16. Luke #2
"Brave man." She settles against my chest, fitting perfectly like she always does. "Or foolish. Hard to say which."
"Both, probably."
Her laugh rumbles through me, warm and real. This is what I want—more nights like this, where we're just together without any pressure or expectations. Where she's here because she wants to be, not because she's obligated.
Where maybe, eventually, she'll want to stay permanently.
But I can't ask her that. Can't put that kind of weight on what we have.
Because loving someone shouldn't mean trapping them.
The next week, she convinces me to go into town for the early spring festival. It's mostly an excuse for locals to celebrate surviving another Montana winter—food trucks, live music, craft booths set up in the square.
"Do we have to?" I'm already reaching for my coat because I know I've lost this argument.
"Yes. You need to interact with other humans occasionally. Remember what society is like."
"I interact with humans every day. Guests, staff?—"
"That's work interaction. This is fun interaction." She's bundling into her ridiculous pom-pom hat. "Very different."
We end up wandering through the festival with hot cider, Mila stopping at every booth despite the cold. She buys local honey, handmade soap, a ceramic mug she definitely doesn't need. At the quilting booth she spends fifteen minutes examining patterns and asking detailed questions about technique.
"You quilt now?" I ask, amused.
"No, but it's interesting. Look at this stitching—it's insane how detailed it is." She traces the pattern with gentle fingers. "My grandmother used to quilt. I never appreciated how much work it was until now."
The woman running the booth lights up and they fall into an animated conversation about different quilting methods. I stand back and watch Mila charm this complete stranger with genuine interest and endless questions.
This is what she does everywhere—makes connections, shows authentic curiosity, treats strangers like old friends. It's why guests love her at the ranch. Why everyone in town knows her name now despite her insisting she's just "visiting."
"You're staring again," she says when we finally move on.
"Just observing."
"Uh huh." But she's smiling, lacing her cold fingers through mine. "Having fun yet?"
"Maybe a little."
"Good. Because we're staying for the band later. And before you protest—yes, you have time. Yes, the ranch will survive. No, you can't check your phone every five minutes."
"Bossy."
"Someone has to be." She tugs me toward the food trucks. "Now come on. I'm starving and that barbecue smells amazing."
We end up eating pulled pork sandwiches on a bench near the makeshift stage, watching the sun set behind the mountains while a local country band sets up their equipment. The temperature drops fast—it always does this time of year—and Mila shivers despite her layers.
I pull her against my side, sharing warmth. "Cold?"
"Freezing. But it's worth it." She gestures at the scene around us. "This is so... I don't know. Wholesome? Is that the right word?"
"You could just say nice."
"It's more than nice. It's like..." She pauses, searching for words. "It's the kind of thing you see in movies about small towns where everyone knows everyone and life is simple and sweet. Except it's actually real."
Actually real. Not Montana-isn't-real-life. Actually real.
Something hopeful stirs in my chest before I can stop it.
"Yeah," I say carefully. "It is real. This is just what life is like here."
"I know. It's just so different from what I'm used to." She leans her head on my shoulder. "In a really good way. I didn't realize how exhausting city life was until I came here and everything just... slowed down. Got quieter."
"Do you miss it?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "The city?"
She's quiet for a moment, watching the band start their first song. "Sometimes I miss certain things. Good Chinese food. Museums. My favorite bookstore." She pauses. "But mostly? No. I don't miss the constant noise and rush and feeling like I was always behind on something."
Relief floods through me, dangerous and sharp. Because she doesn't miss her old life—not really. Which means maybe, possibly, she could see staying here long-term.
Except then she adds, "It's nice having a break from all that. Just existing in this bubble for a while."
A break. A bubble. Temporary words that puncture the hope before it can fully form.
I force myself to relax, to enjoy this moment instead of spiraling about what it means. She's here now. That's enough.
It has to be enough.
By late March, Mila's been at the ranch almost a year. A year of her bright laughter and clever solutions and the way she automatically brings me coffee every morning. A year of slowly intertwining our lives until I can't remember what my routine looked like before her.
She's essential now. To the ranch operations, sure—guest satisfaction is up, my stress is down, everything runs smoother with her handling the front-end chaos.
But more than that, she's essential to me. To my happiness. To remembering that I'm allowed to want things beyond work and responsibility.
I'm in love with her.
Completely, terrifyingly in love with this chaotic woman who's made herself at home in my cabin and my life and my heart.
And I can't tell her.
Because Mila still treats the ranch like a temporary adventure. Still makes comments about "real life" being somewhere else. Still hasn't given any indication she's thinking about staying permanently.
And I won't trap her. Won't guilt her into staying just because I've gone and fallen for her. That's not what love is supposed to do—cage someone, limit their options, make them feel obligated.
If she stays, it has to be because she wants to. Because my town became home, not just a place to hide while she figures out her next move.
So I don't ask. Don't push. Don't tell her that the thought of her leaving makes me feel like I'm suffocating.
Instead, I try to enjoy every minute I have with her now.
Because maybe that's all I'll get—these months of happiness before she realizes she's ready to move on. And if that's all I get, I want to make sure they count.
Even if it kills me not to ask her to stay.