Chapter 42
Clara
The house still smells like fresh paint and wildflower bath oil.
Wait—not the house.
My house.
No, that’s not right either.
It’s ours. Our house.
The words still feel new in my mouth.
Like something I have to try on slowly so it doesn’t disappear.
The furniture from Manhattan is finally arranged the way I want it—less staged, less curated, more me.
Throw pillows I actually use.
Books stacked in uneven piles.
My laptop permanently claiming one end of the sofa.
But the dining room?
Empty.
Waiting.
Greyson’s things are still in boxes, but we’re unloading slowly.
And it’s been wonderful and awful at the same time—you know, in the way these things are.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want in the dining room.
Truth is, I’ve been dreaming.
I don’t want just a run-of-the-mill kitchen set.
I want dinners that run long and loud.
Wine glasses sweating rings into coasters.
Friends leaning back in chairs, laughing.
Greyson at the center of it, sleeves rolled, explaining something with his hands while I watch him like he’s a miracle. Because he is.
My miracle.
I want holidays.
I want arguments and making up and late-night grilled cheese at two in the morning.
I want intention.
I want something made with hands and heart.
I just didn’t know he was already building it.
I hear the large truck before I see it.
A low rumble outside that doesn’t belong to a neighbor.
“Greyson?” I call from the stairs because he’s been weirdly quiet for the last ten minutes.
“Come here, Trouble,” he calls back.
There’s something in his voice that makes my pulse skip.
I round the corner into the dining room—and stop.
Two movers are standing around a massive, wrapped shape positioned dead center in the empty space.
My stomach flips.
“What did you do?” I ask slowly.
Greyson crosses the room like a man walking toward a cliff and a sunrise at the same time.
He takes my hand.
Kisses the ring he put there.
“I came home,” he says quietly. “And I brought you something that’s always been yours.”
My breath leaves me in a rush.
The movers start peeling back the padding.
Layer by careful layer.
And then I see it.
Sunflower petals carved deep into wood.
Burned edges.
Rich stain that glows like honey in late afternoon light.
The center radiates outward in perfect, intentional detail, like something alive and still growing.
It’s enormous.
It’s breathtaking.
It’s—
“Greyson, you didn’t?” I whisper.
My fingers hover over the surface, afraid to touch it in case it vanishes.
“It was always yours,” he repeats. “You said you wanted something meaningful,” he says softly behind me. “Something that wasn’t just bought.”
I turn to look at him, and my chest feels too small for my heart.
“You made this for the show.”
“I made it for you,” he corrects.
His eyes don’t waver.
“I make everything for you now. Even when I don’t mean to.”
A laugh breaks out of me, shaky and wet all at once.
Because I came to this mountain to find him.
To confront him.
To drag him out of hiding if I had to.
I just didn’t know he was going to be my person.
I didn’t know he was going to choose me like this.
The movers step back, and I finally let my fingertips press to the carved petals.
They’re smooth.
Warm.
Solid.
Real.
And then I notice the thick, crystal-clear slab resting beside it.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Protection,” he says. “So you can live on it. Spill wine. Host dinners. Not treat it like it’s too precious to use.”
My throat tightens.
He knows me.
He knows I’d worry about scratching it.
About ruining something beautiful.
He doesn’t want me preserving life.
He wants me living it.
“You thought of everything,” I murmur.
He shrugs like it’s nothing.
Like carving a declaration of love into wood is casual.
“What about your fans?”
“You’re the only fan I care about, Clara.”
“Is that so?” I tease. “What about all the noise you’re making with these sunflowers?”
“Damn straight. And it’s taken on a life of its own already. Agent says the brand’s already shifted,” he adds. “Sunflower prints are flying. The nonprofit’s growing. Donations coming in from people I haven’t talked to in decades.”
My head snaps up.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Expand the nonprofit,” he says without hesitation. “Programs for runaways. For kids who don’t have anyone. Studio space. Supplies. Books. Mentors. I don’t have to do anything but sign the papers.”
My vision blurs.
He’s not just building a life with me.
He’s building something bigger than both of us.
“That’s some opportunity you’re building for others to have a future, Grey. That’s marvelous,” I say softly.
He steps closer, voice low. “You inspired it, Trouble. Now I just wanna work on building this life with you and protecting it.”
Just like the table.
Just like me.
I look back at the sunflower and something inside me shifts.
This isn’t just furniture.
It’s a statement.
It’s roots.
It’s permanence.
“This is ours,” I whisper.
He moves behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, his mouth pressing gently to my temple.
“It is.”
Not Manhattan.
Not headlines.
Not the noise.
This house.
This room.
This table that will see everything—good, bad, messy, joyful.
And the man behind me who could have had anyone.
Who lived alone by choice.
Who didn’t trust easily.
Who didn’t need anyone.
And still—he chose me.
“I can’t believe you picked me,” I say before I can stop myself.
He turns me in his arms, eyes fierce and steady.
“I didn’t pick you,” he says. “You showed up in a storm looking for me. I was just lucky I recognized you.”
My heart explodes in my chest.
Because that’s it.
That’s what this feels like.
Not a rescue.
Not an accident.
Recognition.
I press my forehead to his and let myself feel it all—the hopes, the fear, the wild, terrifying joy.
I have dreams for this house.
For my writing.
For us.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not choosing something because it looks right on paper.
I’m choosing it because it feels like home.
He brushes his thumb over my cheek.
“I’m not going anywhere, Clara,” he says quietly. “You don’t ever have to wonder that again.”
I believe him.
Not because he’s perfect.
Not because life won’t throw storms at us.
But because he’s here.
In our home. Our dining room.
And more importantly, in my arms.
I grin at the table he built big enough to last a lifetime.
And I finally understand something.
I didn’t climb the mountain to find a man.
I climbed it to find my life.
He just happened to be the heartbeat waiting at the top.