I kiss her again because I can't not kiss her, and we stand there on the overlook as full dark settles around us. The valley glitters below, and the mountains stand sentinel, and I think about how I almost ran from this. How I almost let fear win.
Thank God she didn't let me.
The drive back to the cabin passes in comfortable silence. Her hand stays in mine the whole way, and I keep glancing at the ring on her finger. Each time I see it, warmth spreads through my ribs. Mine. She's mine. Forever.
At the cabin, I open her door and pause with my hand on her waist.
"What?" she asks.
"Just... memorizing this. You. Us. This moment."
"We have a lifetime of moments ahead."
"I know." I kiss her forehead. "But this one's special."
Inside, the cabin is dark and cool. I build a fire in the fireplace while she watches from the couch, curled up with her legs tucked under her. I crumple newspaper, stack kindling in a crosshatch pattern, strike a match. The flame catches, and soon the firecrackles and pops. The ring catches the firelight and shines on her finger.
When the fire is going strong, I sit beside her and pull her onto my lap. Her thick thighs bracket mine, and just holding her grounds me. My hands brush the soft skin where her dress has ridden up, but I'm not pushing for more. I only need her close, need to feel her breathing. Need to know this is real.
She fits on my lap like she was made for it, her head tucking under my chin, her curves soft against all my hard edges. "Tell me about the ring. It’s so perfectly perfect. How did you know?" she says, her fingers tracing the simple band.
"I’ve never seen you wear flashy jewelry. The ring is simple because you don't need anything flashy to be beautiful. I wanted something you'd wear every day, that wouldn’t catch in your hair or snag things at the bookstore. Something that says 'mine' without screaming it."
She kisses me, tender and grateful. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
"I'm not perfect." The confession comes easier now. "I'm broken and scared and still learning how to stay."
"That's what makes it real." She cups my face, and her gaze holds mine. "I don't want perfect. I want you."
We sit by the fire wrapped in each other, and the conversation flows easily. Spring wedding. Small ceremony. Maybe at the overlook where I proposed, with mountains as our backdrop. Grant asking his brotherhood of former firefighters in Granitehart Ridge to watch the goats so they can come out. The expansion at the bookstore. All the additions I want to build on the cabin.
And all the small dreams taking root.
"I can't wait to marry you," I say, my hand playing with her curls.
"How soon is too soon?" She grins up at me.
"The way I feel, we could’ve done it the day after I first walked in for coffee."
“And I’d’ve asked you what took you so long.” Her laugh fills the cabin, and the sound makes my ribs ache. This is what home sounds like. Not silence and guilt and ghosts, but her laughter and the crackle of fire and the promise of tomorrow.
"Spring," she says. "When everything's blooming. New beginnings."
"Spring," I agree and seal it with a kiss.
We cuddle before bed. There’s no urgency, no desperation. We claimed each other last night in ways that left us both raw and satisfied. Tonight is different. Tonight is about holding each other in the quiet dark and letting the reality of forever sink in.
She's wrapped in my arms, her head on my chest, and the ring is cool against my skin where her hand rests over my heart. In the spring, she'll walk toward me in white, the mountains framing her like they're framing us now. But tonight, this moment is just ours.
I kiss her curls, breathing in vanilla and home.
"Brooks?" Her voice is soft, already drowsy.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you stayed."
"Me too." I tighten my arms around her. "Me too."
