Page 68 of Breaking Through

"You did all of this?" His fingers traced the drawings. "Wade, these are incredible."

"The contractor says we can start after New Year's. It can be finished by spring." I moved behind him, close enough to share warmth but not quite touching. "You could have a real studio here. Set up that vintage enlarger you've been eyeing on eBay. You'll have space to grow without having to leave everything behind."

He turned to face me, his expression open and vulnerable. "You're sure? This is your sanctuary."

"It's better with you in it." The words came easier than I expected. "Everything is."

Before he could respond, my phone buzzed. The email I'd been waiting for had arrived—official approval for the therapy program's expansion. I handed him my phone, watching his eyes widen as he read.

"Full funding? And VA support for satellite programs?" His voice cracked slightly. "Wade, this is huge."

"Turns out making art in beautiful places helps people heal. Who knew?"

"Someone who's been doing precisely that for three years." He set my phone down and stepped closer. "I'm so proud of you."

The ring box pressed against my chest like a promise. Outside, snow began to fall—fat flakes that caught in Holden's hair when we stepped onto the porch. The lake was barely visible through the trees, but I sensed its presence, solid and sure.

"Walk with me?" I took his hand. "One more thing to show you."

We followed the trail down to the shore. The ice shelf had grown even since sunrise, creating a solid platform sticking out over the lake. A few hardy fishermen with permits would soon appear with their shacks. Our boots left parallel tracks in the fresh snow.

"Careful," I steadied him when he slipped. "Ice is tricky until you learn to read it."

"Good thing I have an expert guide."

We stopped where the beach met the ice. Behind us, our footprints marked the path that had led us here, and ahead stretched endless possibilities. The ring box felt somehow lighter now.

I turned to face him. "Three years ago, I came to Blue Harbor to disappear. I built walls so thick I thought nothing could break through." I cleared my throat again. "Then, you showed up with that damn camera, seeing beauty in broken places until I started believing you might be right."

"Wade..."

I pressed my grandfather's ring into his palm. It was simple gold, worn smooth by decades of love. "He gave me this before he died. He said to save it for someone who made me believe in second chances."

Holden's breath caught in his throat. Snowflakes gathered on his eyelashes.

"I'm not good at speeches." My knee hit the ice, but I barely felt the cold. "But I'm better at living because of you. At seeing possibility instead of just survival." I took his hand. "Marry me? Help me build something fireproof?"

"Yes." He pulled me up into a kiss that tasted like snow, coffee, and the future. "Of course, yes."

The lake that had once swallowed my pain now witnessed its opposite—joy so intense that it hurt. Holden's camera rested forgotten against his side while we held each other, letting the snow erase our footprints until only the path forward remained.

Later, we'd call his parents, share the news with Clark, Parker, and Sarah, and watch her plan a celebration beyond belief. But for now, we stood on solid ice that shouldn't have held such weight, proving that sometimes the most unlikely foundations were the strongest.

I touched the ring on his finger. "I love you."

"I know." His smile rivaled the sun on snow. "I've got the Polaroids to prove it."

Above us, the snowy owl made another pass as if blessing whatever would happen next. The lake had taught me to swim through grief. Now, it would witness what came after—not only survival but a life worth capturing, one frame at a time.

Epilogue - Holden

Anew autumn painted Blue Harbor in strokes of amber and crimson beneath clouds that threatened the season's first real snow. I adjusted my camera settings while Wade debated trail access modifications with Tom, their voices carrying across the visitor center's expanded gallery space.

In just a year, the therapy program had transformed the old shelter building. My lens found intimate moments among the gathered artists. Mike Sullivan explaining a charcoal technique to two teenagers was a keeper.

Tom pointed across the room. "Look at your grandfather holding court over there."

Grandpa had a group of high school art students hanging on his every word. A year of experimental treatments had him breathing easier, his natural storyteller's energy flowing freely again. At his encouragement, I moved in with Wade, and we'd started to interview a live-in home healthcare professional.

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