7. Flint
seven
Flint
I wake before dawn, my heart beating a steady rhythm of anticipation. Beside me, Hazel sleeps peacefully, her red curls spread across the pillow, her face relaxed in slumber. I take a moment to study her features—the delicate curve of her eyebrow, the constellation of freckles across her nose, the soft fullness of her lips. Every detail of her has become precious to me in a way I never thought possible.
Carefully, I slip from beneath the covers, trying not to disturb her. She stirs slightly, reaching toward the empty space I've left. Even in sleep, she seeks me out. The simple gesture tightens something in my chest.
It's been just a month since she walked into Timber! that night, looking lost and a little defeated after being stood up. Just a month, but in that time, she's transformed my life completely. My cabin, once merely a place to sleep, has become a home. Her books line my shelves, her favorite mug sits beside mine in the cabinet, and traces of her vanilla scent linger in every room.
I move quietly through our shared space, putting my plan into motion. The small velvet box in my pocket feels both weightless and impossibly heavy. I know most people would think I'm crazy—proposing after only a month. But most people haven't experienced what we have. Most people haven't found that instant recognition, that bone-deep certainty that comes along once in a lifetime if you're lucky.
The eastern sky begins to lighten as I prepare her tea, arranging everything in the insulated picnic boxI bought specifically for this morning. I've been planning this for a week, waiting for the perfect day. Clear skies, not too cold, the kind of sunrise that paints the world in colors that defy description.
I hear the soft pad of her footsteps before she appears, wrapped in my flannel robe. Her hair is tousled from sleep. My heart stutters at the sight of her. Will I ever get used to this? This rush of tenderness and desire every time I look at her? I hope not.
"What are you doing up so early?" she asks, stifling a yawn behind her hand.
I cross to her, drawing her into my arms and breathing in her sleep-warm scent. "I have something planned," I tell her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Get dressed. Something warm."
Curiosity sparks in her eyes. "Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise," I say, unable to suppress my smile. "Trust me?"
"Always," she replies without hesitation, and that simple word fills me with a warmth no fire could match.
Twenty minutes later, we're driving up the winding mountain road, Hazel sipping the tea I made her. She doesn't pepper me with questions about our destination, doesn't try to guess or coax the answer from me. She simply sits beside me, content in the silence, trusting me to lead us somewhere worthwhile. This quiet confidence in me, in us, still amazes me.
I park at the trailhead and guide her up the short path to the overlook. The morning air is crisp, our breath visible in small, ephemeral clouds. I take her hand, our fingers intertwining naturally. The simple connection grounds me, steadies my racing heart.
"This is beautiful," she breathes as we reach the clearing. Below us, the town spreads out like a miniature model, surrounded by forests that climb the surrounding mountains. The sun crests the eastern ridge, gilding everything in soft gold light.
"I come here to think," I explain, leading her to the wooden bench at the edge of the clearing. "When life gets complicated or when I need perspective. It's my favorite place."
We sit together, watching the sunrise paint the sky in watercolor washes of pink and orange. Hazel leans against me, her head on my shoulder. The trust in that simple gesture means everything to me.
"Thank you for sharing this with me," she says softly.
The moment has arrived. I take a deep breath, turning to face her, taking both her hands in mine. "Hazel," I begin, looking into those blue eyes that saw through all my defenses from the first moment. "Before you walked into Timber! that night, I was just going through the motions of living without really being alive. And then there you were, throwing axes badly and blushing so beautifully when I called you a good girl."
She laughs softly, that perfect blush spreading across her cheeks. "I was a disaster that night."
"You were perfect," I correct her, squeezing her hands gently. "Perfect then, and every day since. You've brought something into my life that I didn't even know was missing. Joy. Purpose. A reason to wake up excited about the day ahead."
Tears gather in her eyes, but her smile is radiant. "Flint..."
I slide from the bench onto one knee, not caring about the damp ground soaking through my jeans. All that matters is this woman, this moment. I pull the ring box from my pocket and open it, revealing the sapphire and diamond ring that reminded me of her eyes the moment I saw it.
"I know it's fast," I acknowledge, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "I know people will say we're crazy. But I've never been more certain of anything. When you know, you know. And I want to build a life with you, Hazel. I want to wake up beside you every morning and fall asleep with you every night. I want to cheer you on as you hit targets, literal and metaphorical. I want to be the man who sees all of you and loves every inch, every layer, every contradiction." I take a breath, my voice growing thick with emotion. "Hazel, will you marry me?"
Time seems suspended as I wait for her answer. The world narrows to just her face—those expressive blue eyes, wide with surprise and shining with tears, those soft lips, parted slightly in wonder, and those freckles dancing across her nose as her expression shifts from shock to joy.
"Yes," she whispers, and then louder, "Yes, Flint. Of course, yes."
Relief and happiness explode through me like fireworks. I slide the ring onto her finger with hands that are somehow steady despite the earthquake of emotion inside me.
I rise from my knee and pull her up with me, lifting her off her feet and spinning us in a circle of pure joy. Her laughter mingles with mine, bright and free in the morning air. When I set her down, I cup her face in my hands, thumbs gently wiping away the happy tears that spill down her cheeks.
"You've made me the happiest man alive," I tell her, my voice rough with emotion.
"And you've shown me what it means to be loved," she replies, placing her hand over my heart. I wonder if she can feel how it beats for her now, how it always will.
I kiss her. When we finally part, I rest my forehead against hers, our breath mingling in the cool morning air.
"So," I say, unable to resist teasing her a little. "Do you think you'll keep throwing axes after we're married? You were getting pretty good."
She laughs, the sound like music. "Only if you promise to keep calling me a good girl when I hit the target," she replies, her cheeks flushing that perfect pink.
"Always," I promise, my voice dropping to the low tone I know sends shivers through her. "You'll always be my good girl, Hazel. In the axe-throwing lanes and everywhere else."