Page 62 of Stitch & Steel
I reached into my kutte, pulled out the velvet box. Opened it.
The family diamond glinted under the candlelight—Gran’s ring, tucked right in her closet all those years. It felt heavy in my hand. Sacred.
“I didn’t expect you, Bella Grace. You showed up with your smart mouth and your soft heart and knocked my whole world sideways.”
Tears tracked down her cheeks.
“I love you,” I went on, throat tight. “I love the way you fight, the way you forgive, the way you make everything feel real and right. You saw me when no one else looked past the kutte and the scars. And you made me believe I was worth loving back.”
A hush had fallen across the meadow. The only sound was the whisper of wind through grass, and the sharp inhale she took when I said her name again.
“Bella. I want to build a life with you. Grow old in these mountains. Raise babies who know how to bait a hook and bake with their Gran. I want it all—with you.”
I held up the ring, my hand steady for the first time all day.
“Marry me.”
She fell to her knees in front of me.
Threw her arms around my neck.
And whispered, “Yes. Oh my God, yes.”
The crowd erupted, but I didn’t hear them. All I heard was her laugh, her breath, her heartbeat pressed against mine. I slid the ring on her finger—my hand shaking now, not from nervesbut because I knew this was the most important thing I’d ever done.
We kissed under the trees while candles flickered and Scout barked like he was celebrating too. Gran stood near the edge of the clearing, eyes bright, tears running freely, clapping with more energy than she’d had in weeks.
She looked at me and mouthed,“You did good.”
And for the first time in my life, I believed it.
Twenty-Three
BELLA
The snow came latethis year, waiting until after Christmas to coat the mountain in a soft, heavy silence. But once it arrived, it didn’t stop—blanketing the trees, the cabin, the winding road down into town. From my place curled up on the couch in front of the woodstove, I could see the flakes falling past the frosted window like stars tumbling from the sky.
The heirloom diamond and emerald ring glinted on my finger, catching the firelight as I tucked my legs under Logan’s worn thermal shirt—the one I’d stolen from his drawer and never gave back. Scout lay snoring at my feet, his tail twitching in doggy dreams, while the woodstove crackled like it was telling secrets. The whole cabin smelled of pine logs, coffee, and Logan.
Gran was doing okay. The new meds helped. The full-time aide, Ms. Marlene, moved in just before the deep freeze set in. A strong woman with a thick braid and eyes that missed nothing. She doted on Gran and had a rifle of her own tucked behind the pantry door—Logan approved immediately.
The cabin was stocked to the brim—backup generator in place, enough chopped wood for two winters, a freezer full of stews and roasts, and the kind of love that made the air feelwarmer even when it was cold enough to turn your breath to frost.
And then there were the mornings.
Slow. Delicious. Unhurried.
Sometimes Logan would wake me with the scent of coffee, other times with the heat of his mouth on my skin. We didn’t need alarms. The sunrise did the work, peeking through the curtains while he moved inside me slow and deep, whispering things that made my toes curl and my soul ache in the best way. When his rough hands skimmed down my spine and cupped my hips like they were breakable, I melted into the kind of love you read about in books and never quite believe is real.
After, he’d rest his head on my chest while I carded my fingers through his thick dark hair and listened to the wind whistling against the walls. I never wanted to move. I never wanted this life to end.
But Logan made sure I got to work.
Every morning without fail, he’d fire up the truck, plow the drive, and help me into the cab like I was something precious. He always had hot coffee in a thermos, one for me and one for him, and he'd wait at the school until he was sure I made it in safe.
It was sweet, protective, and occasionally ridiculous—especially when he insisted on installing chains on the tires himself while refusing to wear gloves. “Men like me don’t use mittens,” he’d grumble, and I’d just roll my eyes and hand him another cup of coffee.
We had snowball fights in the yard, Scout joining in with chaotic energy and no regard for sides. Gran even tossed one from her porch rocker once, cackling when she nailed Logan in the back of the head.
