For several minutes, I just watch her. The gentle rise and fall of her back. The way her eyelashes fan against her cheeks. The slight curve of her lips, as if she's smiling even in dreams.
Three years I've lived in this cabin, seeking solitude, avoiding connection. Now the bed I purchased for its perfect firmness holds this woman who has upended everything. My space. My routines. My carefully constructed walls.
And I wouldn't change a thing.
Careful not to wake her, I extract myself from her embrace. She mumbles something unintelligible and burrows into the warm spot I've vacated. I tuck the blankets around her and slip out of the room.
Outside, the world is hushed, fresh snow blanketing everything in pristine white. The sun hasn't yet crested the mountains, but the pre-dawn glow paints the snow in subtleblues and purples. Jennifer would appreciate the colors. Would probably grab her sketchbook and try to capture the exact shade of blue that only exists in these fleeting moments.
The thought makes me smile. I've smiled more in the past week than in the previous year.
My morning run takes me through familiar trails, but today I see them differently. Notice details I've overlooked before. The way frost creates delicate patterns on pine needles. How animal tracks tell stories of nocturnal journeys. The perfect stillness that exists in these moments before the world fully wakes.
Jennifer is changing how I see everything. Opening my eyes to beauty I've stopped noticing.
When I return to the cabin, she's awake, wrapped in one of my flannel shirts and her leggings, clutching a mug of coffee at the kitchen counter.
"Morning, Mountain Man." Her voice is still husky with sleep. "Enjoy your crack of dawn exercise in the arctic tundra?"
"It's barely below freezing." I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. "Did you sleep well?"
"Mmm." She leans into me. "Your bed is criminally comfortable. Or maybe it's the company."
"Both." I pour myself coffee, amused at how she's already reorganized my kitchen to suit her preferences. Coffee mugs now live on the counter instead of in the cabinet. The fancy sugar she likes sits in an ornate jar rather than its original packaging. Small changes that somehow make the space more inviting.
"Aunt Mildred arrives tomorrow," she says, scrolling through her phone. "Are we ready for hurricane nonagenarian?"
"The guest room is prepared. I've stocked her favorite tea and those shortbread cookies she likes."
"Such a thoughtful husband." She grins over her mug. "Think she'll buy our act?"
Our act. The words catch me off guard. What started as pretense has become something real, at least for me. The way Jennifer fits against me when we sleep. How her laughter fills spaces in my home I didn't know were empty. The easy intimacy we've developed in such a short time.
"Jared?" She touches my arm, concern in her eyes. "You okay?"
"Fine." I shake off the momentary disquiet. "Ridge is coming by later. To discuss our situation."
"Ah yes. My overprotective foster brother who now believes I secretly married his friend without telling him." She winces. "That should be fun."
"I'll handle it."
"We'll handle it," she corrects, a familiar exchange by now. "Together."
Together. Another word that carries more weight than it should. "Together," I agree.
After breakfast, Jennifer disappears into the office to handle client work. I retreat to the workshop attached to the garage, where I've been secretly working on a project for the past few days. A gift for Jennifer.
The small wooden box takes shape under my hands, cherry wood sanded to a silken finish. Inside, compartments perfectly sized for her various art supplies. On the lid, I've carved a mountain scene based on her painting. Not as good as her work, but recognizable.
I'm not sure when I'll give it to her. Or what it will mean when I do. It's not a casual gift. It says things I'm not sure I'm ready to articulate.
The sound of tires on gravel pulls me from my thoughts. Ridge's truck. I tuck the box under a cloth and head out to meet him.
Ridge Reeves has been my friend since high school. We worked Wildland Fire together for three years before I moved to hotshot crews. He looks more like a mountain man than I do, with his beard and flannel and perpetual smell of pine and woodsmoke. He's also fiercely protective of his foster sister.
"Calloway," he calls as he slams his truck door. "Care to explain why Mrs. Peterson congratulated me on becoming your brother-in-law?"
"Long story." I clasp his hand, pulling him into a brief one-armed hug. "Come inside."
