Epilogue – Jason
Two Years Later
The cabin smells like Christmas morning, cinnamon and butter and the sharp sweetness of orange zest. I stand at the counter rolling out dough, flour dusting my forearms and probably my face, and watch snow fall softly past the kitchen window.
The cinnamon rolls have become our tradition.
Every Christmas morning, I make them from my grandmother's recipe while Elizabeth sleeps in, and by the time she wanders into the kitchen—always wearing one of my flannel shirts, always with her hair mussed and her eyes still soft with sleep—the cabin is warm and the world outside is white and perfect.
I hear her footsteps before I see her, that familiar soft padding of bare feet on wooden floors. Then her arms slide around my waist from behind, and she presses her cheek against my back, breathing deep.
"Smells good," she murmurs, her voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning." I set down the rolling pin and cover her hands with mine, flour transferring from my fingers to hers. She doesn't seem to mind.
"How long have you been up?" She shifts to my side, still holding on, and I glance down at her.
The flannel shirt—dark green, the same one she wore that first morning—hangs loose on her frame, and her engagement ring catches the early light filtering through frosted windows. Simple, elegant, perfect.
Like her.
"Long enough to get these ready." I gesture to the rolled dough, the cinnamon sugar waiting in a bowl, the orange zest I grated earlier. "You're just in time to help."
"Help?" She laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen with warmth. "Or did you just want me close?"
"Can't it be both?"
She rises on her toes and kisses my jaw, lingering just long enough to make my pulse kick up. "Both works."
We fall into easy rhythm—me rolling, her spreading the cinnamon mixture with attention. Her tongue pokes out slightly when she concentrates, and I have to resist the urge to kiss her again because if I start, the cinnamon rolls will never make it into the oven.
"We need to finalize the wedding plans," she says, not looking up from her work. "Your sister keeps texting me asking about dates and venues and guest lists."
I make a noncommittal sound. "I vote for a tiny ceremony. Just us, the mountains, maybe a handful of people who won't ask questions about why we're getting married in the middle of nowhere."
"Jason." She looks up, eyebrows raised. "We are not getting married with 'just us and the mountains.'"
"Why not? Worked out pretty well the first time."
"The first time we met during a blizzard and I thought you might be a serial killer."
"And yet here you are." I grin at her. "In my kitchen, wearing my shirt, helping me make cinnamon rolls. I'd say my kidnapping technique was pretty effective."
She swats my arm, leaving a dusting of cinnamon sugar on my flannel. "You're impossible."
"You love me anyway."
"Unfortunately." But she's smiling, that soft, private smile that still makes my chest feel too tight. "I want fairy lights, Jason. And maybe some pine garlands. Something Pinterest-worthy that I can photograph and look back on when we're old and gray."
"Pinterest-worthy," I repeat, shaking my head. "In the mountains."
"Yes."
"With fairy lights."
"Exactly."
I consider this, pretending to think hard while I watch her return to spreading cinnamon sugar.
"Fine. But only if we do it here. At the cabin. In front of the fireplace where we fell in love."
Her hands still, and when she looks at me, her eyes are bright with emotion. "Really?"
"Really." I cup her face, brushing my thumb across her cheekbone. "This is where it started. Where you walked in looking like a drowned cat and proceeded to steal my flannel shirts and my heart. Seems fitting that it's where we make it official."
"We could do fairy lights in the pines outside," she says softly, leaning into my touch. "String them through the branches, light them up against the snow."
"There. Compromise. Fairy lights in the mountains."
She laughs again, and this time when she kisses me, I let myself sink into it.
Her lips taste like toothpaste and sleep and home, and her hands slide up my chest to link behind my neck. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her closer, and for a moment, the cinnamon rolls are completely forgotten.
When we finally break apart, both of us are breathing harder, and there's flour on her cheek. I swipe at it with my thumb, but instead of cleaning it off, I accidentally add more. "Oops."
"Oops?" Her eyes narrow. "That was deliberate."
"Prove it."
She reaches for the bowl of powdered sugar and before I can react, she's dusted my nose with it. White powder explodes across my face, and I blink at her in mock outrage.
"Did you just—"
"Accident," she says sweetly, backing away with the bowl held defensively. "Complete accident."
"Elizabeth."
"Jason."
I advance slowly, and she retreats, both of us circling the kitchen island like we're predators sizing each other up. Her smile is wicked, challenging, and I love her so much it physically hurts.
"You know what happens when you start a sugar fight in my kitchen?" I ask.
"I win?"
"Not even close."
I feint left, she dodges right, and somehow we end up colliding in the middle, laughing and grabbing at each other, sugar and flour creating clouds around us.
I catch her around the waist, lifting her onto the counter, and she's still laughing when I kiss her again, harder this time, tasting sweetness and joy and the future we're building together.
"Truce," she gasps between kisses. "Truce, I surrender."
"Smart woman."
"Occasionally." She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, and I rest my forehead against hers. We stay like that for a moment, just breathing together, covered in flour and sugar and completely content.
My hand finds hers on the counter, and I trace the simple band of her engagement ring with my thumb. The metal is warm from her skin, and I still can't quite believe it's real.
"I still can't believe I get to keep you," I say quietly.
Her expression softens, and she cups my face in her hands. "You didn't keep me, Jason. We chose each other."
The words hit me square in the chest, truth and love and the kind of certainty that only comes from two years of choosing each other every single day.
Through arguments and compromises, through lazy Sunday mornings and hard conversations, through the work of building a life together that honors both of us.
"Yeah," I manage, my voice rougher than I intend. "We did."
"And I choose you every day." She kisses me softly, a promise and a benediction. "Every single day, mountain man."
"Even when I'm grumpy?"
"Especially when you're grumpy." She grins. "It's part of your charm."
"Charm," I mutter, but I'm smiling too. "Pretty sure that's not the word most people would use."
"Good thing I'm not most people."
"Good thing," I agree, and kiss her again because I can't not kiss her when she looks at me like that—like I'm everything she needs, like choosing me was the easiest decision she ever made.
The cinnamon rolls are waiting to be baked, the coffee is probably getting cold, and we're both covered in enough flour and sugar to look like we've been in a snowstorm of our own making.
And I wouldn't change a single thing.
"Come on," I say eventually, helping her down from the counter. "Let's get these rolls in the oven before we get too distracted."
"Too late," she says, but she helps me anyway.
We work side by side, brushing flour off each other between tasks, stealing kisses when we think the other isn't paying attention.
The rolls go into the oven, filling the cabin with even more warmth and sweetness, and I pull her into my arms one more time.
"Merry Christmas, Elizabeth."
"Merry Christmas, Jason."
She tucks herself against my chest, and I rest my chin on top of her head, looking out at the snow-covered pines and the Christmas lights still twinkling in the windows.
Two years ago, I was alone in this cabin, hiding from the world and convinced I was better off that way. Then Elizabeth crashed into my life during a blizzard and everything changed.
She didn't save me. We saved each other. Chose each other. Built something real and lasting from snow and cinnamon rolls and the kind of love that only grows stronger with time.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, her voice muffled against my flannel.
"How lucky I am."
"Luck had nothing to do with it." She pulls back just enough to look up at me. "I drove into your life. Literally crashed into it."
"Best crash I ever witnessed."
She laughs, and the sound fills every corner of the cabin, chasing away any remaining shadows.
The timer dings. The cinnamon rolls are ready.
And as we move together to pull them from the oven—her hand in mine, our movements synchronized from years of sharing this space—I think about the wedding we'll plan together.
Fairy lights in the mountains. Pine garlands and snow and everyone we love gathered to witness what we already know: that we're forever.
That we chose each other, and we keep choosing each other, every single day.
And that's the best Christmas gift I could ever ask for.
Thank you for reading!