The ring light thrums faintly as I adjust the tripod, the glow washing my face in perfect, fake daylight. It’s muscle memory now—smile, frame, and sell. But somewhere under the hum of filters and followers, I can feel the quiet tug of a different life waiting outside the shot.
"Today, I’m hiking with Lumberjack Hottie, but first hair."
I walk through my go-to messy bun tutorial like it’s some ancient beauty secret instead of the easiest trick in the book. I finish it with a shrug.
"You’ve probably seen a thousand versions of this, but I know what you’re really here for."
I end the video, knowing full well there’ll be shirtless Brooks footage incoming. He said I could film him whenever I want, and who am I to deny the people what they want?
"You ready?" Brooks pops his head into my room.
I swivel in the chair and grin. "Yeah."
"We filming today?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
I laugh. "Only if my favorite Lumberjack Hottie is up for it."
Without hesitation, he pulls his shirt off. "Ready."
"We really should make you your own account," I joke.
Brooks flashes a smug grin and lifts his phone. "Already beat you to it, Ellie."
I gasp as he holds it out. @LumberjackHottie has nearly 100,000 followers.
"Maybe being an influencer is in your future, after all," I tease, nudging him with my foot.
"Maybe I’ll just have to go to LA with you and try it out for myself," he shoots back, too casually.
I pause, my smile faltering. "Really?"
Brooks shrugs, all nonchalance. "I don’t know. Haven’t given it much thought, honestly."
But I know that’s not true.
My throat goes dry, the coffee suddenly sharp on my tongue.
He’s lying. Not to be deceptive, but to protect something. Or someone. Me, maybe.
And then it hits me like a stone to the chest.
Brooks is serious about me.
This isn’t just summer flirting or some small-town reconnection story. He wouldn’t even joke about leaving this place—his roots, his routines, the life he’s built here—unless he meant it.
Oh God. He’s thinking about a future. With me.
My pulse stammers. He wouldn’t joke about uprooting his life unless he meant it. Unless I meant something to him. Unless… oh god. What if he really does love me? What if this is real?
Before I can untangle the knots forming in my stomach, he shifts gears. Too smoothly.
"We should get that hike started if we want to meet up with Jasper and Wren for coffee this afternoon," he says, already turning toward the hallway.
"Coffee," I echo, snapping my fingers like I hadn’t just mentally spiraled. "Right."
We hike.
He lets me take thirst trap videos—for both our accounts—and I lose myself in laughter, in how easy it is to be with him. But when we reach the top of the ridge, where the sky stretches endlessly and the air smells like pine and possibility, he turns to me and kisses me.
