Page 150 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

A beat passes.

The night feels different now.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

“What is it?” I ask, because I can see it building in him—the storm gathering behind those dark eyes, the tension coiling in his jaw.

He drags a hand through his hair like he’s trying to grab hold of something slippery.

“I’m trying to figure out where you came from,” he says roughly. “And where you’re going. I’m trying to understand what the hell you’re doing to me, Clara.”

His voice cracks on my name.

“I built a life that didn’t need anyone,” he continues, stepping closer. “I carved out this mountain so I wouldn’t have to depend on anybody ever again. And then you show up in a thunderstorm, and suddenly I’m thinking about flowers and cabins and baseball games and whether you’re going to be here next month.”

His chest rises hard.

“I’m wondering,” he admits, quieter now, almost afraid of the words, “if maybe you belong with me.”

Not to me.

With me.

And that somehow makes it worse. Better. Bigger.

My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he can hear it.

“I—I don’t know,” I whisper, because that’s the only honest thing I have. “But I know you don’t get to decide that for me. Not alone.”

My voice steadies as I say it.

“Not him. Not you. I’m not something to be claimed just because you’re afraid of losing me. I deserve more.”

He flinches slightly.

Not in anger.

In recognition.

His gaze doesn’t leave mine.

“Then tell me,” he says, and now there’s no edge in it—just raw, open need. “Where do you belong?”

The question lands deep.

Because I don’t know.

I don’t know if I belong in Manhattan or Woodhaven. In glass towers or log cabins. In boardrooms or bleachers.

I don’t know if I belong on this mountain.

I don’t know if I belong in his arms.

But I know this—when he looks at me like that, like I’m not an inconvenience or a charity case or something to tolerate—it feels like something real.

“I don’t have that answer yet,” I say softly. “I’m still figuring it out.”