Epilogue 1 Greyson
They say a man’s wedding day is the best and worst day of his life.
The worst because you’re “losing your freedom,” because you’re “tied down,” because you’re “done for.”
I’ve heard every version of the joke at least five times today.
Thatcher said it with a straight face while he adjusted my collar like he was about to send me into battle.
Kelly cackled and told me if I ever made Clara cry, she’d bury me under the sunflower table and let the mountain take care of the rest.
Willow cried twice before the ceremony even started and then laughed when she realized she was crying, which somehow made her cry harder.
Even Scar made an appearance, lumbering past the tent like he owned the place, and Thatcher announced solemnly that the bear was basically my best man.
I took the ribbing. Nodded.
Smirked at the right moments.
Played the role.
But the second the guitarist starts to play, everything in me goes still.
No jokes. No noise. No crowd.
Just the sound of a single melody lifting into the mountain air.
I straighten like someone pulled a string through my spine.
And I stare down the makeshift aisle like my life depends on it—because it does.
We kept it small. The way Clara wanted. The way I needed.
Outdoor wedding on the mountain, under a tent strung with twinkle lights and soft lanterns that sway gently in the breeze.
Folding chairs lined up crooked because nothing humans bring to my mountain is perfect, and we didn’t try to make it.
Food from our favorite pizzeria.
A cake flown in from a place in New Jersey called Devil’s Food Bakery that Clara really wanted.
Music from someone’s cousin who actually knows how to play.
Family—hers.
Friends.
Neighbors.
The people who saved her, saved me, without even realizing they were doing it.
And the cabin behind it all—my old sanctuary—looks different now.
Still stubborn. Still creaky. Still mine.
But also ours now.
Redone inside like a guest bungalow instead of a hermit’s hideout.
Fresh linens.
A real mattress.
Clara’s touch everywhere—soft throws, candles that smell like vanilla and wildflowers, a framed print of a willow tree in winter hung right where the light hits in the morning.
My workshop is unchanged because some things are sacred.
But the property around it?
That’s different.
Because the world tried to come up here once. Tried to turn me into something they could consume.
So I built walls.
Floodlights. Gates. Locks. Cameras.
And apparently, a big, battered grizzly bear who has decided he lives on my land now like he’s part of the security system.
Whatever.
Scar is cool.
But I’m not thinking about him.
Not when the music shifts.
Not when the air changes.
Not when the murmurs ripple through the guests like a wave and every head turns at once.
My bride.
Clara appears at the start of the aisle and the world narrows to a single point.
Pale yellow chiffon and lace floats around her like sunlight made into fabric. The skirt catches the breeze and moves like it’s alive.
Her hair is swept back with tiny crystals threaded through it, and she looks unreal—like something the mountain dreamed up just to wreck me.
She takes one step.
Then another.
And I feel it in my chest, this hard, aching swell of gratitude so sharp it borders on pain.
I can’t believe I’m the one she’s walking toward.
I can’t believe she’s real.
I can’t believe she found me. That she drove into a storm and into my life and decided I was worth the risk.
That she looked at my broken edges and didn’t flinch.
She gets closer and I see her expression shift—soft, bright, steady.
Not a performance.
Not a society smile.
Clara in her truest form.
And every stupid joke anyone told me today turns to dust.
Freedom?
I wasn’t free before her.
I was isolated. I was hiding. I was surviving.
This?
This is freedom.
Choosing her. Being chosen back.
Clara reaches the front, and for a second she just stands there, eyes shining.
Her hands tremble slightly as she places them in mine.
Warm.
Real.
Mine.
“Hi,” she whispers like we’re alone.
My throat tightens. “Hi.”
Someone says words. Vows happen. I repeat mine with a voice that doesn’t even sound like me because it’s too full of feeling.
Clara says hers, and I swear the entire mountain holds its breath to listen.
When it’s time for the ring, my hands shake—me, the man who can carve a table down to a single delicate petal without flinching, struggling to slide a band onto her finger because the moment matters too damn much.
I get it on.
The crowd exhales.
Clara’s smile trembles.
And then the officiant says, “You may kiss the bride.”
I don’t hesitate.
I pull her in, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other firm at her waist, and I kiss her like I’ve been starving my whole life and she’s the first real thing I’ve ever tasted.
She kisses me back—sure and unafraid—and the guests cheer, and the wind kicks up, and somewhere behind us I hear Evan whoop like he just won the World Series.
But I barely register it.
Because all I can think is—they can try.
The world can try to intrude, to pry, to demand, to take.
They can bring cameras and headlines and offers and opinions.
They can whisper that I don’t deserve her, that she’ll get bored, that she’ll go back to the lights and the city and the easy life.
They can dare.
Because there isn’t a mountain high enough.
Not a storm violent enough.
Not a spotlight bright enough.
Not a damn thing in this world that’s going to keep me away from my wife.
I kiss her again—claiming, certain, unashamed.
And in my mind, I say it like a promise to the entire universe.
Try. I dare ya.
I’ll climb anything. I’ll fight anything.
Because this little city slicker came to my mountain once.
And now?
Now I’m the man who will cross every distance to keep choosing her back.