Page 200 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

This house.

This room.

This table that will see everything—good, bad, messy, joyful.

And the man behind me who could have had anyone.

Who lived alone by choice.

Who didn’t trust easily.

Who didn’t need anyone.

And still—he chose me.

“I can’t believe you picked me,” I say before I can stop myself.

He turns me in his arms, eyes fierce and steady.

“I didn’t pick you,” he says. “You showed up in a storm looking for me. I was just lucky I recognized you.”

My heart explodes in my chest.

Because that’s it.

That’s what this feels like.

Not a rescue.

Not an accident.

Recognition.

I press my forehead to his and let myself feel it all—the hopes, the fear, the wild, terrifying joy.

I have dreams for this house.

For my writing.

For us.

And for the first time in my life, I’m not choosing something because it looks right on paper.

I’m choosing it because it feels like home.

He brushes his thumb over my cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere, Clara,” he says quietly. “You don’t ever have to wonder that again.”

I believe him.

Not because he’s perfect.

Not because life won’t throw storms at us.

But because he’s here.

In our home. Our dining room.