Epilogue - Skye - One Year Later
Ismell Hunter’s dark roast coffee before I hear his footsteps coming toward my office.
Steam rises in a thin ribbon, carrying the scent of the hazelnut creamer he stocks now because I mentioned liking it once.
The small permanence of the detail that he remembered, he planned for, and he keeps on hand makes my throat tight.
His palm spreads across the small of my back, and pressure anchors me to the moment, to the studio he built out for me.
He was right. The forest is gorgeous in snow.
Turns out, I’ve drawn inspiration from it during every season.
The worktable holds this week's orders in organized stacks, twelve custom planners for corporate clients who found me through last year's wedding package expansion.
My two remote assistants handle the standard orders now, which means I only touch the specialty work, the pieces that require my specific attention.
The waitlist on my website stretches eight weeks out, and I've raised my prices on more intricate custom jobs twice because demand keeps outpacing supply even with help. The scent of the forest drifts through the open studio window, carrying the clean cold of mountain air that never loses its bite.
This workspace is proof: I can build something that lasts without burning myself down to fuel it. The me from a year ago wouldn't have believed it. The me sitting here in Hunter's flannel shirt, watching the mountains wear their morning gold, knows it's true.
I finish the planner I'm working on and reach for the next without checking my notes. I've memorized the specifications for this season’s editions. My hands move with confidence I've earned through a year of sustainable practice, not caffeine-fueled desperation.
I built this. We built this.
"Break time." Hunter's voice rumbles close enough that warmth ghosts across my ear.
My fingers still on the planner I'm sealing. "Almost done."
"You've been working since six." He doesn't ask, just states the fact with a certain calm tone that I've learned means things are non-negotiable. "How many left this week?"
"Twelve. I'll finish by Wednesday, two days early." Pride colors the words because that buffer between completion and crisis is new.
His hand slides up my back to cup the nape of my neck, thumb stroking the tension gathered there. "Good. Now eat."
The command makes my thighs press together under the table. One year of living with Hunter Channing hasn't dulled the edge of his protectiveness or my body's response to being claimed.
I follow him into the cabin’s spacious main room, the addition courtesy of a contractor who owed Hunter a huge favor, where the aroma of bacon mingles with woodsmoke from the stove he keeps burning October through April.
He's in work clothes, a flannel over thermal, jeans worn soft from use.
When he moves between the counter and stove, his shoulders fill the space with controlled confidence that still makes my inhales shallow.
He plates breakfast and slides it across the counter, then steps between my knees where I'm perched on the stool. Both hands find my hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of his flannel shirt I'm wearing to stroke my bare skin.
"This looks good on you," he says, his gaze traveling over me with appreciation that heats my skin. "Keep it."
"It was on the floor by the bed. Technically available."
"Everything I have is available to you." He lowers his forehead to mine, his exhale ghosting across my lips. "How do you feel?"
The question comes almost every morning, checking in and reading stress levels with attention most people reserve for structural engineering. At first, the constant monitoring made me defensive. Now I recognize care expressed through vigilance.
"Happy." The admission is easy and true. "The business is stable, orders are manageable, and I wake up next to you every morning. I'm allowed to say happy."
His grip tightens, pulling me to the stool's edge until our bodies press together from chest to hip. "Hearing you say that makes me want to keep you forever."
"Good keeping me or possessive keeping me?"
"Both." His mouth claims mine in a kiss deep enough to make my hands fist in his thermal shirt before he pulls back. "Eat. Then I've got plans for the day."
"What kind of plans?"
"The kind where I do the things that keep everyone on this mountain safe." He steps away reluctantly. "When I get back, maybe I can convince you to take a walk with me this evening before sunset."
Warmth spreads low in my belly, and I focus on eating. We're halfway through the meal when movement outside the window catches my attention. Berg's distinctive stride appears first, then Hawke carrying climbing gear, Archer trailing behind with his hands in his pockets.
"Company," I say.
Hunter follows my gaze. "They're early. SAR training starts at noon."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Most of the afternoon. Mock rescue scenario on the north ridge." Standing, he moves toward the door, then turns back with intensity burning in his dark eyes. "You going to be okay here alone?"
"Hunter, I lived alone for years before you decided to keep me." Laughter threads through the words. "I can handle a few hours without supervision."
"Doing it before you met me doesn’t mean I like it."
The admission shouldn't make pleasure curl through me, but it does.
Scratch that. I love it. If someone heard it out of context, they might think it was over the top.
But finally finding someone who genuinely cares and wants to take care of me while also building me up to thrive on my own is more than anyone could ask for.
Berg knocks once before pushing inside, grinning. "Morning, lovebirds."
"You're early," Hunter says.
Hawke and Archer follow, and I gesture to the coffee pot. They settle around the counter with casual familiarity, conversation shifting to training logistics while Hunter's hand finds my hip every time I pass within reach.
Berg shakes his head at us. "You two are disgusting."
"This is our cabin to be disgusting in," Hunter says, almost smiling.
They drain their mugs and head for the door. Archer pauses on the threshold, uncertainty crossing his expression before he glances back.
"You're good for him," he says quietly, then follows the others outside before I can respond.
Through the window, I watch them disappear down the trail, Hunter's broad shoulders the last thing visible before trees swallow them whole.
The cabin feels different in their absence. Peaceful, even. After cleaning the kitchen, I return to the studio and settle at my worktable with materials staged exactly where I need them.
Hours later, Hunter's presence fills the doorway. I feel the shift in air pressure, the weight of his attention landing on my shoulders while I slot accessories into a custom planner.
"You're beautiful like this," he says.
I glance up. He's leaning against the doorframe, watching me with an intensity that makes my hands still. "Like what?"
"In your element. Competent." Crossing to me, his hands find my hips from behind, pulling my back against his chest. His mouth drops to my neck. "Knowing you built this, that you're not drowning anymore, makes me want to take care of you."
Heat floods through me, and I tip my head to lock eyes with him.
His arms tighten around my waist. "I want to make sure you know you don't have to carry everything alone anymore."
I pull him down into a kiss that's slow and deep. When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine.
"How'd the training go?" I ask.
"Perfect execution." He steps back, taking in my workspace. "You finished early."
"Ahead of schedule." I gesture to the shipping stack with satisfaction curling through me. "Twelve orders, two days early, and I didn't skip a single meal or work past nine."
His expression shifts to pride and hunger and possessive satisfaction all at once. Framing my face with both hands, his thumbs brush across my cheekbones.
"You're thriving," he says, voice heavy with emotion that I'm still learning to read. "Not just surviving. Not white-knuckling your way through. Actually thriving."
"Because you built me a system that works." My hands find his wrists, holding on. "Because you wouldn't let me do it alone."
"No." His forehead lowers to mine, the warmth of his breath ghosting across my lips. "Because you chose to let me help. Because you're strong enough to accept partnership instead of martyring yourself to independence."
The words crack open behind my ribs, and I rise on my toes to kiss him again. It's slow and carries the weight of everything we've built, everything from attraction to deep recognition.
"Come on," he says, stepping back and pulling me with him by the hand. "Let me make you dinner. You've earned it."
"I can cook—"
"I know you can." He's already moving toward the main cabin. "But you don't have to. That's the point."
Later, Berg and Hawke return with Hunter's truck, and we all end up around the dinner table.
Berg tells a story about Hawke nearly rappelling off the wrong side of the ridge, and Hawke throws a roll at his head while I laugh hard enough that Hunter's hand finds my knee under the table, squeezing once.
"You two are so domestic," Berg says, grinning.
"Damn right," Hunter says, locking eyes with me, not Berg.
Archer's been quiet most of the meal, nursing his beer and watching us with some emotions I can't quite name. When Berg and Hawke start arguing about next month's training route, Archer stands and carries his plate to the sink, movements careful like he's trying not to disturb anything fragile.
"Heading out," he says, hand raised in a brief wave. "Early shift tomorrow."
But it's barely past seven, and the way he doesn't meet anyone's eyes tells me the early shift isn't the real reason. He's running from uncertainty. Or toward it. I can't tell which.