I look past him toward the snow-paled window, and for one strange, shimmering second, I can almost see it.
A small desk by a window. Coffee steaming beside a laptop. Mountains outside. My words on the screen. Mine. Not waiting for permission. Not trimmed down into someone else’s voice.
“I could write from here,” I say slowly.
Weston goes still.
“I could start my own blog.” The idea rushes through me faster now, gathering shape. “Write about the town. The cabins. The people. Lovestone Ridge. Small-town life. The mountain.Recipes maybe, local events, stories, interviews...” I turn back to him, breathless. “I wouldn’t have to wait for some editor to let me do it. I could just... do it.”
The more I say it, the more real it feels.
The more possible.
The more it feels like mine.
A laugh escapes me, shaky and bright and a little disbelieving.
“Oh my God.”
Weston’s whole face changes as he watches me.
Softens.
Warms.
“You want that.”
It is not a question.
And maybe that is why it cracks me open a little.
Because he sees it. Not just me. The part of me I’ve barely even admitted to myself.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I think I really do.”
His hand leaves my thigh only long enough to cup my face.
“Then do it.”
Two words.
No hesitation.
No polite doubt.
No careful maybe someday.
Just that.
Then do it.
And suddenly I am tearing up.
Which is rude, honestly.
I laugh at the same time, swiping quickly at my eyes.
“You cannot just be ridiculously supportive while looking like this. It’s too much for one woman before breakfast.”
