rising behind the town. At everything I'm building here instead of everything I lost.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm ready."
15
CARA
Six weeks living with Finn, and I still wake up surprised by the quiet. No sirens. No traffic noise bleeding through thin apartment walls. Just wind moving through spruce and the occasional call of ravens outside the window. His cabin sits several miles outside Glacier Hollow, isolated enough for privacy but close enough that the drive into town takes less than fifteen minutes on clear days.
This morning Finn is already up when I emerge from the bedroom, coffee brewing, the wood stove radiating heat. He stands at the kitchen window looking out at the mountains, his right arm resting in the sling by choice now, moving more easily than before as he keeps it there to encourage proper healing.
"Morning," I say, wrapping my arms around him from behind, careful of the shoulder.
"Morning." He turns and kisses me, coffee-flavored and warm. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than okay." I pour myself coffee while he watches with that smile that still makes my stomach flip. "What's got you up so early?"
"Physical therapy in town at nine. Thought we could grab breakfast at the Hollow Hearth after." He pauses, and somethingin his expression shifts. Excitement, barely contained. "I got a call last night after you went to bed. News I want to share, but not here. Somewhere that matters."
"What kind of news?"
"The good kind." His grin is pure joy. "But I want to show you properly. After PT, after breakfast. Trust me?"
"Always."
We drive into Glacier Hollow together, his truck handling the snow-packed roads with practiced ease despite him steering one-handed. The town is waking up, smoke rising from chimneys, early risers clearing driveways. Finn drops me at the Hollow Hearth while he heads to his appointment.
"Hour, maybe less," he says. "Order me the usual?"
"Will do."
The café is already busy when I push through the door. Locals clustered at tables, coffee steaming, conversations flowing in the easy rhythm of people who've known each other for years. A few heads turn when I enter. Some nod acknowledgment. Others offer small smiles. The wariness that greeted me when I first arrived has shifted into something closer to acceptance.
Sadie stands behind the counter, pouring coffee with the practiced efficiency of someone who's run this place long enough to predict orders before they're spoken. She looks up when I approach, and her smile is genuine.
"Morning, Cara. Finn with you?"
"PT appointment. He'll be here in an hour."
"The usual for both of you?"
"Please."
She pours dark roast into a mug without asking because she's already learned how I take it. The simple domesticity of that gesture hits harder than it should. Someone knowing how Itake my coffee. Someone expecting to see me. Normal I stopped believing in years ago.
"You two settling in okay?" Sadie asks, setting the mug in front of me. "Living together treating you well?"
The question is casual but the intent behind it is clear. Sadie's checking whether this is working, whether I'm committed to staying, whether I'm worth the community's investment of trust.
"We're figuring it out," I tell her. "Some adjustments, but good ones."
"Good." The single word carries weight. Approval, maybe. Or relief that Finn isn't going to get his heart broken by someone who can't handle Alaska winters and isolation. "You're good for him. He's different since you showed up."
"Different how?"
"Lighter. Like he's not carrying quite so much weight." Sadie's expression turns thoughtful. "I don't think I've ever seen him smile the way he does when he looks at you."
