My breath catches. The sunlight shifts, catching the stubble along his jaw.
He squeezes my hand. "This isn't nostalgia or unfinished business." His voice drops, quiet and certain. "This is me choosing you. Again. On purpose."
The words land somewhere beneath my ribs, in a place I forgot existed.
"Noah—"
"You don't have to say it back." He glances at me, and the steadiness in his expression undoes me more than any grand declaration could. "I just need you to hear it. Out loud. In daylight."
"It's not a one-time thing for me either." I lace my fingers tighter through his.
Something eases in his shoulders—a tension I hadn't noticed until it was gone. He lifts our joined hands and presses his mouth to my knuckles, brief and warm.
The silence that follows is more intimate than words.
Main Street comes into view, the town stirring to life—shopkeepers unlocking doors, coffee cups in hand, kids darting across the crosswalk in backpacks too big for their frames.
The contrast is jarring. This sleepy mountain town is carrying on like nothing seismic has shifted beneath our feet.
Noah pulls to the curb in front of Mabel's Guest House, the engine idling as the spell of last night begins to fray at the edges.
He glances at me, expression soft. "You good?"
"I'm terrified," I admit. "But the good kind."
His mouth curves. "That's the only kind worth feeling."
"Thank you," I say finally. "For the waterfall. For the rescue. For... everything."
His smile is gentle, knowing. "My pleasure. Literally."
A laugh escapes me, breaking the tension. "And they say romance is dead."
"With us?" His eyes hold mine, serious beneath the teasing. "Never."
I lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, intending something brief and casual. But his hand comes up to cup my cheek, deepening the contact into something that leaves us both breathing heavily when we part.
"Dinner tonight," he says against my mouth, thumb tracing my lower lip. "My cabin. I'll cook."
"You cook now?" I pull back enough to study him. "Since when?"
"Since I started living alone and got tired of cereal." The corner of his mouth curves. "I make a decent salmon. And I've been told my cornbread is life-changing."
"By whom?"
"Mabel. But she's biased—I fixed her porch railing."
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. Not because it's funny, but because this feels so easy. So normal. Two people making dinner plans in the front seat of a truck, still warm from last night, still slightly terrified of what comes next.
"Seven o'clock," I say. "I'll bring wine."
"Bring yourself." His eyes hold mine, and underneath the easy smile, there's something raw and serious. "That's all I need."
He kisses me once more—lingering, unhurried, his hand warm on the side of my neck—then pulls back with visible reluctance.
"See you tonight, Chief," I say, reaching for the door handle.
He catches my hand. Presses his lips to the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse point, and holds there for a beat. My heart hammers against his mouth.
