Chapter Forty-Three
Sienna
By the time I stepped back onto the Honey Leaf Lodge porch, my legs were pleasantly sore, my lungs full of crisp spring air, and my heart lighter than it had been in days.
Maybe weeks.
Guiding the three women from Minnesota—Maggie, Jo, and Leslie—had been the kind of trip that reminded me why I loved this job.
Childhood best friends in their forties, all full of chaotic joy and questionable snack choices.
They hiked like champs, complained like comedians, and told stories that made me laugh so hard I nearly walked off a trail ridge.
We’d spent the final stretch of the trip strolling along the lake, talking about life, love, and the beauty of adult friendship. They told me I needed to “get back out there,” and when I explained I was out there, they said no, they meant romantically.
Maggie had even winked and said, “There’s always someone you don’t expect.”
I’d laughed.
But a tiny, traitorous part of me… had thought of him.
The women had hugged me goodbye at the lodge entrance and carried their gear upstairs, still buzzing from our last campfire talk. I waved them off with a smile, promising to meet them tomorrow morning to help plan their drive home.
Then the door swung closed behind them.
The hall quieted.
And I let out a slow, satisfied breath.
A perfect trip.
For once, I wasn’t overthinking anything.
Or running from feelings.
Or trying to predict disaster.
I was, dare I say… calm.
I pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen.
And then I stopped breathing.
Carson was standing there.
Not just standing — waiting.
He stood in the center of the kitchen, tall and breath-stealing and unfairly handsome in a dark Henley and jeans, the sleeves pushed to his elbows. Sunlight from the window caught in his hair, and something in my chest flipped so hard I almost tripped into a sack of potatoes.
But that wasn’t what froze me.
He was holding flowers.
A bouquet.
A real, actual, soft-petaled, color-splashed bouquet.
I blinked like a malfunctioning robot. “Carson?”
His eyes found mine with that calm, steady warmth that always hit deeper than I wanted to admit. “Hi.”
I took a step forward but stopped, because my heart was doing ridiculous things and I needed my legs to behave.
“You’re…you’re back early,” I said, brilliant as always. “When did you, how…why are there flowers happening right now?”
His mouth curved. “I got here about an hour ago.”
“Carson. The flowers are… they’re really pretty.”
“They’re for you.”
My chest fluttered in a way that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, voice a little too thin.
His expression softened into something that hit me right behind the ribs.
“I missed you,” he said simply.
The words landed with the weight of truth. Deep and warm and startling.
“Oh,” I breathed, because my vocabulary had abandoned me. “You did?”
“A lot.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the counter.
“And,” he continued, stepping closer. “I wanted you to know that I didn’t just miss you because we kissed. Or because of the sleeping bag. Or because of the trail. Or because you make me laugh when you don’t mean to.”
“Hey—” I tried to protest.
He smiled. “I missed you because being away made things clearer.”
A flutter of panic stirred in my stomach.
Not because I didn’t want him here.
Because I wanted him so much.
“Carson,” I whispered, “I don’t know how clear I am right now.”
He reached me then. Close enough that I could smell pine, clean laundry, and whatever soap he used that smelled heavenly.
The flowers lowered to his side as he lifted his gaze to mine.
“I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to get away from things,” he said. “From noise, from people, from expectations. I built my life around solitude because it felt safer than staying.”
I exhaled shakily. “That sounds familiar.”
“I know.” His voice gentled even more. “That’s why I want to say this right.”
I should have backed up. Should have breathed. Should have braced myself.
But I didn’t move.
He looked at me like he could see every version of me, the fearless guide, the runner, the woman who’d never let anyone stay long enough to matter, and didn’t flinch.
“When I was with my brother,” he said quietly, “I kept thinking about you. Not in the romantic, head-in-the-clouds way, though that happened too.”
My cheeks burned, and he continued, voice deepening with honesty.
“I thought about how, for the first time, I didn’t want to stay away. I didn’t want to use distance as a shield. I didn’t want to hide out in some mountain cabin far from everything.”
His throat tightened. He swallowed.
“For the first time… I wanted to come back.”
Something caught in my chest. It didn’t hurt. It expanded. Warmed. Glowed.
“I wanted to come back here,” he said. “To you.”
My breath stuttered.
He set the flowers gently on the counter, freeing both hands. One slid along the edge of the island; the other hovered near mine, not touching yet, but close enough that I felt heat between us.
“And for the first time in my life,” he said, voice rough, “I can picture a future that isn’t a hermit hut in the middle of nowhere. A future that looks like afternoons in the gear shed. And hot coffee before sunrise. And trail maps spread out on a kitchen table. And you.”
My throat closed.
Sienna Harper, professional runner-from-everything, was speechless.
But not from fear.
From recognition.
Because everything he’d said, every raw, unpolished truth, mirrored the things I had not let myself say aloud.
And that scared me more beautifully than anything ever had.
“Carson,” I managed, “I—”
He saw it immediately.
The panic.
The swirl of emotion.
The part of me that wanted to bolt even as I stood rooted in place.
And he didn’t rush in.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t try to fix my fear.
He simply whispered, “It’s okay.”
That cracked something in me.
Completely.
Tears stung my eyes before I even felt them forming.
“Sienna,” he murmured, stepping close enough that our arms brushed lightly, “you can tell me if this is too much.”
“It’s not,” I whispered, choking on the truth. “That’s the problem.”
His brow softened. “Talk to me.”
I shook my head, wiping a tear before it could fall. “You just said everything I’ve been terrified to feel. I’ve spent my whole life wanting escape routes, planning trips the moment I feel anything too big.”
“I know.”
“But you—” A breath shuddered out of me. “You make me want to stay.”
His eyes softened with something that nearly undid me. “Good.”
“No, Carson, you don’t understand. I don’t stay.” My hand pressed over my heart. “I don’t stay anywhere. Not emotionally. Not physically. I always find a reason to go. But with you…”
He waited.
“With you,” I whispered, “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
The words shook out of me, raw and trembling.
And his expression changed.
Not to triumph.
Not to smugness.
But to a relief so profound I felt it through my skin.
“Sienna,” he said, voice low and thick, “come here.”
I did.
He cupped my face gently, as if he was holding something precious and breakable, and I let him. For the first time in my entire life, I let someone hold me in a way that meant something.
And then he kissed me.
Not like the first kiss that was surprising and breathless.
Not like the tent, where it was hungry and unstoppable.
This kiss was something deeper.
A promise.
A choice.
A beginning.
His lips moved softly against mine, careful but certain, and I felt myself melt into him, all hesitation dissolving. My hands slid up his arms, gripping his shoulders. He tasted like mint and coffee and something warm I wanted to memorize.
When he finally pulled back, he smiled.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A tear escaped. I laughed softly through it. “Me neither.”
His smile was small and warm and perfect. “Good.”
We stood in the quiet kitchen, and in that moment, I realized something with a clarity that nearly bowled me over.
This wasn’t me giving up adventure.
This wasn’t me choosing a smaller life.
This was me choosing a home base.
A place to return to.
A person to return to.
Something I’d never allowed myself to want.
Until him.
Carson brushed his thumb beneath my eye.
“So,” he murmured, “can I take you on a date? A real one this time?”
I smiled, radiant and sure. “Yeah. You can.”
“And maybe,” he added softly, “after that… we’ll plan a future trip. The first one we don’t take to run away, but to go together.”
I kissed him again.
“Yeah,” I whispered against his lips. “I think we can do that.”
And for the first time in my life, staying didn’t feel like settling.
It felt like falling.