Epilogue
Trista
Six Months Later
The cabin sits on a gentle slope, tucked into the trees. Floor-to-ceiling windows face the valley, positioned to catch morning light and long shadows in the evening. Solar panels sit low and unobtrusive, angled for efficiency.
I stand on the new deck, watching the sun rise over the mountains, and feel something settle in my chest.
Home.
The first time I showed Duke the sketches, he stared at them for a long time without saying anything.
I braced myself for polite skepticism. Or practical objections. Or pushback because he was happy with the cabin he already owned.
Instead, he traced one finger along the page and said, “You thought about where the deer cut across the ridge.” Then he looked up at me, expression unreadable, and said, “Build it.”
So, I did.
It took three months of permits and planning. Another two of construction, with me driving up every weekend to oversee the work. Duke helped when he could, his knowledge of the land proving invaluable for everything from foundation placement to water sourcing.
And now it’s done.
Our cabin. Not his or mine, but ours.
I kept my job in the city, but I negotiated for better hours and permission to work remotely.
I still go into the office on occasion to sit in meetings and argue over square footage and zoning codes.
But I’m selective now. I turn down projects that don’t align with what I care about.
I take fewer deadlines and longer breaks.
And my work has never been better. More focused. More intentional. More creative.
Duke steps onto the deck behind me, coffee mug in hand, and wraps his free arm around my waist. I lean back into him.
“Morning,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Morning.”
“Sleep okay?”
“Better than okay.” I turn in his arms to face him. “First night in our finished cabin. I slept perfectly.”
He smiles, that slow warm smile that still makes my stomach flip. “Good. Because now you’re stuck with me.”
“I can think of worse fates.”
He kisses me, slow and sweet, and I lose myself in it for a moment. In him. In us. In this life we’re building together.
When we break apart, he looks out over the valley. “Deer came through this morning. Right where you predicted.”
I smile. “Nate would’ve loved that.”
Duke doesn’t say anything, but he nods once. He’s heard Nate’s name enough times to understand what it means when I say it. Understands that my brother is part of this. Part of us. The reason I took the chance that led me here.
“I was thinking,” Duke says after a moment. “About taking some time off next month. Thought we could do a longer hike. Maybe up to that ridge Nate mentioned in his journals.”
I look up at him, touched. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.” He brushes a thumb across my cheek. “He’s part of your story. That makes him part of ours.”
My eyes sting. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We stand there as the sun climbs higher, painting the valley in gold. The mountain stretches out before us, vast and beautiful and home.
I spent so long designing places for other people. Buildings that served their needs, their visions. I never thought about where I wanted to be. What I wanted to build for myself.
But I know now.
I want this. This place. This man. This life we’re creating together from nothing but instinct and trust and love that came fast and stayed strong.