Chapter 12
FINN
We don’t talk about the radio announcement.
By unspoken agreement, we pretend the roads aren’t clearing. Pretend we have all the time in the world. Pretend the real world isn’t waiting just beyond the snow-covered mountains, ready to pull us apart.
It’s a lie we both need.
Marcella stands at my kitchen counter, flour dusting her cheeks, trying to teach me her grandmother’s bread recipe. Her hands move with practiced confidence as she kneads the dough, folding and pressing and turning in a rhythm that looks almost meditative.
“The key is not overworking it,” she explains, glancing up at me. “You want to develop the gluten, but if you go too far, the bread gets tough. It’s about finding the sweet spot.”
I nod like I understand, but mostly I’m watching her. The way her hair has escaped its messy bun. The flour handprint she accidentally left on her hip. The small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, like she knows I’m not really paying attention to the bread.
“Your turn.” She steps back, gesturing at the dough. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
I approach the counter warily. My hands are made for carving wood, wielding tools, building things that last. Bread dough seems impossibly fragile by comparison.
“Just push and fold,” Marcella encourages. “Don’t overthink it.”
I press my palms into the soft mass and immediately know I’m doing it wrong. Too much pressure. Too aggressive. The dough squishes rather than folds.
Marcella laughs—not mocking, just delighted—and moves to stand beside me. Her hand covers mine, guiding my movements.
“Gentler,” she murmurs. “Like this.”
Her fingers are warm against my knuckles. I can smell her shampoo, something floral and soft that’s become achingly familiar over the past three days. If I turned my head, I could kiss her temple.
I don’t turn my head. I focus on the bread.
“Better,” she says after a moment. “You’re a quick learner.”
“Good teacher.”
She beams at me, and something in my chest cracks open a little wider.
The bread rises while we move to the living room.
I’ve been working on a small carving—a practice piece, nothing important—and Marcella asked to try.
Now she sits cross-legged on my couch, tongue poking out in concentration as she attempts to shape a chunk of pine into something recognizable.
The wood shavings collect on her lap, pale curls against the dark fabric of her jeans.
“Hold the knife at an angle,” I tell her, adjusting her grip. My fingers brush against hers, and even this small contact sends warmth through me. “Let the blade do the work. You’re not forcing it—you’re guiding it.”
“Easy for you to say.” She makes another careful cut, and a small curl of wood falls away. “Your hands know what they’re doing. Mine feel like they’re wearing oven mitts.”
“Yours will too. Just takes practice.” I settle onto the couch beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch. “The wood will tell you where it wants to go. You just have to listen.”
She snorts. “Very mystical. Very mountain man of you.”
“I’m serious. Every piece is different. The grain, the density, the knots. You work with what’s there instead of forcing your vision onto it.”
She looks up at me, something soft in her expression. “You’re a good teacher too, you know. Patient.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just watch her work.
Her movements are clumsy but determined.
She’s not going to produce anything beautiful today—probably not for months, if she keeps at it—but there’s something precious about seeing her try.
About watching someone engage with my craft, even imperfectly.
I try to imagine this as our life. Evenings by the fire, her carving while I work on commissions. Mornings in the kitchen, learning each other’s recipes. The ranger station filled with her laughter, her warmth, her presence.
The image is so vivid it hurts.
“What are you thinking about?”
Her voice pulls me back. She’s watching me now, the half-carved wood forgotten in her lap.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” But she says it gently, without accusation. “You had that look. The one where you’re somewhere far away.”
I could deflect. Change the subject. Retreat behind the walls I’ve built so carefully over four years.
Instead, I tell her the truth.
“I was thinking about what it would be like if you stayed.”
The words hang in the air between us. Marcella’s hands still on the carving.
“Stayed,” she repeats quietly. “Here?”
“Here. The mountain. This life.” I gesture vaguely at the ranger station around us.
“I know it’s not—it’s nothing like Denver.
There’s no restaurants or nightlife or any of the things you’re probably used to.
But I keep thinking about you here. Cooking in that kitchen.
Working on your blog by the fire. Learning to carve. ”
Her eyes are bright. Too bright.
“Finn...”
“I know it’s crazy. I know we’ve only known each other three days. But I can’t stop—” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to articulate what I feel. “I can’t stop imagining it. You and me. Making this work somehow.”
She sets the carving aside carefully, unfolds herself from the couch, and crosses to where I’m sitting. Without a word, she climbs into my lap, straddling me, her hands framing my face.
“I’ve been thinking about it too,” she says softly. “Moving my blog up here. Finding a place in town, maybe. Learning to live somewhere that isn’t Denver.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “You have?”
“The whole time I’ve been here, I keep seeing it. This life. Our life.” She traces her thumb along my cheekbone. “I know it’s fast. I know it doesn’t make sense. But nothing about this makes sense, and I stopped caring about that somewhere around day two.”
I want to kiss her. Want to pull her close and promise her everything—the life she’s imagining, the future we both want, all the things I’m terrified to reach for.
But the fear is still there, cold and persistent.
“What if it doesn’t work?” The question scrapes out of me, raw and honest. “What if you move your whole life up here and then realize I’m too broken? What if my damage is more than you can handle?”
“What if it does work?” she counters. “What if we figure it out together? What if the scariest thing isn’t failing—it’s not trying at all?”
She’s so close. Her breath warm on my face, her body solid and real in my arms. Three days ago she was a stranger cooking dinner in my kitchen. Now she feels like the answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“Me too.”
“I don’t know if I can be what you need.”
“I don’t need you to be anything except willing to try.” Her forehead drops to mine. “That’s all I’m asking, Finn. Not forever. Not guarantees. Just... willingness.”
The fire crackles. Outside, the storm has finally quieted, leaving behind a world blanketed in white silence. Inside, everything feels suspended—this moment, this woman, this fragile possibility we’re both too afraid to name.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. I’m willing.”
She kisses me then, soft and sweet and full of promise. I pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her like I can hold onto this moment forever.
For a few hours, I let myself believe I can.
The afternoon passes in a haze of domestic bliss.
We finish the bread together—Marcella shapes the loaves while I prepare the oven, and the ranger station fills with the smell of baking.
When they come out, golden and perfect, she tears off a piece and holds it to my lips.
The bread is warm and soft, slightly sweet, nothing like anything I’ve eaten from a store.
I tell her so, and her whole face lights up.
We cook lunch side by side, moving around each other with an ease that feels earned rather than accidental.
She shows me her grandmother’s technique for perfectly caramelized onions—low heat, patience, a splash of water when they start to stick.
I teach her which herbs in my windowsill garden pair best with what, how rosemary can overpower delicate dishes but transforms something hearty.
“You know more about cooking than you let on,” she accuses, bumping her hip against mine.
“I know how to survive. That’s different from what you do.”
“What I do isn’t magic. It’s just... paying attention. Caring about the details.”
The same could be said about my furniture, I realize. We’re more alike than I thought.
After lunch, we curl up on the couch with mugs of tea, and she tells me about her food blog. The early days when she had twelve followers and posted blurry photos taken on her phone. The slow growth, the first sponsored post, the community of readers who leave comments that sometimes make her cry.
“I want to write a cookbook someday,” she admits, ducking her head like she’s embarrassed. “Something personal. Not just recipes, but the stories behind them. Why food matters. How it connects us.”
“You should.”
She looks up, surprised by my certainty.
“I mean it. You have a gift, Marcella. The way you talk about cooking—it’s not just about the food. It’s about love. Anyone can see that.”
Her eyes fill. She blinks rapidly, looking away.
“Stephen said cookbooks were vanity projects. That no one would buy something from a food blogger with fifty thousand followers when they could get recipes from actual celebrities.”
I feel the familiar surge of anger at her ex—this man I’ve never met who did so much damage to someone so bright.
“Stephen was wrong about everything.” I take her hand, lace my fingers through hers. “Write the cookbook. I’ll be your first customer.”
She laughs, watery but genuine. “You don’t even cook.”
“I’m learning.”
The smile she gives me is worth every moment of fear I’ve felt since she walked into my life.
The light outside is fading when we hear it.
At first, I think it’s thunder—a low rumble in the distance, building slowly. But the storm is over. The sky is clearing.
Then I recognize the sound.
Heavy machinery. Diesel engines. The grind of plows pushing through packed snow.
Road crews.
Marcella goes still beside me, her hand tightening on mine.
“Is that...”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds hollow to my own ears. “They’re clearing the pass.”
We both turn toward the window. In the distance, I can see the flash of yellow lights—maintenance vehicles working their way up the mountain road. By tonight, maybe tomorrow morning, the route to town will be clear.
The route away from here.
“Finn.” Marcella’s voice is small. “We should probably talk about—”
“Not yet.” The words come out harder than I expect. I take a deep breath. “Please. Not yet.”
She studies my face for a long moment. Whatever she sees there makes her nod.
“Okay. Not yet.”
But the machinery keeps rumbling, getting closer with every passing minute. And we both know that “not yet” is just another way of saying “soon.”
The real world is coming.
I just don’t know if what we’ve built can survive it.