Page 13 of Shelter Me, Sawyer

"Scarlett," I say, tipping her chin up so she has to look at me.

"I know it's soon," she says quickly. "I know we're still figuring things out, but—"

"I love you too," I interrupt, because she needs to hear it. Needs to know that whatever this is between us, it's real and it's permanent and it's the best damn thing that's ever happened to me.

Her eyes go wide, then bright with tears that make my chest tight.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." I kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. "The mountain sent you to me, Scarlett. And I'm never letting you go."

She kisses me back, fierce and desperate and full of promises for the future we're going to build together.

And somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles across the peaks—like the mountain approves.

Epilogue

Sawyer

Twoyearslater

She's glowing.

Barefoot in my kitchen—ourkitchen—belly round and full with our baby, hair twisted up in one of those messy knots she throws together without thinking. Humming something under her breath while she stirs whatever's simmering on the stove.

And she's still the most beautiful damn thing I've ever seen.

"You're staring again," Scarlett says without turning around, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

"Hard not to," I mutter, setting down the wood I've been carrying.

She turns then, cheeks flushed from the heat of cooking, lips curved in that smile that still stops my heart every time. Her free hand rests on the curve of her belly—our daughter, according to the ultrasound tucked to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a pine tree.

"Well, maybe take a break and set the table," she says. "This'll be ready in a few minutes."

I do as I'm told, not because I'm whipped—though I probably am—but because I like taking care of her. Always have. Always will.

The cabin has changed since she moved in. It looks lived-in now. Loved-in.

Like a home instead of just a place to exist.

I light the candle she insists on having at dinner—says it makes everything feel more special—and arrange the mismatched plates she's collected from various antique shops in town. She's turned our weekly supply runs into treasure hunts, coming home with vintage quilts and Mason jars and cast-iron pans.

She's made this place ours without erasing what it was. Made it better.

Scarlett joins me at the table, easing into her chair with a soft sigh. I step behind her automatically, hands finding her shoulders, working out the knots that pregnancy and too many hours hunched over photo editing have put there.

"How's our girl today?" I ask, letting one hand drift to her belly.

"She's been practicing soccer," Scarlett says with a laugh. "I think she's going to be as restless as her daddy."

"God help us both."

Her hand covers mine, and we sit like that for a moment, feeling our daughter move beneath our joined palms. I still can'tquite believe this is real. That I get to have this—love, family, a future I never thought I wanted.

We eat dinner as the sun sets behind the mountains, talking about her latest photography commission, the nursery progress, whether I should chop another cord of wood before the first snow. Normal things. Domestic things.

After dinner, we settle on the porch swing I built last spring, wrapped in one of my grandmother's quilts. The air is crisp with the promise of autumn, and somewhere in the distance, an owl calls to its mate.

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