Ropes coiled into perfect spirals hung from labeled hooks. Carabiners gleamed in tidy rows. First aid kits sat in uniform stacks on newly installed shelves.
And at the center of the shed stood Carson.
His back was to me, shoulders broad beneath a dark sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms that flexed as he carefully arranged a row of titanium cook pots. Sunlight pooled through the open windows, catching the warm tones of his hair.
Oh no.
He turned at the sound of my exhale.
And smiled.
Double oh no.
“Morning,” he said, voice warm and low, like he’d been waiting for me to open the door.
I clutched the doorframe. “What—how—why does this place look like REI and a monastery had a baby?”
He chuckled. “It needed work.”
“This is not work. This is a renovation.”
“Just a little… streamlining.”
“Carson,” I whispered, stepping inside as if afraid the shed itself would vanish if I moved too fast. “This is incredible.”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Figured it might make your trip prep easier.”
Something fluttered in my chest—light.
“Thank you. Really.”
He nodded once, eyes soft. “You’re welcome.”
We stood there in a few seconds of charged silence—him with that steady, unbothered posture; me with oxygen levels somewhere below medically safe.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
“Actually, I was going to come find you.”
“Oh?” I asked, trying to sound normal and absolutely failing.
“I’m heading out for my trip early tomorrow, too,” he said. “Different direction than yours. So I figured we should at least grab lunch before we disappear into the wilderness for a few days.”
“Lunch?” I repeated, like the concept was brand new.
“Lunch,” he confirmed.
“A surprise lunch?”
He smiled again. “If you want to call it that.”
I stared at him, brain stalling. “Did you… Bring food here?”
“I did.”
“You packed a lunch?”
He nodded.
