"I'm terrified. But I was terrified the first time I jumped out of a helicopter, too, and that turned out to be the thing I was born for."
She pulls back and looks at me. Studies my face with those surgeon's eyes, the ones that miss nothing, that catalogued my coffee habits in two days and read my soul in less time than that. Whatever she finds makes her expression soften into something I've only seen a handful of times. Open. Unguarded. The ice queen fully melted.
"You're going to be an incredible father," she says.
The words land somewhere deep in my chest and take root. Father. Me. The youngest operator at Guardian Peak. The kid who spent twelve years proving he belonged. The man who fellin love with a woman the world said was too old for him and discovered she was exactly right.
Father.
I reach into my jacket pocket. The ring box is there because I've been carrying it every day since Sunday, waiting for the right moment, which was supposed to be a sunset hike to a ridge with a view. But the right moment isn't a location or a sunset or a plan. The right moment is now. On a porch. In the morning. With her hand on her stomach and my whole future sitting in the chair in front of me.
I open the box.
Lex looks at the ring. Then at me. Then back at the ring.
"How long have you been carrying that?"
"Since Sunday, but I’ve had it for three weeks. I had a whole plan. There was going to be a sunset. And a ridge. And a speech."
"What was the speech?"
"Something about how you walked into my life in heels on a gravel road and I've been trying to keep up ever since. Something about how you made me better at everything, at my job, at being a man, at understanding what it means to love someone so much you'd drive nine hours to return a pair of reading glasses." I turn the ring box toward her. The emerald-cut diamond catches the March morning light. "Something about how I don't want to spend another day without knowing you're mine. Officially. Permanently."
"That's a very good speech for someone who claims he didn't have one."
"I've been practicing on Cade's dogs. Moose was very moved."
She laughs again. The tears are still falling, but she's laughing, and the combination of joy and fear and hope on her face is the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed. More beautiful than the ridge view. More beautiful than the first timeI saw her step out of that SUV. More beautiful than any sunrise on any mountain in any place I've ever been.
"Ask me," she says.
I take the ring from the box. Hold it at the tip of her left ring finger. "Alexandra Morrison. Will you marry me?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No analysis. No clinical assessment of the risk profile. Just yes, immediate and certain, from a woman who spent her whole life calculating every decision and just made the most important one on instinct.
I slide the ring on. It fits. Of course it fits. I borrowed her ring size from the jewelry box on the dresser two months ago while she was in the shower. Some things are worth planning.
She grabs my face and kisses me. Hard. The kind of kiss that knocks the ring box out of my hand and sends it skittering across the porch and I couldn't care less because her mouth is on mine and her hands are on my face and she said yes and she's pregnant and my entire life just changed in the span of five minutes on a Saturday morning.
I pull her out of the chair and into my arms. Hold her against me, her face against my neck, my hand spread across her lower back, and we stand there on the porch of the cabin that became ours. The morning sun is warming the tree line. A hawk circles over the valley. Cade's dogs have given up on the squirrel and are barking at each other instead.
"We have to tell the team," she murmurs against my neck.
"Sunday dinner."
"Vivian is going to scream."
"Sadie is going to cry."
"Cade is going to immediately start researching prenatal nutrition."
"Deck is going to pretend he's not emotional and then hold Elena a little tighter."
She pulls back and looks up at me. Her eyes are still wet, but the smile on her face is the one I've been chasing since the day I met her. The real one. Not the controlled, measured expression she uses in boardrooms. The one that reaches her eyes and softens every sharp edge and makes her look exactly like what she is: a woman who fought for everything she has and finally found someone worth letting in.
"I told you this wasn't a terrible idea," I say.
"You told me a lot of things. Most of them were annoyingly correct."
