Epilogue – Ariel
Two Years Later
The rain starts before dawn, a gentle drumming on the cabin roof that pulls me from sleep with the kind of contentment that comes from knowing I have nowhere else to be.
Joel's arm tightens around my waist as I stir, his face buried against my neck, breath warm on my skin even in sleep.
I slip from bed slowly, leaving him to the deep rest he's earned after yesterday's work on the new trail markers.
The cabin is dim in the gray morning light, but warm, Joel banked the fire perfectly before we went to bed, the way he always does.
The way he takes care of everything, takes care of me, without making it feel like an obligation.
I pad to the kitchen in bare feet and one of his flannel shirts, the fabric soft and familiar against my skin.
Coffee first, then work. The ritual of grinding beans and measuring water feels meditative with rain pattering steadily overhead, wrapping the cabin in a cocoon of sound that makes the world feel smaller, cozier.
My latest prints are spread across the dining table, shots from last week's hike to the ridge where Joel first kissed me two years ago.
The light had been perfect that morning, golden and sharp, catching the frost on pine needles and the steam rising from the creek. Looking at them now, I can almost feel the bite of cold air, hear the crunch of snow under our boots.
"Those came out well."
Joel's voice makes me smile even before I turn to find him leaning against the kitchen doorway, hair mussed from sleep, wearing nothing but pajama pants that hang low on his hips.
"The magazine editor thinks so too." I hold up one of the prints—a composition of ice formations along the creek bank. "She wants to feature this series in the winter issue."
He moves to stand behind me, his chest warm against my back as he studies the photograph over my shoulder. His hands settle on my hips with casual ownership, thumbs stroking small circles through the flannel.
"This one's my favorite," he says, pointing to a shot of the waterfall where we first met. "Remember what you said when you took it?"
"That I'd never been anywhere more beautiful." I lean back into his solid warmth, tilting my head to catch his eye. "I was wrong, though."
"Yeah?"
"It gets more beautiful every time I see it with you."
Joel's arms tighten around me, and I feel his smile against my temple. "Sentimental this morning, aren't you?"
"Must be the rain. Makes me philosophical."
"Must be." His voice carries that hint of gravel it always has first thing in the morning, rough with sleep and affection. "Coffee ready?"
I pour two mugs while he tends to the fire, adding logs with the same precise efficiency he brings to everything. The flames catch and spread, sending warm light dancing across the cabin walls.
Outside, the rain continues its steady rhythm, punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance.
Joel settles at the table with his coffee and the wooden frame he's been repairing—a piece from his grandfather's photography equipment that I want to display some of my mountain shots in.
His hands move with practiced skill, adjusting joints and testing the strength of corners. I love watching him work, love the quiet concentration on his face, the way his fingers know exactly how to coax broken things back to wholeness.
"Hand me that small clamp?" he asks without looking up, and I reach for it automatically.
I return to sorting prints while he works, occasionally glancing up to find him watching me with that particular intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly. He doesn't look away when I catch him, just lets his gaze linger with the kind of possessive appreciation that still makes me shiver.
"See something you like?" I tease, echoing the words I said that first morning.
"Always." His response is immediate, matter-of-fact, delivered in that straightforward way he has of stating truths. "Even when you're covered in darkroom chemicals and cursing at contact sheets."
"I don't curse at contact sheets."
"You absolutely curse at contact sheets. Last week you called a perfectly good print a 'stubborn piece of—'"
"Okay, fine." I laugh, nudging his knee with my bare foot under the table. "Maybe I curse a little."
"A little." Joel's grin transforms his face, softening the hard edges and making him look years younger. "Remember when you tried to print that shot of the elk herd? Pretty sure you invented new curse words that day."
The memory makes me groan. Three days of fighting with exposure times and paper grades, only to discover I'd been using the wrong filter the entire time. Joel had found me in the darkroom at midnight, surrounded by failed prints, ready to throw the enlarger out the window.
"You brought me chocolate," I remember. "And that bottle of wine."
"Had to do something before you murdered my grandfather's equipment."
"Your grandfather's equipment survived. My dignity, not so much."
Joel reaches across the table to trace a finger along my wrist, the touch light but electric. "Your dignity survived just fine. Along with your stubbornness, your perfectionism, and your habit of talking to inanimate objects when you're frustrated."
"I do not talk to inanimate objects."
"This morning you told the coffee maker to hurry up because you had important work to do."
I open my mouth to protest, then close it. He's not wrong.
The rain picks up outside, drumming harder against the windows and making the cabin feel even more like a sanctuary.
Joel sets aside the frame and stretches, muscles pulling tight across his chest and shoulders.
The movement draws my attention to the scar along his ribs—one of many that map his past, each one a story he's shared with me in quiet moments like this.
"Come here," he says suddenly, pushing back from the table.
"I'm working."
"Work can wait." He stands and extends a hand to me, that commanding tone creeping into his voice. Not harsh, but brooking no argument. "Come with me."
I let him pull me to my feet, curious about what has caught his attention. He leads me to the front door, opening it to reveal the covered porch where rain cascades from the roof in steady streams. The air smells like wet pine and earth, clean and fresh and alive.
"Listen," Joel says, settling behind me on the porch swing, his arms wrapping around my waist.
I lean back against his chest and let the sound wash over me—rain on leaves, water rushing in the gutters, the distant rumble of the creek swollen with runoff. It's peaceful in a way that goes deeper than mere quiet, the kind of peace that seeps into your bones and stays.
"Remember our first storm?" Joel's voice is soft against my ear.
"Hard to forget." I turn my head to catch his eye, finding warmth and mischief there. "You carried me through a blizzard and then—"
"And then you turned my whole world upside down."
The words are simple, matter-of-fact, but they hit me with the same force they did two years ago.
Joel doesn't make grand declarations. When he says something, he means it completely, and the quiet certainty in his voice makes my chest tight with emotion.
"Good upside down or bad upside down?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"The best kind." His arms tighten around me, and I feel his lips brush against my temple. "The kind that makes a man realize he was only half alive before."
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the rain transform the familiar landscape. The trees look darker, more mysterious in the gray light. The creek that runs behind the cabin has swollen to twice its normal size, the sound of rushing water audible even from here.
"I never thought I'd love rain this much," I admit. "Growing up in Arizona, rain was this rare, special thing. Here, it's just part of the rhythm."
"Everything's part of the rhythm here. Rain, snow, seasons changing, wildlife moving through their cycles." Joel's hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "You've become part of it too."
"Have I?"
"From that first day. The mountain claimed you just as much as I did."
The possessiveness in his tone sends familiar heat spiraling through me. Two years, and he still talks about claiming me like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like I belong to him as surely as this land does, as surely as he belongs to me.
"Joel?"
"Mmm?"
"The rain's getting heavier."
"It is." But he makes no move to go inside, seemingly content to hold me while the storm intensifies around us.
Thunder rolls across the valley, closer this time, and fat drops of rain begin to splash onto the porch despite the overhang. The temperature has dropped, and I shiver slightly in just the flannel shirt.
"Now we go inside," Joel says, standing and pulling me with him.
The cabin feels almost tropical after the cool dampness of the porch. Joel closes the door and turns to find me watching him, suddenly hyperaware of the way his pajama pants sit on his hips, the way his hair has gotten slightly damp from the mist.
"Better?" he asks, stepping closer.
"Much." But my voice comes out breathier than I intended, and I see the moment Joel notices the change in my tone.
His eyes darken, that familiar predatory focus settling over his features. "You cold?"
I shake my head, unable to look away from his mouth.
"Then why are you shivering?"
He knows exactly why I'm shivering. Can probably see it in the way I'm looking at him, the way my breathing has gone shallow. Joel has always been able to read my body like terrain, mapping every response and cataloguing it for future reference.
"Maybe because you're looking at me like that," I whisper.
"Like what?" But he's moving closer as he asks, backing me toward the wall with deliberate steps.
"Like you're thinking about doing something that has nothing to do with coffee or photography or fixing frames."
"Smart woman." His hands settle on my hips, thumbs stroking over the soft flannel. "What gave it away?"
"The fact that you've been watching me all morning like I'm something you want to devour."
Joel's smile is all heat and promise. "Maybe I do."
The words send liquid fire straight to my core. He leans down to brush his lips against my neck, just below my ear, and I have to grip his shoulders to stay steady.
"The prints," I protest weakly. "I should finish—"
"The prints will be there later." His mouth finds that spot that always makes me melt, teeth scraping gently against sensitive skin. "But you're here now. In my shirt, looking like every fantasy I've ever had."
"Joel," I breathe, but it comes out more like a plea than a protest.
His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me easily. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, and the position brings me into perfect alignment with the hard length of him beneath his pajamas.
"Rain's not stopping anytime soon," he murmurs against my throat, his voice dropping to that low, rough tone that makes my toes curl. "Seems like a perfect day to stay in bed."
"What about breakfast?" But I'm already arching into him, my body betraying my half-hearted attempts at responsibility.
"I'm looking at breakfast," Joel says, carrying me toward the bedroom. "And lunch. And dinner."
The rain pounds harder against the cabin roof as he kicks the bedroom door shut behind us, wrapping us in warmth and shadow and the promise of how we'll spend this gray, perfect morning.
Outside, the storm rages on. Inside, Joel's hands are already working at the buttons of his flannel shirt, his eyes dark with intent and affection and the kind of hunger that still takes my breath away after all this time.
"Come here, sweetheart," he says, voice rough with want. "Let me show you exactly how much I've missed you."
As if eight hours of sleep could make him miss me. As if we haven't been inseparable for two years. But I go to him anyway, because this is Joel, and when he reaches for me with that particular look in his eyes, I will always, always come.
Thank you for reading!