Across from the fire hall stood a honky-tonk called the Wildwood Ridge Roadhouse. Even from the truck, I caught a whiff of fried onions through the vents. Exposed beams were visible through the windows, giving it a rustic charm.
“Good food,” Kross offered. “Decent beer. Gets lively on weekends.”
“Noted.”
We left the town behind and started climbing, the road narrowing as the trees pressed closer. Pine and oak and something else I didn’t recognize, their branches forming a canopy overhead that dappled the afternoon light.
“Can I ask you something?” Kross said after a moment.
“Of course.”
“Why here? Why me?” He kept his eyes on the road, but the tension in his jaw was unmistakable. “You could’ve gone anywhere. Met anyone. Why pack up your whole life and come to some mountain town to meet a guy you’ve never seen in person?”
It was a fair question—one I’d asked myself more than once during that fourteen-hour bus ride.
“My parents,” I started, then stopped. Tried again. “Growing up, they controlled everything. What I wore, who I talked to, what I was allowed to want. They had this whole life planned out for me, and I was supposed to just…follow along. Be grateful. Never ask for anything different.”
Kross didn’t say anything. Just listened.
“When I told them I was leaving—that I’d met someone online and I was going to see if it was real—they tried everything. Guilt, tears, threats. My mother told me I was throwing my life away. My father said I’d come crawling back within a month.” Itook a breath, steadying myself. “For the first time, I didn’t cave. I packed my bag, got on that bus, and didn’t look back.”
“That took guts.”
“It took desperation.” I laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “I spent twenty-three years being small and quiet and obedient, and I just…couldn’t do it anymore. I want a life that’s mine. A partner who sees me as an equal, not a possession. A big, noisy, chaotic family full of love and laughter and all the things I never got to have.”
The words hung in the air between us, more honest than I’d meant to be. I waited for him to flinch, to pull back, to tell me I was too much.
Instead, he reached over and took my hand.
His palm was warm and calloused, rough from years of building things, and his fingers wrapped around mine like they belonged there. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The gesture said enough.
About two miles up the mountain road, Kross slowed and pulled into a wide turnout. “Wanted to show you something.”
I climbed out of the truck, and my breath caught.
The view stretched for miles. Layered mountains rolled toward the horizon, ridge after ridge fading from green to blue to hazy purple in the distance. Below us, Wildwood Valley lay nestled in its hidden pocket, the Tudor rooftops and the gleaming fire station looking small and toylike from up here. The afternoon sun painted everything gold.
“Oh,” I breathed. It was all I could manage.
Kross came to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. “Best view in the county. Figured you should see it.”
I stood there for a long moment, just breathing, letting it sink into my bones. This place. This man. This life I’d chosen for myself.
“It’s beautiful,” I finally said.
“Yeah.” When I glanced over, he wasn’t looking at the view. He was looking at me.
We got back in the truck and drove another few minutes before his cabin came into view. It was modest—a single-story build of honey-colored logs, with a covered porch and windows that caught the fading light. Nestled among the pines like it had grown there, part of the mountain itself.
“Built most of it myself,” Kross said, and there was something almost shy in his voice. “It’s not much, but?—”
“It’s perfect.”
He parked the truck, and I climbed out before he could come around to open my door. The air hit me first—clean and cool and sharp with pine. Then the silence, but not the suffocating kind I’d grown up with. This was different. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that felt like a gift instead of a punishment.
Kross came to stand beside me again. “What do you think?”
I turned to look at him—this man I’d traveled fourteen hours to meet, who’d stumbled over his words and apologized for being late and held my hand like I was something precious. He watched me with hope in his eyes. And fear. Like my answer mattered more than he wanted to admit.
