It could’ve been filled with rocks instead of feathers, and it would still be worth it.
The south slope behind the cabin glows in the morning light.
I’ve walked the path on the south slope behind the cabin hundreds of times, but my heart is racing like I’m going into combat. I’ve been eyeing the clearing up ahead for days, running calculations in my head, sketching layouts on scrap paper when Jessie was absorbed in her work.
This is the best idea I’ve ever had, or a sure-fire way to scare her off for good.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Jessie’s wearing my flannel again—I’m starting to think I’ll never get it back—and her boots are already collecting mud. “Or is this some kind of mountain man murder situation?”
“If I were going to murder you, I wouldn’t do it this close to the cabin. Too easy to find the body.”
“That’s... disturbingly specific.”
“I’m a planner.”
She laughs, bright and warm, and bumps her shoulder against my arm. The contact sends heat through me, even through layers of flannel.
Please let this be right. Please don’t let this be too much.
The clearing opens up before us—a natural shelf where the slope levels out, sheltered by pines on three sides but open to the south. The morning light here is something else entirely. Gold and soft, framing the mountains like art.
I stop at the edge. Jessie stops beside me, her breath catching.
“Oh.” The word comes out reverent. “Tank, this is...”
“South-facing.” I point toward the tree line. “Sun from morning until late afternoon. Natural windbreak from the north. Flat enough to build on, close enough to the cabin to run power.”
She turns to look at me, something dawning in her expression. “Build what?”
I meet her eyes. “Your studio.”
Silence stretches between us.
“My—”
“You need a proper space. Not the kitchen table.” I gesture at the clearing, suddenly aware of how exposed I am. How much I’m laying bare with every word. “I’ve been thinking about it. Twenty by thirty feet. Big enough for your large canvases. South-facing windows, floor to ceiling on that wall. Heated floors for winter. Good ventilation for when you’re working with oils or acrylics.”
“Oh, Sawyer.” Her voice cracks.
“I researched artist studios. Talked to a guy in Bozeman who builds them. The light diffusion matters. You want indirect northern light for color accuracy, but southern exposure for warmth and visibility. So we’d angle the windows, add some overhangs.” I’m rambling, filling the silence because her expression is unreadable and I can’t stand not knowing. “Forge can do custom window frames, whatever you want. And Tex knows a guy who does reclaimed wood flooring.”
She’s staring at me with wet eyes, coffee forgotten in her hands, and I still can’t read her expression. Is this too much? Too fast? Did I overstep?
Too much. I’m always too much.
I stop talking.
“You want to build me a studio.” The words come out slowly, like she’s testing each one.
“I want to give you a place that’s yours, where you can work without hunching over a table that’s too small.” I brace my hands on my hips, then force myself to stay still so I don’t reach for her. “You need a place where you don’t need to compromise your vision because the light’s wrong or the space is cramped.”
“I haven’t even decided?—”
“I know.” I hold her gaze, let her see everything I’m feeling—the hope, the fear, the desperate want. “This isn’t about that. Whatever you decide, whatever happens with New York, you deserve a space that’s built for who you are. For what you create.”
“You can’t just—” She breaks off, pressing a hand to her mouth.
“Can’t what?”
