Page 25 of Christmas With the Navy SEAL Mountain Man
A new year. A fresh start.
If I'm brave enough to claim it.
The decision forms with a clarity that's been missing since I found that notice. I shower quickly, trading sawdust covered clothes for clean jeans and a black sweater. My reflection in the mirror shows a man I barely recognize—eyes alive with determination rather than haunted by ghosts.
Outside, snow continues to fall, coating the world in pristine white. I choose my truck over the ATV, knowing the roads will be treacherous. The engine growls to life, headlights cutting through the early evening darkness as I begin the descent from my mountain sanctuary toward the lights of Grizzly Ridge.
Toward Leah.
The drive that usually takes fifteen minutes stretches to nearly thirty as I navigate snow covered switchbacks. Finally, the town comes into view, the square transformed into awinter celebration. Bonfires blaze in metal drums, their flames throwing golden light over the gathering. Strings of lights stretch between buildings, creating a canopy of stars.
I park at the edge of town and walk the rest of the way, heart pounding harder with each step. People nod in greeting as I pass, surprise evident in their faces at the sight of the mountain recluse at a community event.
The square is filled with what seems like the entire population of Grizzly Ridge. Children chase each other through the snow while adults cluster around the bonfires, cups of something steaming in their gloved hands. A small stage has been set up where a local band plays, the music cheerful and bright against the cold night.
I scan the crowd for Leah, finally spotting her near the refreshment tables. She wears her red coat, dark hair spilling from beneath a knitted hat, her face animated as she speaks with Wren from the volunteer center. Even from this distance, I can see the strain around her eyes, the forced quality of her smile.
I did that. I put that shadow on her joy.
As if sensing my presence, she turns, her eyes finding mine across the crowded square. For a moment, she freezes, clearly not expecting to see me here. Then her expression shifts, guarded but hopeful, and she excuses herself from Wren to make her way toward me.
We meet at the edge of the square, snow falling around us, creating a strange sense of privacy despite the crowd.
"You came," she says, her voice carefully neutral.
"I needed to see you." The words feel inadequate for everything I need to express. "To apologize."
Her eyebrows lift slightly. "For?"
"For walking out. For accusing you of manipulation. For not trusting what we have." I step closer, lowering my voice. "For letting fear dictate my actions."
Something softens in her expression, but she doesn't move toward me. "I should have told you about the proposal sooner. That was my mistake."
"It was. But my reaction was out of proportion." I run a hand through my hair, snow melting against my skin. "I've spent two years hiding on that mountain, Leah. Pushing everyone away. Convincing myself isolation was the only way to manage the noise in my head, the guilt of surviving when my team didn't."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "And the trail proposal threatened that isolation."
"Yes. But these last twenty four hours without you made me realize something." I take a deep breath, gathering courage for what comes next. "The peace I thought I needed isn't in isolation. It's in connection. It's in you."
Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly. "Aaron?—"
"Let me finish, please." I step closer still, close enough to catch the scent of vanilla that always clings to her skin. "I was wrong to question your intentions. Wrong to walk away instead of working through it together. And I was wrong about what I need."
Around us, the celebration continues, but it feels distant, separate from this moment between us.
"What do you need?" she asks softly.
"You." The word emerges as both confession and promise. "I love you, Leah. I think I have since you stood in the snow refusing to leave until I said yes to your charity event."
Joy blooms across her face, but caution tempers it. "What about the trail proposal? That hasn't gone away."
"I know. And we'll figure it out together." I reach for her hand, relief flooding me when she allows the contact. "I spent today thinking about alternatives, compromises that might work for everyone. I'm willing to discuss a limited access plan, with proper protections for my privacy."
Surprise replaces caution in her expression. "Really? Yesterday you were ready to fight eminent domain proceedings."
"Yesterday I was reacting from fear." I squeeze her hand gently. "Today I'm choosing to trust you. To trust us."
Her free hand rises to touch the wooden pendant at her throat. "And tomorrow? What happens the next time the town proposes something that affects your property? The next time my responsibilities to the community conflict with your need for privacy?"
