Pine Hollow at rest. Quiet but alive.
Our apartment sits above the bistro, a narrow set of rooms that smell like herbs and old wood. We've made it ours slowly. My books on botany sharing shelf space with his cookbooks. Mason jars of dried plants beside his collection of hot sauces. A life assembled from pieces that didn't match until we made them fit.
Rogan pulls me close in the doorway, his fingers warm against my spine, anchoring me in the quiet threshold between the bistro and home. "Tomorrow's going to be busy," he murmurs, his voice carrying that familiar note of anticipation mixed with contentment.
"Tomorrow's always busy," I remind him, though I'm smiling as I say it. The rhythm of our days has found its groove: early mornings in the garden, lunch service that stretches into afternoon prep, evenings spent testing recipes or reviewing cooperative minutes or simply existing together in comfortable silence.
"Good busy," he clarifies, thumb tracing small circles against my lower back. "The kind that means things are working. That we're working."
I tilt my face up and kiss him. Long and unhurried, tasting faintly of the cardamom tea he'd been sipping while we cleaned. A promise written in the press of lips and breath, about tomorrow, yes, but also about every day that stretches beyond it. About choosing this, choosing us, choosing to stay rooted even when it's difficult.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against his collarbone for a moment, steadying myself. "Get some sleep," I tell him, practical even now. "We'll need it."
He grins, that wild, unguarded expression that still catches me off guard sometimes with its sheer brightness, and pulls me inside, closing the door on the night behind us.
Six months later,the bistro's new sign goes up.
Mayor Elsie insists on a ceremony. Half the town shows up with casseroles and folding chairs. Someone brings a fiddler. The goats make an appearance and immediately try to eat the bunting.
Controlled chaos.
I stand beside Rogan, watching the sign swing into place. The original logo, his aunt's careful script, polished and restored. Below it, a new line in matching font.
Open, rooted, and home.
"Speech," someone yells from the crowd.
Rogan groans but steps forward.
"This place was temporary. A stopgap. Something I'd flip and abandon once the numbers looked right." He scans the assembled faces. "But you didn't let me. You showed up. You challenged me. You made me want to stay."
His hand finds mine.
"So thank you. For trusting me with your crops and your stories and your town. For teaching me what it means to put down roots. For building this with us."
Applause ripples through the crowd. Maya starts a chant that devolves into laughter.
The ribbon gets cut. The door opens. People flood inside, filling tables and lining up at the counter. The menu has doubled since spring. Every dish traceable to a local farm. Every ingredient carrying a story.
I move through the chaos, greeting farmers and answering questions about the seed library's expansion. Someone asks about next season's planting schedule. Someone else wants to know if we're accepting new cooperative members.
Yes and yes.
Rogan works the kitchen with Maya and two new hires, all of them moving in the synchronized dance of a functional brigade. Plates go out fast and beautiful. The dining room hums with satisfaction.
This is what we built.
Not perfect. Not without struggle. But real and lasting and ours.
Late in the evening, when the crowd has thinned and the last orders are plated, Rogan finds me in the garden. I'm checking the wildflowers, which have spread exactly as predicted. The entire bed blazes with pale blooms.
"They're beautiful."
"They're thriving." I stand, brushing dirt from my knees. "The soil here is better than I expected. They might self-seed by fall."
He pulls something from his apron pocket. A small envelope, carefully labeled in his messy scrawl.
Mountain columbine. For Ivy.
