“I’ve been thinking about that.” I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him. “About the figuring out part.”
“And?”
“My lease is up in two months.” I gesture around my small bedroom. “This place was always temporary anyway—my rebound apartment after the divorce. The blog is portable—I can work from anywhere with internet. And honestly? I’ve been looking for something new anyway. A fresh start.”
His hand stills on my hip. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying...” I take a breath. “What if I moved to Cascade Falls? Not to the ranger station—not right away. That would be too fast. But the town has apartments, and your sister has a gallery, and there’s that cute coffee shop I saw?—”
“Yes.”
I blink. “I didn’t finish.”
“I don’t care. Yes.” His eyes are bright, almost feverish. “Move there. Find an apartment in town. Come to the ranger station on weekends, or I’ll come down to you. Whatever you need. Just—yes.”
“You don’t want to think about it?”
“I’ve done nothing but think for four years. I’m done thinking.” He pulls me down and kisses me, soft and sure. “I want you close. I want to build a life with you. I want to wake up knowing you’re twenty minutes away instead of three hours.”
“What about your anxiety? Coming to town?—”
“I’ll manage. For you, I’ll manage.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Moira’s been trying to get me into therapy for years. Real therapy, not just the VA minimum. Maybe it’s time I actually went. Found someone who specializes in PTSD, learned some better coping mechanisms.”
The casualness of the statement belies its weight. Finn McGrath, who’s spent four years avoiding help, volunteering for therapy because he wants to be better. For me. For us.
“We’ll both try,” I promise. “I’ve got my own stuff to work on. The way Derek made me feel, the confidence issues. We can figure it out together.”
“Together.” He repeats the word like it’s new. Like he’s never really considered what it means. “I like that.”
“We should probably eat actual food,” I say, suddenly aware we’ve been in bed for hours. “I have leftover Thai in the fridge.”
“In a minute.” He pulls me closer, and I feel him breathe deeply, like he’s trying to memorize this moment. “Just... let me hold you. In your space. Your apartment.”
I don’t correct him to sayour life, even though part of me wants to. That feels like too much, too fast. I’m not ready to merge everything just because he showed up at my door.
But I’m ready to try. Ready to see if this can work.
“You can hold me,” I say instead. “For as long as you need.”
He kisses the top of my head, and we lie there in my tiny Denver bedroom, city noise and thin walls and all.
It’s not a declaration. It’s not a promise.
But it’s a start.
Epilogue
MARCELLA
One year.
It’s been exactly one year since I drove up a mountain road looking for Cabin 7 and found Tower 7 instead. One year since I broke into a stranger’s kitchen on Valentine’s Day and started cooking short ribs for a man I’d never met. One year since a blizzard trapped me with a grumpy, gorgeous, impossibly broken mountain man who somehow became everything I never knew I needed.
The ranger station looks different now.
Not physically—Finn would never change the bones of this place, the careful structure he built to protect himself from the world. But there are touches everywhere that weren’t here before. A second coffee mug beside the French press. Colorful throw pillows on the leather couch. A professional camera charging on the kitchen counter next to my laptop, where I write blog posts about mountain cooking that have tripled my follower count.
Evidence of a life shared. Evidence of me.
