They talk for a few more minutes about extended family, about Emma's latest project, about nothing and everything, the way brothers do when they're finding their way back to each other. When they finally hang up, Brooks turns to me.
"You okay meeting Emma?"
"Nervous," I admit. "But yes."
"She'll love you." He pulls me closer, tucking me against his side. "Just like I do."
The afternoon stretches lazy and warm. Eventually, he checks his phone, and I notice he's been doing that periodically.
"I need to run into town for something," he says finally.
"Okay. Want company?"
"Actually..." He grins and pulls me close, his mouth finding my neck. "Can you be ready by five? I have something planned."
"What kind of something?"
"It's a surprise." He kisses below my ear, and my breath catches. "Wear that dress I like, but no heels."
Heat floods through me at the promise in his voice. The way he saidthat dresslike he's already imagining taking it off me later.
"Should I be worried?" I ask.
"Maybe." His teeth graze my pulse point. "But good worried."
He kisses me once more, possessive and claiming, then grabs his keys. "Five o'clock. Don't be late."
He leaves, and before I head home to get ready, I stand in the sudden quiet of his cabin and realize it feels like mine now, too. Not just his space I'm visiting. Ours. Small things mark my presence: my favorite mug in the cabinet, my book on the coffee table, the wooden box with my initial on the nightstand.
Roots taking hold without me noticing.
I move to the window and look out at the property. At the clearing where he wants to build something new for us. At the trees that shelter this space from the world. At the mountains rising in every direction.
Home.
Not the cabin. Him.
He's home, and I'm finally done running.
Chapter eight
Brooks
The ring box in my jacket pocket weighs more than it should.
I check it for the third time in five minutes, fingers brushing the smooth walnut I’ve spent my free time carving. This one is more intricate than the first box with the simple E on top. Her new initials are etched into the lid, E.M. if she says yes, every curve and line precise because she deserves precision. She deserves everything, and I'm asking her to spend forever with a man who spent too many years running from anything that mattered.
My hands shake on the steering wheel.
I pull up outside her apartment at exactly five, cutting the engine and focusing on breathing. Just breathing. The technique I learned years ago when the nightmares got bad. Except this isn't a nightmare. This is the best thing I've ever done, and I'm terrified I'll mess it up.
I check the rearview mirror. My collar feels too tight. I run my hand through my hair, then wipe my palms on my jeans for the fourth time today. My heart pounds visibly in my throat, and I swallow hard against the copper taste of nerves.
The door opens, and she steps out.
My mouth goes dry.
The dress hugs every curve I've memorized with my hands and mouth. Her curls fall loose around her shoulders, catching the evening light. She's smiling. Not nervous. Not uncertain. Just happy to see me, like I'm not about to upend both our lives with a question that's been burning in my chest since the night she refused to let me run.
