Kissing. Touching. Talking in low voices about nothing and everything.
He tells me about the first winter he spent alone up here, how the silence almost broke him until he learned to listen to it instead of fight it. I tell him about the day I left Denver, how I cried the whole drive because I was terrified I’d never feel at home anywhere again.
We make love again, slow this time. Gentle. Face-to-face, eyes locked, hands clasped. When I come, it’s quiet, shuddering, his name on my lips like a promise. He follows right after, burying his face in my neck, whispering how much he loves this. Loves me.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, listening to the wind move through the pines.
I trace the line of his collarbone. “I’m not scared anymore.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Me neither.”
The rest of the day passes in a soft blur.
We shower together, laughing when the water turns cold halfway through. We make lunch, grilled cheese and tomato soup, then eat on the couch with Bear sprawled across both our laps. We walk outside in the fresh snow, hand in hand, watching Bear chase snowballs like they’re prey. We come back inside flushed and cold, strip each other slowly, and tumble back into bed.
Every time he kisses me, the last whisper of doubt dissolves.
Because this isn’t too fast. This is right on time. This is meant to be. And I’m never letting it go.
Chapter seven
Nathan
The last two weeks with her have been perfect. She’s spent every night in my bed and has become as essential to me as air. I need to tell her how much she means to me and that I never want to be apart.
The cabin smells like fresh cedar shavings and the coffee I brewed an hour ago. Sunlight pours through the windows in bright, cold streams, bouncing off the snow outside and turning the whole place gold. I’ve been up since before dawn, working in the shop while Katy slept. My hands are still dusted with sawdust, my forearms aching from the final sanding, but the small box in my pocket feels heavier than any piece of wood I’ve ever carried.
I made it for her.
A cedar keepsake box with dovetailed corners and a lid inlaid with a thin band of walnut. Inside rests the pendant I carved over the last two weeks, late nights after she fell asleep, careful cuts and endless sanding until the lines were perfect. A small mountain peak cradling a rising sun. Simple. Sturdy. The way I feel when she’s near.
I’ve spent three years telling myself walls were safety. That letting anyone close meant opening the door to chaos, to hurt, to the kind of noise that once sent me running from the city. Katy walked right through those walls without even trying. She laughed too loudly, talked too much, and looked at me like the grumpiest parts of me were worth keeping. Every time I tried to rebuild the barricade, she just smiled brighter and stayed.
I’m done fighting it.
I’m all in.
The realization settled over me sometime around three this morning while I polished the pendant one last time. No more half-measures. No more waiting for the other shoe. I want her here every morning, every night, every cold winter and hot summer. I want the complication she brings because without it, the quiet isn’t peace anymore. It’s just empty.
She’s still asleep when I walk back into the bedroom. Curled on her side, dark curls spilling across the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek. The blanket has slipped down to her waist, exposing the soft curve of her shoulder and the gentle rise of her breast. My chest tightens so hard I almost can’t breathe.
I set the box on the nightstand, then slide under the covers behind her, careful not to wake her too abruptly. I press my chest to her back, my arm wrapping around her middle, and kiss the nape of her neck.
She stirs. A sleepy hum vibrates through her. “Mmm. Morning already?”
“Morning.” I kiss the spot behind her ear. “Missed you.”
She rolls toward me, blinking up with those green eyes still heavy with sleep. “You’ve been up for hours.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I brush a curl from her face. “Had something on my mind.”
She studies me, sleepy smile fading into something softer, more serious. “Good something or bad something?”
“Good.” I reach for the box and set it between us. “Open it.”
Her brows lift. She sits up slowly, pulling the blanket around her shoulders, and lifts the lid. When she sees the pendant, her breath catches.
“Nathan…”
