Her voice pulls me back. She’s watching me now, the half-carved wood forgotten in her lap.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” But she says it gently, without accusation. “You had that look. The one where you’re somewhere far away.”
I could deflect. Change the subject. Retreat behind the walls I’ve built so carefully over four years.
Instead, I tell her the truth.
“I was thinking about what it would be like if you stayed.”
The words hang in the air between us. Marcella’s hands still on the carving.
“Stayed,” she repeats quietly. “Here?”
“Here. The mountain. This life.” I gesture vaguely at the ranger station around us. “I know it’s not—it’s nothing like Denver. There’s no restaurants or nightlife or any of the things you’re probably used to. But I keep thinking about you here. Cookingin that kitchen. Working on your blog by the fire. Learning to carve.”
Her eyes are bright. Too bright.
“Finn...”
“I know it’s crazy. I know we’ve only known each other three days. But I can’t stop—” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to articulate what I feel. “I can’t stop imagining it. You and me. Making this work somehow.”
She sets the carving aside carefully, unfolds herself from the couch, and crosses to where I’m sitting. Without a word, she climbs into my lap, straddling me, her hands framing my face.
“I’ve been thinking about it too,” she says softly. “Moving my blog up here. Finding a place in town, maybe. Learning to live somewhere that isn’t Denver.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “You have?”
“The whole time I’ve been here, I keep seeing it. This life. Our life.” She traces her thumb along my cheekbone. “I know it’s fast. I know it doesn’t make sense. But nothing about this makes sense, and I stopped caring about that somewhere around day two.”
I want to kiss her. Want to pull her close and promise her everything—the life she’s imagining, the future we both want, all the things I’m terrified to reach for.
But the fear is still there, cold and persistent.
“What if it doesn’t work?” The question scrapes out of me, raw and honest. “What if you move your whole life up here and thenrealize I’m too broken? What if my damage is more than you can handle?”
“What if it does work?” she counters. “What if we figure it out together? What if the scariest thing isn’t failing—it’s not trying at all?”
She’s so close. Her breath warm on my face, her body solid and real in my arms. Three days ago she was a stranger cooking dinner in my kitchen. Now she feels like the answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“Me too.”
“I don’t know if I can be what you need.”
“I don’t need you to be anything except willing to try.” Her forehead drops to mine. “That’s all I’m asking, Finn. Not forever. Not guarantees. Just... willingness.”
The fire crackles. Outside, the storm has finally quieted, leaving behind a world blanketed in white silence. Inside, everything feels suspended—this moment, this woman, this fragile possibility we’re both too afraid to name.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. I’m willing.”
She kisses me then, soft and sweet and full of promise. I pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her like I can hold onto this moment forever.
For a few hours, I let myself believe I can.
The afternoon passesin a haze of domestic bliss.
