Chapter 7 Elorie
Chapter seven
Elorie
In the morning, I find Brooks in the kitchen making coffee, shirtless and barefoot. The domesticity of it makes my chest ache. This is what forever looks like, the ordinary moments that feel extraordinary because they're ours. Because yesterday I almost lost this. Lost him.
He hands me a mug, but instead of his usual easy smile, vulnerability crosses his face. "I want to show you something. Something I've been carrying for seven years."
He takes my hand and leads me to a small office off the kitchen. A rectangle-shaped wooden box sits on the desk, simple and hand-carved and beautiful in its plainness. He picks it up, and his hands shake slightly as he opens the lid.
Inside are dozens of letters, folded and stacked neatly. His handwriting covers the pages, and I catch glimpses of words. I'm sorry. I should have. I miss you.
"I write to him," Brooks says quietly. "Tell him about my day. About the people I've saved. About the things I wish I could change." He pauses, his thumb tracing the edge of the box. "Started the week after he died. Haven't stopped."
"That's beautiful," I say, blinking as my eyes well with tears.
"It's pathetic."
"No." I take the box from him and set it down, then cup his face. "Don’t you dare say that. It's love. It's grief. It's you trying to hold on to someone who mattered. There's nothing pathetic about that."
He searches my face, and whatever he sees there makes his expression soften.
He pulls me into his arms, and we stand there in morning light, wrapped in each other and the weight of what he's trusted me with.
His heart beats steadily against my cheek.
I press closer, wanting him to feel that I'm not going anywhere.
That he can show me his broken pieces, and I'll still choose him.
"How did I get so lucky?" he whispers.
"I'm the lucky one."
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and his hands slide under my shirt. His palms are rough against my skin, and when his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, I gasp into his mouth. Need coils tight in my pussy, and I arch into his touch.
"Brooks," I whisper.
"I know." His forehead drops to mine, and his breath comes ragged. "But if I start now, I won't stop. And I promised you breakfast."
"Rain check?"
"Definitely."
He makes sausage, eggs, and toast while I perch at the counter.
Watching him crack eggs one-handed, the easy way he moves around the space is what forever looks like.
He keeps finding excuses to touch me, a hand on my thigh as he passes, fingers brushing mine when he hands me coffee, his body bracketing mine when he reaches for the salt behind me.
Small touches that say mine without words.
When he sets a plate in front of me, his hand lingers on my thigh, possessive and warm.
We eat in comfortable silence, his leg pressed against mine. "I want to show you something outside after breakfast.”
The morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow. His cabin sits nestled among the trees with mountains rising in every direction. We walk past the porch, past the small clearing where he parks his truck, into the trees themselves.
Pine needles cushion our footsteps, releasing their sharp scent with every footfall. Damp earth and coming winter, and pine cutting through it all. A bird calls clear and bright in the mountain stillness. Cool morning air raises goosebumps on my arms, and he pulls me closer against his side.
"The property line runs all the way to that ridge," he says, pointing to where the land rises. "Five acres total. Most of it is trees, but there's a clearing on the west side that gets sun all afternoon."
"It's beautiful." I turn in a slow circle, taking in the view. "How long have you had it?"
"Bought it a year ago." His hand finds my waist, thumb tracing absent circles. "I've got less than a year left before I hit twenty years. Then I'm out."
"Out?"
"Retiring from active duty. I'll be forty-five." He pulls me closer, his chin resting on top of my head. "Been planning something since Marcus died. Knew I wanted roots somewhere that felt like home. Somewhere I could stay."
The certainty in his voice makes my chest tight. "And Pine Valley is home?"
"It is now." He turns me to face him, his hands framing my face. "The town, the mountains, this land, it's all just geography. But you? You're what makes me want to stay."
We emerge into the clearing he mentioned, and he's right. It's beautiful. Sun streams down, turning everything golden, and the view opens up to show Pine Valley below. Ridgeway Base stretches into the distance. Somewhere nearby, I hear creekwater trickling over stone.
"I've been thinking about building something new," he says, and his voice is carefully casual in a way that makes my heart start to pound.
"An addition?"
"Something bigger. The cabin's too small if—" He stops, running a hand through his hair. "Imagine a master bedroom with a wall of windows. Bigger kitchen. Maybe a sunroom facing the mountains so we can watch sunrises together."
He turns to face me fully, and vulnerability stares back from his eyes.
"If you wanted all those things."
My heart hammers so hard I'm certain he can hear it. "I want those things with you.’
Relief floods his face, so profound it makes my throat tight. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I step closer, my hands finding his chest. "I'm choosing this. Choosing you. Choosing roots."
The words catch in my throat. Six months ago, I had nothing; no home, no purpose, no one who saw me as anything but too much. Now I'm standing on land where we'll build a future, and the enormity of it makes my knees weak. He catches me, always catches me, pulling me against his chest.
We stand there surrounded by pines and possibility, and I feel something settle deep in my bones. Something that's been restless since Denver. Since before Denver, if I'm honest.
I'm home.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans, and I reluctantly come back to reality to check it.
It’s from Sophie.
Sophie: The paperwork came through! You're officially the manager. Can't wait to expand the herb garden together.
I read it twice, then a third time. Since meeting Brooks, I’d almost forgotten about Sophie’s promotion offer.
Bookstore manager. The word settles warm behind my ribs: someone I’m not sleeping with is building something real with me.
Manager of The Reading Nook. Not temporary.
Not conditional. Managing a bookstore has always been my dream job, and it’s finally a reality.
My vision blurs with tears I don't try to stop. I send a response, promising to call her this afternoon.
"Everything okay?" Brooks asks, concern crossing his face.
I show him the screen, and his expression breaks into a genuine smile. "That's huge. Congratulations."
"It is." My voice cracks. "Six months ago, I was running from Denver with nothing. Now I have a business, a home, you."
"How does it feel?"
"Like I finally stopped running."
He kisses my forehead. We stand there in the space where he wants to build our future, and I let myself believe in permanence for the first time in years.
We spend the afternoon doing nothing and everything.
Back at the cabin, he settles on the couch with a book, some thriller about wildfire investigations, and I curl up against him with my own book. My legs tangle with his, and his free hand rests on my ankle, thumb tracing absent circles that make my pussy warm even though we're just reading.
After a while, his hand slides from my ankle to my calf. My focus on the words blurs. I realize I haven't processed a page in ten minutes, too aware of his touch climbing higher.
"What are you reading?" he asks, and there's amusement in his voice.
"I have no idea." I set the book down and look at him. "You're distracting me."
His grin is satisfied, possessive. "Good."
He pulls me onto his lap properly. I straddle his thighs. His hands settle on my waist, and he just holds me. Not pushing for more. Just needing me close. His thumbs brush the soft skin where my shirt has ridden up, and I shiver at the contact.
"I love this," I say. "Just... being with you. Not doing anything special. Just us."
"Me too." He tucks a curl behind my ear. "This is what I want. Every day. Me reading while you pretend to read. You humming in the kitchen. You in my shirt looking like you belong here."
"I do belong here."
He kisses me softly and sweetly, and we stay tangled together on his couch while the afternoon light shifts across the floor.
Later, my stomach growls, and he laughs. I make sandwiches while he disappears into the garage. Music plays from his phone, something soft and folky that fits the mountain setting, and I catch myself humming along.
He emerges an hour later with sawdust in his hair and satisfaction on his face.
He won't tell me what he was working on, just pulls me into a slow dance in the middle of the kitchen.
No words. Just swaying to the music. My head on his chest. His hands on my waist. Thirty seconds of pure connection before he kisses the top of my head and releases me.
His phone rings, breaking our peaceful moment. Grant's name flashes across the screen.
Brooks glances at me, then answers and puts it on speaker. "Hey."
"So?" Grant's voice comes through warm with amusement. "Did you fix it?"
"Fix what?"
"Whatever made you stupid enough to pull away from her."
Brooks' eyes find mine, and something soft crosses his face. "Yeah. We fixed it."
"Good. Emma wants you over the next time you have leave. No excuses this time. And bring her up soon so Emma can interrogate her properly. Knowing Emma, half of Granitehart Ridge will show up for the weekend."
"We'll come," Brooks says, and the word we makes my heart skip. Not asking me. Just knowing.
"The goats behaving themselves?" Brooks asks, and I hear the smile in his voice.
Grant groans. "We cleared the side of a mountain in three days flat, but the legacy of chaos continues."
They talk for a few more minutes about extended family, about Emma's latest project, about nothing and everything, the way brothers do when they're finding their way back to each other. When they finally hang up, Brooks turns to me.
"You okay meeting Emma?"
"Nervous," I admit. "But yes."
"She'll love you." He pulls me closer, tucking me against his side. "Just like I do."
The afternoon stretches lazy and warm. Eventually, he checks his phone, and I notice he's been doing that periodically.
"I need to run into town for something," he says finally.
"Okay. Want company?"
"Actually..." He grins and pulls me close, his mouth finding my neck. "Can you be ready by five? I have something planned."
"What kind of something?"
"It's a surprise." He kisses below my ear, and my breath catches. "Wear that dress I like, but no heels."
Heat floods through me at the promise in his voice. The way he said that dress like he's already imagining taking it off me later.
"Should I be worried?" I ask.
"Maybe." His teeth graze my pulse point. "But good worried."
He kisses me once more, possessive and claiming, then grabs his keys. "Five o'clock. Don't be late."
He leaves, and before I head home to get ready, I stand in the sudden quiet of his cabin and realize it feels like mine now, too.
Not just his space I'm visiting. Ours. Small things mark my presence: my favorite mug in the cabinet, my book on the coffee table, the wooden box with my initial on the nightstand.
Roots taking hold without me noticing.
I move to the window and look out at the property. At the clearing where he wants to build something new for us. At the trees that shelter this space from the world. At the mountains rising in every direction.
Home.
Not the cabin. Him.
He's home, and I'm finally done running.