Samuel
The road back is desolate. It’s that time right before morning when the night hasn’t quite let go. The sky begins to pale just as the trees thicken.
You wouldn’t see the cabin if you weren’t looking for it. It sits deep in the trees, shielded on all sides. Glowing through the branches, I spot the porch light. I know I didn’t leave it that way. She turned it on for me.
Not because she was afraid, but because she knew I’d come back.
My gaze drifts to the edges of the clearing. Raven’s car is parked off to the side.
The sight of it hits harder than I expect.
It’s proof that she’s here. That this place, the one I bought thinking about a someday I wasn’t sure I deserved, isn’t just mine anymore.
It was never meant to be. I didn’t buy it for solitude.
I bought it because I needed somewhere that could hold more than one life.
I don’t know what’s going to happen once I walk through that door. I don’t know what she’ll say, or if tonight has changed us too much to ever go back. But I know this, as surely as I know the sound of my own engine. If there’s a future waiting for me, it’s behind that door, with her.
Mouse steps out onto the porch as I step out of my truck. He looks as wrecked as I feel, eyes rimmed red, jaw tight.
“Where is she?”
“She’s down by the creek,” he says.
“Thank you.”
He hesitates. “Knox?”
“He’s alive,” I say. “That’s all that matters right now.”
Mouse studies my face, before continuing. “You want me to—”
“Go,” I tell him gently. “I’ve got her.”
He leaves without another word.
I don’t go inside. I go to where she is.
The sound reaches me before I see her. The water moves behind the cottage, steady and constant, threading through the rocks.
Raven’s by the water. She’s wading near the bank, barefoot. The hem of her jeans is darkened where the water reaches her. Her hair hangs loose, catching the morning light. Her arms are wrapped tight as she watches the water intently. Like she’s waiting for an answer only the current can give.
The sight of her makes my chest ache. She's not lost. Not broken. She's exactly who she's always been—strong enough to carry more than she ever should have to.
I don’t move. Some moments aren’t meant to be interrupted.
This is it, a voice says quietly inside me. This is the rest of your life.
My boots leave the gravel for the muddy bank. Cold water closes over the leather, soaking through almost immediately, but I keep moving.
Raven hears me and turns. Relief crosses her face so fast it nearly brings me to my knees. I stop in front of her, the world stripped down to nothing more than breath and heartbeat.
Everything before this falls away.
Everything after can wait.
“You’re hurt,” she says immediately, hands coming up to my ribs, my jaw, my shoulder.
“I’m okay,” I say.
Her forehead presses into my chest, right over my heart, and she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since Mouse put her in the car.
I wrap my arms around her, and for the first time all night, I let myself rest.
“I was so scared,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I thought—” Her voice breaks. “I thought I might never see you again.”
I pull back just enough to look at her. “Raven.” She lifts her eyes. “I can’t keep doing this halfway,” I say. “I can’t keep choosing distance and calling it protection. I can’t keep pretending there’s a version of this where I don’t choose you completely.”
Her breath stutters. “Sam—”
I don’t think as I lower myself into the water.
The chill bites as my knee sinks into the mud. Ripples spread outward from me, small and certain.
Raven’s breath catches. Her hands lift then fall back to her sides, like she doesn’t know what to do with them.
“The cabin isn’t finished,” I say quietly. My hands fist at my side, then loosen again. I’m shaking. I don’t bother trying to hide it. “There’s no approval from your father. All I have is this place. This life. And the promise that I’ll spend every day earning your love.”
Her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t look away.
“What comes next isn’t clear,” I admit. “I don’t know what the cost is or who it’s going to anger, but I know this. I want to wake up with you,” I say, holding her gaze. “I want to come home to you. I want every hard thing and every quiet thing and every ordinary morning that comes after this.”
The words hang between us, bare and unguarded.
“Marry me.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She smiles instead. Soft and sure. Then, she steps closer, the water rippling softly around her as she lowers herself into the creek with me.
“I don’t need permission or guarantees,” she says, her hands come up steady where mine are not, warm and sure as they close over my shaking ones. “I just need you.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I’ll marry you.”
I kiss her as the creek keeps moving around us and the sun climbs higher. The night loosens its grip and finally lets go.
The world, for once, doesn’t ask any more of me. And for the first time since all of this began, I believe something might survive.
Us.