That’s what we do. We try. Every day, even when it’s hard.
Progress, not perfection—that’s what his therapist says. I’ve adopted it as our unofficial motto.
When Finn comes back in, his color is better. He catches my eye across the room and gives me a small nod.I’m okay.
I nod back.I know.
It’s a whole conversation in two seconds. The kind of shorthand you develop when you’ve learned someone’s rhythms, their tells, the topography of their damage.
The rest of dinner goes smoothly. Finn even laughs at one of Coralyn’s terrible jokes—that surprised, bright sound that still catches me off guard every time.
After dinner, Moira and Coralyn volunteer for dish duty with suspicious enthusiasm, shooing Finn and me out of the kitchen.
“Go,” Coralyn insists. “Show me the view or whatever. I need to interrogate Moira about this secret girlfriend situation.”
“I’m right here,” Elissa points out.
“Even better. Joint interrogation.”
Finn takes my hand and leads me out to the porch. The night is clear and cold, stars scattered across the sky like someone spilled diamonds on velvet. I can see my breath fogging in the air, but I don’t mind. I’ve gotten used to mountain cold.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.” He wraps an arm around me, pulling me against his side. “Sorry about earlier.”
“Don’t apologize. You did exactly what you’re supposed to do—recognized the trigger, took a break, came back when you were ready.” I lean into him. “I’m proud of you.”
“For almost having a panic attack at our own dinner party?”
“For not having one. For asking for what you needed instead of pretending you were fine.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “A year ago, I would have just... left. Gone to the workshop. Let you make excuses for me.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been good for me.” His arm tightens around me. “You know that, right? Whatever happens, whatever comes next—you’ve made me better.”
Something in his voice makes my heart stutter. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not. At least, I hope it’s not.” He takes a breath—in for four, hold for four, out for four. I recognize the pattern. He’s nervous. “A year ago, you showed up at my door and turned my entire life upside down.”
“I prefer to think of it as right-side up.”
“Let me finish.” But he’s smiling now, that rare full smile that transforms his whole face. “You were supposed to be a disaster. A stranger in my kitchen, an interruption to my carefully controlled existence. Instead, you were...” He shakes his head.“You were everything. You saw me—the real me, not the broken veteran or the mountain hermit—and you didn’t run away.”
“I tried to run away. You wouldn’t let me drive in a blizzard.”
“Marcella.”
“Sorry. Finishing.”
He reaches into his pocket, and my heart stops entirely.
“I’m not good at words,” he says. “I never have been. But I’m good at building things. Things that last.” He pulls out a small wooden box—hand-carved, I realize, with intricate patterns I recognize from his furniture. “So I built this. For you.”
He opens the box.
Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, is a ring. Simple, elegant—a diamond flanked by two smaller stones, set in a band that looks almost like woven branches.
