"Staying for dinner?" she asks quietly, shoulder brushing mine as she hands me a mug to dry.
"If you want to," I say, suddenly uncertain. "I didn't mean to presume."
"No, I—" She pauses, looking down at our hands, so close together over the sink. "I want to. I'm just not sure what happens after that."
I set the mug aside, turning to face her fully. Water drips from my hands onto the floor between us, but I don't reach for the towel. The question deserves my complete attention.
"I don't know exactly," I admit. "But I know I don't want this to end when the roads clear."
Denise's expression softens. "Me neither."
"I'm not good at this part," I continue, forcing myself to maintain eye contact even as vulnerability crawls up my spine. "The after. The figuring things out. But I'd like to try. With you."
She reaches out, taking my damp hand in hers. "I'm exactly where I was supposed to be," she says simply. "Maybe for the first time since I moved here."
The words land exactly right, not a grand declaration, but a quiet truth. I find myself smiling, something tight in my chest finally unwinding completely.
"So we figure it out," I say, squeezing her hand gently.
She agrees, reaching up to touch my face. Her palm is warm against my cheek, grounding me in this moment, this certainty.
Later on, the station fills with the scents of roasting turkey and pine boughs that Nathan brought in to "spruce the place up" (a joke he's made every holiday for four years). Someone finds a radio station playing old Christmas songs, the music mingling with laughter from the kitchen where the crew prepares the meal together.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching as Denise shows Austin how to properly mash potatoes without making them gluey. She's borrowed one of my clean uniform shirts, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
She belongs here, with these people, in this place that has been my refuge but never quite my home… until now.
When dinner is finally ready, we gather around the long table in the common room. Chief Hawkins says a gruff grace, thanking whatever powers might be listening for bringing us all safely through the storm. Plates are passed, wine is poured into whatever mismatched containers we can find.
Under the table, Denise's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining naturally. I glance at her, finding her already looking back at me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Epilogue – Denise
Two Years Later
The first snow of the season arrives like a gentle memory. I watch it from our kitchen window—soft, unhurried flakes spinning down to settle on the pine branches outside.
"Pie's not going to crimp itself," Bradley calls from behind me, though there's no urgency in his tone.
I turn from the window, smiling at the sight of him arranging firewood in the hearth with perfect precision, each log placed at the perfect angle for optimal burning. Some things never change.
"I was communing with nature," I defend, returning to the half-finished pie crust. "Besides, you're one to talk. Pretty sure that's the third time you've rearranged that wood."
He glances up, catching my teasing. "Not the third time. Maybe the second."
"Liar," I laugh, dusting flour from my hands. "Remember who you married. I catalog details for a living."
His smile softens as he stands, brushing bark from his hands. "How could I forget? You still have my rescue reports from two years ago filed alphabetically."
"Chronologically," I correct, patting the small swell of my belly absently. "Our child will understand the importance of proper filing systems."
Bradley crosses the open space of our cabin, coming to stand behind me. His arms circle my waist, hands splaying protectively over our growing baby.
I lean back against his chest, letting his warmth seep through my sweater. Through the window, I can see the whole valley. The silver ribbon of Whitetail River winding through snow-dustedpines, the distant lights of town just beginning to twinkle in the early dusk.
"Think they'll make it up the drive okay?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Logan could navigate that road blindfolded," Bradley murmurs against my hair. "Besides, Nathan put chains on all the department vehicles last week. Always does, first week of November."
