Dan followed, his steps light and eager behind me. "When did you do all this? How did I not know?"
"Started planning it after you got shot," I admitted. "My brothers helped me." The secret project had been the one thing keeping me sane during those long months when Dan was healing, when I couldn't be with him as much as I wanted.
My fingers tightened around the doorknob, but I couldn't seem to make myself turn it. This moment—this threshold—felt too important to cross without making sure Dan understood.
"Listen," I said, turning to face him fully, my voice dropping low with sudden seriousness. "Whatever you decide about this place—about us—it's okay. There's no pressure. I just wanted to..." The words failed me, too big and important to squeeze through the tightness in my throat.
Dan's expression softened, his hand coming up to cover mine on the doorknob. "Show me," he said simply.
The warmth of his touch gave me the courage I needed. I pushed the door open, the hinges silent thanks to Knox's careful adjustments, and pulled Dan inside with me.
The interior was bathed in golden light from the setting sun streaming through the west-facing windows, illuminating all the work we'd poured into the space. The main room was open and airy, with exposed beams crossing the ceiling that Ransom had insisted on keeping from the original structure.
To the left, a river rock fireplace dominated the wall, with two comfortable armchairs positioned before it—one oversized to accommodate my frame, the other a perfect match for Dan's more compact build.
The kitchen area was small but efficient, with bright blue cabinets that Quiad had painted by hand and butcher block countertops that Pa and I had crafted from trees felled on our own land.
A round dining table with four chairs sat in the corner, the wood gleaming with fresh polish—salvaged furniture from Granny's attic that I'd refinished myself during those long summer evenings when Dan had been in the hospital.
Colorful rugs dotted the hardwood floors, adding warmth to the space. Each one had been chosen with care—blues and greens that reminded me of Dan's eyes when he laughed, rich browns that felt like home.
Dan gasped beside me, his hand slipping from mine as he stepped further into the room. "Oh my God, Harlow!" he exclaimed, spinning in a slow circle to take it all in. "This is incredible!"
I stood frozen by the door, unable to move as I watched Dan's reaction, my heart hammering so hard I was sure he must be able to hear it. Every muscle in my body was tense, coiled tight as I waited for his full response. Did he like it? Really like it? Orwas he just being polite? I couldn't tell, and the uncertainty was excruciating.
Dan moved through the space like he couldn't believe his eyes, touching things with reverent fingers—the smooth surface of the kitchen counter, the soft leather of the armchair, the rough texture of the stone fireplace. His face was alight with something I didn't dare put a name to yet, his movements quick and energetic in a way I hadn't seen since before the shooting.
"Harlow," he breathed, turning back to face me, his eyes wide and bright. "You did all this? For me?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with all the things neither of us had said out loud yet. Not for him. For us. But the words stuck in my throat, fear keeping them trapped behind my teeth. What if I'd misread everything? What if this was too much, too soon? What if the answer was no?
I remained motionless by the door, watching him move through what I hoped would become our home, my heart balanced on the knife's edge between hope and terror.
I finally peeled myself away from the door, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. Dan was still moving around the main room, touching everything like he couldn't quite believe it was real. Each point of contact felt like he was touching some part of me, sending little sparks of hope and terror through my system.
"There's more," I managed, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. I gestured toward a hallway that branched off the main living space. "If you want to see it."
Dan was at my side in an instant, his eyes bright with excitement. "Show me everything," he urged, his hand finding mine again as naturally as breathing.
I led him down the short hallway, past a small linen closet, to the bedroom at the back of the cabin. My pulse hammered in myears as I pushed the door open, revealing the space I'd imagined us sharing.
The king-sized bed dominated the room, its wooden frame built by Knox and me from trees harvested on McKenzie land. Above it hung a small painting of the river at sunrise that Ransom had created specifically for this space. But the centerpiece was the quilt—a wedding ring pattern in blues and greens and browns that Ma had made with her own hands.
"Ma made the quilt," I said quietly, watching Dan's face for his reaction. "Said every proper home needs a handmade quilt." I didn't tell him how many late nights Ma had stayed up working on it, or how her hands had shaken when she presented it to me, her eyes filled with tears that spoke of acceptance I'd once thought impossible.
Dan moved to the bed, his fingers reverently tracing the intricate pattern of the quilt. "It's beautiful," he murmured, looking back at me with an expression that made my heart skip. "She made this for us?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The "us" in his question felt like a victory.
The bathroom was next—nothing fancy, but practical and new. "Ransom helped design it," I explained as Dan ran his hand over the slate tile shower. "He's got an eye for these things." The fixtures were simple but solid, the medicine cabinet large enough for two people's things, the countertop wide and clean.
"It's perfect," Dan said, but his attention was already shifting, eyes darting to the narrow staircase at the end of the hall. "What's up there?"
I hesitated for just a moment. The loft was the part of the cabin I'd been most nervous about showing him. It was the space most tailored to him specifically, the place where I'd tried to recapture what he'd lost when Collins' men destroyed his apartment.
"Come on," I said, leading the way up the narrow stairs to the loft that spanned about half the cabin's footprint, leaving the downstairs with vaulted ceilings in the main living area.
Dan followed me up, his breath catching audibly when he reached the top and saw what waited there. The loft had been transformed into a home office—his office. A heavy wooden desk sat beneath the north-facing window, positioned to capture perfect light for reading and paperwork. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with volumes salvaged from his ruined apartment, now carefully cleaned and restored.
