“You’re staring at the furniture again.”
Finn’s voice comes from behind me, warm with amusement. I turn to find him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that almost-smile I’ve learned to look for.
“I’m appreciating the furniture,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“You’ve been appreciating it for twenty minutes.”
“It’s very good furniture.”
He crosses the room and wraps his arms around me from behind, chin resting on top of my head. We fit together perfectly—his height, my curves, the way his body brackets mine like I’m something precious worth protecting.
“Nervous?” he asks.
“About dinner? Please. I could make this meal in my sleep.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I lean back into him, letting his warmth steady me. “A little,” I admit. “Moira’s bringing someone. She was very mysterious about it.”
“Moira’s always mysterious. It’s her thing.”
“And Coralyn’s never been here before. What if she hates it? What if she thinks I’ve lost my mind, moving to the middle of nowhere for a man I’ve known for a year?”
Finn turns me in his arms, tilting my chin up to meet his eyes. Those gray eyes that once seemed so cold, so guarded—nowthey’re soft. Open. Full of something I still can’t quite name, even after all this time.
“Coralyn flew across the country to see you happy,” he says. “She’s not going to hate anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know she’s called you every week for a year, asking for updates. I know she sent us that ridiculous housewarming gift when you officially moved in.” He pauses. “What was it again? The thing with the?—”
“The mountain man bobblehead that looks nothing like you?”
“That’s the one.” His mouth twitches. “Anyone who sends that as a gift is not going to judge your life choices.”
I laugh despite myself. He’s right. Coralyn has been nothing but supportive since I called her from that hotel room and told her I was staying. She cried. I cried. Then she demanded to know when she could visit.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. I’m being ridiculous.”
“Little bit.” He kisses my forehead. “But I love you anyway.”
The words still catch me off guard sometimes. He says them so easily now—not because the feeling is casual, but because he’s stopped fighting it. Stopped being afraid of it.
I haven’t said them back yet. Not once in the past year.
It’s not that I don’t feel it. God, I feel it—so much it scares me sometimes. But every time the words rise in my throat, something stops them. Some last, stubborn piece of self-protection that won’t let me be that vulnerable. That won’t let me hand someone that much power over me again.
Finn has never pushed. Never made me feel guilty for holding back. He just keeps saying it—in the morning when I hand him coffee, at night when we curl together in bed, in random moments throughout the day—and waits for me to be ready.
I wonder sometimes if I ever will be.
“Even when I’m being ridiculous?” I ask, deflecting like I always do.
“Especially then.”
The dinner is perfect.
I’ve outdone myself—braised short ribs (our dish, the one that started everything), roasted root vegetables, homemade bread from the recipe I taught Finn last year. The table is set with candles and cloth napkins and the good dishes we bought together at a craft fair in town.
