Epilogue
BECK
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
The studio is finished.
Took me three months to build it. Twelve by sixteen, south-facing windows for natural light, reclaimed pine shelving along the back wall, a workbench I designed with Piper hovering over my shoulder pointing at sketches and saying things like "negative space" and "visual flow.
" Caleb Morrow built the desk from a live-edge walnut slab I milled myself.
The finished piece is so beautiful Piper cried when we carried it in, then made me promise never to tell anyone she cried over a desk.
The studio sits between the cabin and the forge.
Her space between my spaces. She hung string lights across the ceiling because apparently string lights are non-negotiable.
A vintage typewriter from one of her sourcing trips sits on a shelf next to a ceramic vase she found at a flea market in Carson City.
Her laptop lives on the walnut desk surrounded by fabric swatches, paint chips, and three notebooks full of client notes.
The business is real now. Langston Vintage.
Website, client list, a growing Instagram following that Piper runs from the cabin porch while Slag supervises.
She quit the Vegas firm four months ago.
Drove up with a truck full of her belongings, a box of her grandmother's recipes, and a cactus she'd kept alive for six years.
The cactus lives on the kitchen windowsill next to the mason jar of wildflowers that she refreshes every week.
Our kitchen. With the reorganized mugs. She was right about the frequency thing. I'll never admit it out loud.
Whisper Vale took to her faster than it took to me.
Holly Pearce at Sweet Peaks Bakery became her closest friend within a month.
They have coffee every Tuesday morning, which apparently involves zero coffee and two hours of talking.
Piper sourced vintage lighting for Tucker Brant's ranch house renovation through Castellano Construction.
She found a set of hand-forged iron hooks at an estate sale in Reno and traded them to Colt Reeves for a custom boot rack.
Colt told me later that the hooks were better metalwork than half the stuff he sells.
I told him I know. She has a good eye.
The cabin is different now. Not unrecognizable.
Piper doesn't bulldoze. She layers. A woven blanket on the leather chair.
The walnut credenza against the fireplace wall, exactly where she said it would go, with three of my finished blades displayed on a stand she designed.
New curtains. A rug under the kitchen table.
Framed photographs on a shelf she asked me to build, including one of us at the Whisper Vale Fourth of July picnic where I'm squinting and she's laughing so hard her eyes are closed.
My favorite photo. I didn't tell her that. She framed it anyway.
The forge hasn't changed. She knows better. But she did hang a small print of a Japanese woodblock on the wall near the quench tank. A blacksmith at his anvil, sparks flying. It's beautiful. I look at it every morning.
Saturday morning in late February. Cold outside, the kind of cold that turns your breath solid.
I'm in the forge finishing a commission.
A matched set of steak knives for a chef in Portland who found my work through Piper's website.
She built me a page on her site. "Craine Blades: Handforged in Whisper Vale, Nevada. " Orders tripled in two months.
The forge door opens. Piper steps in wearing my flannel, leggings, the hiking boots Parker's wife gave her that she never returned. Her hair is down. No makeup. Cheeks pink from the cold.
She's carrying two mugs of coffee. One black for me. One with the oat milk creamer she drives forty-five minutes to buy in Reno because she refuses to drink my coffee black anymore.
"Morning," she says, handing me the mug.
"Morning." Kissing her forehead. Her nose is cold. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
"The commission keeping you up? The Portland guy can wait another week if?—"
"It's not the commission." She sets her mug on the workbench.
Takes a breath. Picks up a piece of scrap steel from the bin, turns it over in her hands.
A stalling tactic I recognize because she does it when she's nervous.
The woman who fought me with a stick and reorganized my kitchen on day one does not get nervous easily.
"Piper."
She looks up. Brown eyes bright. Mouth working against a smile she's trying to control.
"I'm pregnant."
The forge hums. Steel cools in the quench tank. My hammer hangs at my side.
"Pregnant," I repeat.
"About seven weeks. I took the test this morning. Two of them, actually, because the first one seemed too fast." Her voice is shaking now. "I know we haven't talked about this yet. I know it's early. I know this cabin has one bedroom and your forge schedule is?—"
Dropping the hammer. Crossing the space. Both hands on her face, thumbs on her cheekbones, tilting her head up. Kissing her so deep her mug nearly tips off the bench.
"Beck." Laughing against my mouth. "Is that a good reaction? I can't tell."
"That's the best news I've ever gotten."
"Better than the Portland commission?"
"I'll build the Portland guy a hundred knife sets. Come here."
Pulling her in. Arms wrapped around her. Her face pressed into my chest. My chin on top of her head. The forge warm at our backs. Through the open door, the cabin is visible across the clearing. Her studio beside it. Smoke curling from the chimney. Slag perched on the porch railing watching us.
"We need another bedroom," she says into my shirt.
"I'll start framing next week."
"And a bigger kitchen."
"Don't push it."
"The kitchen layout needs to expand east. I already drew up a plan."
Of course she did.
"I love you," I tell her. Into her hair. Into the cold morning air that smells like pine and forge fire. "I love you and I love this baby and I love that you already have a floor plan."
"I love you too." She pulls back. Eyes wet, dimples deep. "Even though your coffee is terrible and you refuse to buy a couch that isn't leather."
"That couch is fine."
"That couch is a war crime against textiles. I'm replacing it."
"You're not replacing my couch."
"I'm absolutely replacing your couch. Consider it a push present."
She grins up at me. Full wattage. The smile that knocked me sideways the first time I saw it by headlamp on a dark mountain trail eight months ago. The smile I almost lost because I was too scared to let myself keep it.
My hand drops to her stomach. Flat still. Nothing to feel yet. But she covers my hand with hers. Scarred palm against smooth palm. The same way we've been since the beginning.
"Our wall," she whispers.
"Our wall," I say back.
Outside, Slag meows once. Loud. Demanding.
"He wants breakfast," Piper says.
"He wants your attention. He ate an hour ago."
She raises an eyebrow.
"Fine. I'll feed the cat again."
Walking back to the cabin, her hand in mine, the morning cold sharp on our faces. Slag weaves between our ankles. The studio windows catch the early sun. Through the cabin door, I can see the credenza, the photographs, the wildflowers, the reorganized kitchen that works better than I'll ever admit.
A year ago this clearing was quiet. Just me, a forge, and a half-feral cat.
Now it's home.