Page 67 of Breaking Through

Then, Wade looked up, catching my eye across the room. Before I could stop myself, my finger found the shutter.

Click.

The Polaroid slowly developed, showing Wade in his element—strong enough to be vulnerable, broken enough to help othersheal. He didn't pose or try to look away. He existed in the moment, letting me capture him precisely as he was.

When the session wound down, the new arrival had managed three tentative lines. Anderson's precise drawings filled a page. Mike's charcoal sketch showed hands reaching toward light.

I nodded, tucking the fresh photo into my journal. We stepped out into the gathering dusk, leaving the shelter's warmth behind. But I knew the genuine warmth wasn't in the building—it was in the community we were constructing, the healing we'd witnessed, and how art could bridge any distance if you gave it space to grow.

I smiled. "They're going to be okay."

Wade's hand found mine. "We all are."

Above us, the first stars appeared, bright against the deepening blue. Somewhere in Portland, a gallery waited to share our story with a wider audience. But here, in this moment, I was where I needed to be—holding hands with a former firefighter who'd learned to draw crooked lines.

Some stories didn't need capturing. They only required people to live them.

And that was the most beautiful art of all.

Chapter twenty

Wade

As I walked the familiar path to the lake, my boots crunched through December's first real snow. The beach where I'd first encountered Holden looked alien now—no gentle waves lapping the shore, just vast sheets of ice extending toward the horizon. The shelf had formed early this year, transforming Lake Michigan into something that resembled the Arctic tundra.

The cold bit through my ranger jacket, but I barely noticed. My mind was too full of the architectural plans waiting in the cabin and the small box pressing against my chest in my inside pocket. Three years ago, I'd chosen this stretch of shoreline because it felt as frozen as I was. Now, it witnessed a different kind of transformation.

A snowy owl glided silently overhead, its wingspan casting a brief shadow across the ice. I tracked its flight path until it disappeared into the pre-dawn gray. The beach was exceedingly quiet without my usual morning swim, but the lake had other lessons to teach now—about solid ground forming in unexpected places.

"I thought I'd find you here," Holden called across the snow. He wore that ridiculous blue knit hat Sarah had given him, claiming his "artistic soul" needed protection from winter. His camera hung around his neck. Some things never changed.

"Investigating the ice shelf for the blog?" I kept my voice steady despite the way my heart hammered against the ring box.

"Actually, I'm documenting evidence of the infamous Blue Harbor penguin migration. Sarah swears she saw one yesterday." His grin sparked a warm sensation in my chest that had nothing to do with my heavy coat. "And after those flamingos showed up last year at Port Washington, who knows what's possible?"

"One lost flamingo family, and suddenly everyone's a wildlife expert." I had to smile, remembering how the entire state had gone crazy over the pink visitors.

Holden adjusted his camera strap. "So why not penguins? We've already established that Blue Harbor attracts the unexpected."

I had to laugh. The sound echoed across the ice, startling a pair of winter ducks into flight. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it." He stepped closer, and I caught the familiar scent of coffee and sandalwood. "Though you're out earlier than usual. Everything okay?"

"Better than okay." I touched his arm. "Come with me? There's something I want to show you."

The drive to my cabin was quiet, but it was anticipatory silence rather than tension. Holden fiddled with his camera settings, probably adjusting for the weak December light. I'd memorized the sound of each dial click, like I'd memorized the way his fingers moved when he was nervous or excited.

Despite everything that rode on the next hour, my hands were steady on the wheel. The ring in my pocket. The plans laid outin my living room. The ideas about the future I'd spent weeks crafting into something solid enough to share.

When we reached the cabin, I hesitated with my key in the lock. "Before we enter, I need you to know something."

Holden's expression shifted to concern. "Wade?"

"The magazine feature is incredible. And the Portland gallery showing? You deserve all of it. But I've been thinking about what comes after, about how to make it sustainable without making you choose between worlds."

"Ah, so that's what all the late-night phone calls with Maya were about. The mysterious meetings with the contractor from Milwaukee?"

I pushed the door open. I'd cleared the cabin's living room except for my drafting table, where the renovation plans lay carefully unrolled. Blue lines mapped out transformations—my sanctuary expanding to include space for Holden's work. Large windows would capture the northern light he loved. The former guest room would become a darkroom—every detail designed to give him a home base between gallery shows and magazine assignments.

---