Page 44 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

She goes still, breath catching just a little. “Say what?”

“Whatever’s been bouncing around in that brilliant head of yours since dinner. You’ve been chewing on something.”

She sighs, a soft sound that’s half frustration, half affection. “You always know.”

“Always will,” I murmur. “Now spit it out, Westwood.”

She rolls onto her side, propping herself on one elbow to look down at me. Her hair falls forward, brushing my chest. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

I open my eyes and meet hers. No hesitation. No doubt. “You.”

She swallows. “I mean all of it. Not just the firelight and the quiet and the sex that probably violates local noise ordinances. I mean... this. Me. Staying. Building something.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

She nods, but I can tell she’s still bracing for the catch. For the door to slam shut. That’s what happens when the world trains you to wait for people to leave.

I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the couch, and pull her into my lap before she can wriggle away. Her knees straddle my thighs, her hands on my shoulders, and I grip her hips—firm, grounding.

“Abby,” I say, voice low. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.” She searches my face like she doesn’t quite believe it yet. So I give her more. “If you’ll have me.”

Her mouth curves. “That sounds suspiciously like a marriage proposal dressed up in a flannel shirt.” She laughs, and thesound loosens something in my chest I didn’t even know was knotted. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Travis Holt,” she says, looping her arms around my neck.

“Good,” I tell her. “Because I don’t plan on ever letting go.”

We don’t talk for a while after that. We just sit there, wrapped up in each other like we’re trying to memorize what peace feels like.

Later, when the fire’s burned low and the moon’s riding high over the pines, I tug a sweatshirt over my head and grab the thick throw blanket from the back of the couch.

“Come on,” I say.

Abby raises an eyebrow from where she’s pulling on her boots. “Where are we going?”

“Outside.”

“It’s freezing.”

“You trust me?”

She snorts. “With my life. Less so with my body temperature.”

I hold out a hand. “I’ll keep you warm.”

She takes it without another word. We step out onto the porch, the cold hitting hard at first before the stillness sets in. Snow’s falling again, soft and slow. Not heavy, but steady, like the mountain’s reminding us winter’s not done yet. The porch creaks under our feet as we settle on the bench swing I built last summer.

Abby curls into my side without hesitation, and I wrap the blanket around both of us. My arm settles around her shoulders, and her head finds that familiar spot against my chest.

Glacier Hollow, Alaska

Three Months Later

We watch the snow fall in silence.

Here in Alaska, it comes down in wide, slow drifts—thick enough to hush the world. The trees are taller out here, older maybe. Wilder. Everything feels untouched. Clean. Like the towering peaks are giving us a second chance.

“You ever think this would be your life?” Abby asks quietly. Her voice barely rises above the wind threading through the eaves.

“No,” I say, eyes tracking the flakes as they settle on the railing. “Not even close.”

---