He exhales hard, drops his hand to my waist, and pulls me against him. “I’m not asking you to wait forever. I’m asking you to stay long enough for us to figure it out.”
“We’ve been figuring it out since I was seventeen and you kissed me behind the bleachers. We’ve had six years of figuring. And every time we get close to something permanent, one of us bolts, and it’s usually me.”
He rests his forehead against mine. “Because you’re afraid I’ll die on you. And I’m worried you’ll wake up one day and realize you could’ve had a life that didn’t involve checking the weather report every morning like it’s a death sentence.”
Warm tears roll down my cheeks. “I love you. God, I love you so much it hurts. But I need to know I can stand on my own. Denver’s my chance to prove that.”
He kisses me then. A long, slow, deep goodbye. When he pulls back, his eyes are wet.
“Drive safe,” he says, voice wrecked. “Text me when you get there.”
“I will.” I climb into the Jeep. He doesn’t move from the porch steps, and I watch him in the rear view until the trees swallow him.
I wake with a start with my heart hammering, and the dream still clinging to me like smoke. We broke up that night because love wasn’t enough to outrun fear. But we always found our way back. Every damn time.
I blink up at the ceiling, reminding myself thirty-five now, not twenty-two. We were so young. And so stupid.
I remember the first time I really saw him. I was thirteen, still in junior high, tagging along to Passion Pines High football games because my older brother, Nick, was a senior starter. I was screaming my lungs out, cheering when he made a tackle, rolling my eyes when he strutted off the field … but the second Creed took off his helmet after the fourth quarter, all sweatydark hair and that cocky grin flashing under the stadium lights … I forgot Nick even existed.
He was eighteen then, already six-three and broad-shouldered, built like the mountain he grew up on. When he laughed at something one of the other players said, the sound rolled through the bleachers like thunder, and I felt it in my chest. Infatuated doesn’t cover it. I was done for. Every Friday night after that, I found excuses to be in those stands, borrowing Nick’s hoodie, pretending to care about the score, while I memorized the way Creed moved, the way he looked when he scanned the crowd like he was searching for someone.
We didn’t actually speak until I was seventeen. Behind the bleachers after a championship game. By then, he’d graduated and was working with his brothers and caught me sneaking a smoke (a bad habit I quit years ago).
He took the cigarette from my fingers, crushed it under his boot, and kissed me like he’d been waiting three years to do it. We were inseparable after that—stolen nights in his truck, summers tangled in his cabin, promises whispered against skin. We waited until I was eighteen to make love.
But then we kept breaking up. College first. I went to Colorado for graphic design and spent four years in Denver, chasing a degree and independence while he stayed in Passion Pines with his family and Maverick Lines. Distance turned phone calls into arguments, holidays into missed chances. Our first breakup happened during my senior year when I told him I needed space to “figure out who I was without him.” He didn’t fight it. Just said, “If that’s what you need, go.” I hated him for making it easy.
The last time was the worst. Six months ago, after a wild summer storm where lightning took down several massive trees. It was a rain-soaked night. He’d been gone for two days. I hadn’t slept. I told him his job was impossible for me to handle, and Icouldn’t continue waiting by the phone for someone to tell me you got hurt, or worse.
He kissed me anyway, like he could pour forever into one moment. Then he stepped back. “Drive safe,” he’d said again. Same words. Same wrecked voice.
I shake my head and drag myself to the shower with the dream still messing with my head. I’ve been holding off on giving him his private date. We’re now six dates into the show, and every time his name comes up, I find a reason to pass. Not because I don’t want him. Because I’m terrified of what happens when the cameras stop rolling and it’s just us. One look and I’ll forget every careful boundary I’ve built.
The walk to the bachelor cabin is fast, with the crisp air biting my cheeks, snow crunching under my boots, fairy lights twinkling along the path like fallen stars. The door swings open before I reach it. Jake’s grin flashes first, then Ethan’s easy wave, Tyler gives me a smile. Blake adjusts his scarf with that poet’s flourish. Ryan, the pilot, leans in the doorway, all sky-blue eyes and easy confidence. And Creed. At the back, arms crossed, watching me like I’m the only thing on earth that matters.
Elena ushers us into the living room with its leather sofas and roaring fire. Derek Voss steps forward with his clipboard in hand. His expression seems more serious than usual.
“Evening, gang. Happy Valentine’s Day.” He pauses; letting everyone get settled. “Quick update. Marcus had to go home last night. His fever spiked high enough the on-set doctor insisted he leave. He fought like hell to stay, but we couldn’t risk it. He’s stable now, resting comfortably. We’re reviewing backups and should have a replacement soon.”
A murmur ripples. Elena sweeps in, red coat swirling. “Gentlemen, Lyssa.” She beams. “We’re coming down to the wire. Only five of you are left. There are three goodbyes coming soon, then it’s time to meet the parents.” She winks at me. “Nopressure.” Laughter breaks the tension. “Tonight’s group date is a small-town Valentine romance event. We’re heading to the charming Passion Pines Theater. You each have fifteen minutes to write a Valentine’s poem for Lyssa. Then you step on stage and read it to her. The audience will consist of the crew and our bachelorette. One of you will win a one-on-one date tomorrow.”
My stomach flips. Poems. From these men. From him.
The theater is a quick drive to an old brick building, with the marquee lit up with glowing red hearts. Inside, Elena, Derek and I settle in the front row as the men disappear backstage to write.
Fifteen minutes stretch like taffy. Elena brushes my shoulder, “Are you nervous?”
I nod. “A little.”
One by one the men take the stage and recite their poems to me. The three standouts so far are Jake, Ethan and Tyler, whose poem is playful, with rhyming lyrics like a song. Then, at last, Creed steps onto the stage in dark jeans, flannel, and his Stetson. He doesn’t look at the paper. He peers at me from under his brim.
“In the high country where the pines stand guard,
I learned silence teaches more than words.
Storms come hard, winds howl, lines snap in the cold—
but the mountain holds. Steady. Unbroken.
