"How did you change?" It was nice hearing more about them. I usually didn’t get this far when taking to people…it was nice.
"Oliver, mostly. And Micah, and later Levi. Having pack—having people who called me on my bullshit while still loving me through it—that made the difference." He glanced back at me, his blue eyes serious. "That's what we're offering you, Daphne. Not just romance or partnership, but a support system. People who will tell you the truth even when it's hard to hear, and who will stand beside you while you figure out what to do with it."
The trail opened up ahead, and I caught my first glimpse of the view—a sweeping vista of valleys and mountains. The morning mist was still clinging to the lower elevations like cotton caught in the trees. I stopped walking, my breath catching at the beauty of it.
"This is the halfway point," Garrett said, coming to stand beside me. "The view at the top is even more spectacular, but I thought you might want to rest here for a minute."
"It's incredible." I couldn't look away from the landscape spread before us—rolling hills in every shade of green, the silver ribbon of a river far below, mountains blue with distance on the horizon. "I had no idea this was here. I've lived twenty minutes away for five years, and I never knew."
"There's a lot we miss when we're focused on just surviving." Garrett's voice was gentle, and I was glad I couldn’t hear any judgment in his voice. "The world is full of beautiful things. Sometimes we just need someone to show us where to look."
We stood there for a while, catching our breath and drinking water, letting the silence speak. It wasn't uncomfortable—not the way silence usually felt to me, loaded with expectation or judgment. This was companionable, easy, the kind of quiet that exists between people who don't need to fill every moment with words.
"Can I ask you something?" I said eventually, gaze still on the scenery around me.
"Of course." He grinned, as he glanced at me.
"Oliver mentioned that you see potential in broken things. That's why you bought the Henderson property—because you saw what it could become, not what it was." I hesitated, unsure how to phrase the rest. "Is that... is that what you see in me? A project? Something to fix?"
Garrett turned to face me fully, his expression serious. "No. Absolutely not."
"Then what—" I started but he cut me off quickly.
"Daphne." He said my name with weight, with intention. "You're not a project. You're not something to be fixed or renovated or improved. When I look at you, I don't see broken—I see strong. I see someone who built something beautiful fromnothing, who survived things that would have destroyed most people, who is still standing despite everything the world has thrown at her."
"But you said—" I started but he didn’t let me continue.
"I said I see potential. That's not the same as seeing something broken." He took a step closer, his blue eyes intent on mine. "Potential means possibility. Room to grow, not because you're lacking, but because you're alive. We all have potential, Daphne. Me, Oliver, Micah, Levi—we're all still becoming who we're meant to be. That's not weakness. That's being human."
The words settled into me, challenging the narrative I'd built about myself for so long. The idea that I was damaged, insufficient, something to be tolerated rather than chosen. Garrett was offering a different story—one where my struggles were strength, where my survival was something to be admired, not pitied.
"I don't know how to believe that," I admitted quietly, brushing some of the loose strands of hair out of my face.
"You don't have to believe it yet." His voice was patient, certain. "You just have to be willing to consider it. The belief comes later, with time and evidence. And we plan to give you plenty of both."
We resumed hiking, the trail growing steeper as we approached the summit. My legs burned with the effort, my breath coming harder, but there was something satisfying about the physical challenge—the way it occupied my body and freed my mind. Garrett stayed close, offering a hand over the rougher patches, pointing out interesting plants and rock formations, keeping up a comfortable stream of conversation that required nothing from me but presence.
He told me about the renovation project—the challenges they'd faced with the old farmhouse, the victories they'd celebrated, the vision they were working toward. His voice camealive when he talked about construction, about taking something worn and neglected and transforming it into something beautiful and functional.
"The bones of the house are good," he said as we climbed over a boulder blocking the path. "That's what matters. You can fix almost anything if the foundation is solid. I am trying to make it look like what my grandfather had it before it was sold."
"Is that a metaphor?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
He laughed, reaching back to help me over the rock. "Maybe. I tend to see the world in construction terms. Everything's either being built or falling apart, and most things are doing both at the same time."
"That's surprisingly philosophical for a contractor." I told him with a soft laugh.
"Hey, we contain multitudes." His grin was infectious, and I found myself smiling back despite the burn in my calves. "Almost there. Just around this bend."
The trail opened onto a rocky outcropping, and I gasped. The view from the halfway point had been beautiful, but this—this was something else entirely. We were above the treeline here, standing on exposed granite that dropped away into a vast panorama of forest and valley and distant peaks. The sky stretched endlessly above us, impossibly blue, and the wind carried the scent of pine and wild things.
"Oh," I breathed, my eyes widening as I looked around. "Oh, Garrett."
"Worth the climb?" He asked, grin on his face as he looked at me with amusement.
"Worth everything." I turned slowly, trying to take it all in, feeling impossibly small and impossibly connected at the same time. This was what I'd been missing, hiding in my cabin, convinced that safety was more important than living. Thiswildness, this beauty, this reminder that the world was vast and full of wonders I hadn't yet discovered.
Garrett spread a blanket on a flat section of rock and began unpacking lunch—sandwiches wrapped in paper, fruit, cheese, bottles of water and a thermos of what smelled like soup. He worked with quiet efficiency, creating a small feast while I stood at the edge of the outcropping, still overwhelmed by the view.
