"Also possible."
I laughed again, still watery, still broken, but real this time. "I love you too," I said, the words coming easier than I expected. "I love you, and it terrifies me, and I don't know how to do this without being scared."
Cole took my hand, his calloused fingers threading through mine. "The mountain can be both," he said quietly. "Dangerous and beautiful. Risky and rewarding." He squeezed gently. "Just like love."
The words settled into my bones like a blessing.
"I want to try," I whispered. "I want to be brave enough to love you. Both of you. But I don't know how to stop being afraid."
"You don't have to stop. You just have to keep going anyway."
"What if I mess up? Push you away again?"
"Then I'll be patient." He met my eyes, steady and sure. "I'll remind you we're worth the risk. I'll give you space if you need it, but I won't let you disappear."
"I don't want to disappear anymore."
"Good."
I leaned into him, pressing my forehead against his. "I have a condition."
"Name it."
"You have to teach me. About the mountain. How to be safe here, how to see what you see. I can't keep being afraid of the place you love most."
"We'll start small," he said. "Very small. Maybe a gentle hill."
"I can handle a gentle hill."
"We'll work up to the terrifying cliffs."
"Let's maybe save those for year two."
He laughed, a real laugh. It was a warm sound that made everything feel okay.
"I also need to call my dad," I said, the thought surfacing naturally. "I've been pushing him away too. He's all I have left of my family, and I've been treating him like loving him is too dangerous."
"Sounds like a pattern."
"Shut up."
"Just observing."
A small sound made us both turn. The truck door was cracking open, and a small, sleepy figure was climbing out.
"Sarah?" Cole stood, moving toward her. "What are you doing awake?"
"I heard voices." She rubbed her eyes, her pink jacket askew, her hair a tangled mess. "Are you guys fighting?"
"No, sweetheart. We're talking."
She squinted at us, then at me. Even in the darkness, I could see her uncertainty—the walls she'd built over the past two weeks, the hurt I'd caused.
"Hey, Sarah," I said softly.
She didn't respond. Just stood there, small and guarded.
I walked toward her slowly, then crouched down to her level. "I owe you an apology. A big one."
