Real trust.
It does something to me I can’t ignore anymore.
“Stay close,” I say quietly.
“I was planning on it.”
That’s the moment everything settles into place.
I pull her in, closing the space between us, and this time I don’t stop myself.
My mouth meets hers, firm and certain, the kind of kiss that doesn’t rush and doesn’t hold back. She responds instantly, hands sliding up my chest, gripping because she means it. She’s anchoring herself here just as much as I am.
I deepen it slowly, letting it build instead of burn out, feeling the shift in her breathing, the way she leans into me because this is where she belongs.
Epilogue
AURORA
The weird thingabout belonging is that I always thought I’d know when it happened.
Like there’d be music swelling somewhere, or I’d suddenly glow from within like a woman in a yogurt commercial, or a bluebird would land on my shoulder and be like,Congratulations, babe. You live here now.
Instead, it happens quietly.
It happens while I’m carrying a crate of napkins through The Hollow and realize I know exactly which floorboard is going to complain before I step on it.
It happens when Arlo grunts “morning” at me like a man being physically forced to participate in human warmth, and I know that means he already made coffee because he saw me coming down the stairs.
It happens when Lani texts me a picture of a seasonal drink disaster with the captionbe honest, does this look haunted?
It happens when I look up in a crowded room and instinctively know where all three of them are.
Which is… a lot.
A lot in a nice way.
Coyote Glen feels like mine now; it feels like I belong to it, and, somehow, it belongs to me too.
Which is rude, honestly. Because I came here for a quick visit.
My original plan was to scatter ashes, read a letter, cry a normal amount, leave town with emotional closure, and maybe a slightly improved relationship with my own future.
Instead, I got kidnapped, adopted by a mountain town, and fell in love with three terrifyingly devoted men.
So… life comes at you fast.
The Hollow hums around me in that messy, golden way I’ve come to love.
It’s busier now, but not in a frantic way. More like it’s settled into itself. Like the building finally exhaled and decided to trust us back.
There are sign-up sheets pinned on the community board that I made myself. Open mic schedules. Trivia night flyers. A monthly supper club idea I was halfway convinced people would hate until it sold out in two days, and Bill Granger muttered something about “overachieving hospitality witches” when I told him.
There’s warmth here now.
The Hollow still has its edges. Still has that low-lit, dangerous undercurrent that rolls off the men who own it and the history built into the wood. You can feel it when Ryder walks through a room, and conversations shift without him saying a word. You can feel it when Zane quietly fixes something before anyone notices it’s broken. You can feel it when Finn smiles at someone a little too brightly, and they suddenly remember how to behave.
I didn’t soften any of that.
