Chapter 41
Lauren
The knock came early—too early for a Saturday.
When she peered through the peephole, there he was: Tom, bundled in his dark coat, the same gray-green scarf looped around his neck. Snowflakes clung to his hair and lashes.
She opened the door a crack. “It’s early,” she said, voice still scratchy with sleep. “What could possibly be so urgent?”
He smiled, that infuriatingly calm, steady smile. “You’ll need hiking boots.”
Lauren blinked. “What?”
“Hiking boots,” he repeated, holding up a thermos and what looked suspiciously like a paper bag of breakfast pastries. “And gloves. It’s cold.”
She gaped at him. “It’s the middle of winter, Tom. We’re not going hiking.”
“You love hiking” he said easily, stepping back from the door but not retreating entirely.
Lauren crossed her arms over her robe. “Not when it’s this cold.”
His breath clouded between them, but his expression stayed warm. “Then tell me to go.”
God help her, she couldn’t.
The smell of coffee drifted from the thermos. Her heart did that ridiculous, traitorous flutter that always happened when he looked at her too long.
“This is insane,” she muttered, already turning toward the hallway.
Upstairs, Lauren pulled on thermals, jeans, a sweater. She caught her reflection in the mirror: hair mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes brighter than they should have been.
When she came back down, Tom was by the window, watching the snow fall over the quiet street.
“You’re impossible,” she said, sitting to put on her boots.
He turned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Persistent,” he corrected gently, handing her the coffee.
Lauren took a sip, the warmth blooming through her chest.
He sank to the floor in front of her and reached past her to grab her hiking boots. He shoved the first boot on until her heel thudded into place. Then he tugged the laces tight—efficient, practiced, like this was something he’d always done for her.
“Tom,” she said, but her voice came out thin.
“Other foot,” he murmured.
And she let him.
He pulled the second boot on, tying the laces in a firm double-knot. “Ready?”
Lauren wasn’t.
Not even a little.
But she stepped outside anyway—the warmth of the coffee lingering in her chest, and beneath that, the uneasy, undeniable pull of wherever he was leading her this time.
Outside, the world was white and still—snow weighing down pine branches, the road narrowing as they left the main highway and turned onto the old trail road.
When he pulled into the tiny gravel lot, Lauren wasn’t surprised.
Their spot.
The memory felt like a physical ache. The warmth of that day. The way she’d laughed through tears, nodding so fast she could barely breathe.
Now the same trail stretched before them under a hard gray sky. Everything was different.
“Come on,” Tom said quietly.
The ground crunched with ice beneath her boots. The air bit at her nose and ears.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.
“I know.”
The climb was steeper than she remembered, or maybe it was just harder in the snow. They didn’t speak until they reached the ridge that overlooked the valley below.
Lauren stopped. The view was breathtaking—bare trees, the river below glinting like glass, the horizon pale with morning light.
Tom stood with his hands jammed in his coat pockets. His breath came out in steady clouds. For a moment, they both stood there silently.
Then he pulled a folded envelope from his pocket and held it out. “This is for you.”
Lauren stared. “What is it? Another check?”
The words came out sharper than she meant.
“No,” he said quietly.
He ran a hand over his jaw, the movement tight, frustrated. “I was such an idiot, Lauren. I didn’t get it. I thought that taking care of you meant paying for things, solving things with money.”
He gave a shaky laugh, one without humor. “I should’ve written you a letter the first time.”
Lauren’s throat tightened. “Tom—”
He shook his head. “I should have bought you a necklace. I should have fastened it around your neck on Christmas Day. I should have cherished the quilt you made. I do now.”
He touched the scarf around his neck, the gray-and-green yarn dusted with snow. His fingers lingered on it, reverent. “An item that was handmade by someone you love means everything.”
Lauren’s breath hitched.
He took a step closer, holding the letter out again.
“So no, this isn’t a check. It’s the words I should’ve said at Christmas.
I should have done everything I could to show the world that you’re the person I love.
That you’re the person I fell in love with six years ago and keep falling in love with every day since. ”
She hesitated, her gloved hands cold, her heart colder.
But she reached out and took it.
The envelope was warm from his pocket, edges creased from where he’d held it too tightly.
Tom’s eyes stayed on hers, steady despite the wind. “Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “I needed you to have that.”
Lauren nodded once, unable to speak.
Snow began to fall again, slow and soft, catching in the fibers of his scarf—her scarf—and melting into the paper she held between them.