"Come eat," he called eventually. "The view isn't going anywhere." I settled onto the blanket beside him, accepting the sandwich he offered—turkey and avocado on fresh bread, simple but delicious. The soup was tomato basil, still warm from the thermos, and I cradled the cup in my hands, letting the heat seep into my fingers.
"Thank you for bringing me here," I said between bites. "I didn't know I needed this."
"Sometimes we don't know what we need until someone shows us." Garrett stretched out his legs, leaning back on his hands, his face turned toward the sun. "I've been wanting to share this place with someone for a long time. Someone who would appreciate it the way it deserves."
"You haven't brought anyone else here?" I hummed taking another a bite of the sandwich.
"The guys, sure. But not..." He paused, something flickering in his expression. "Not someone I was interested in. Not someone who mattered the way you do." The words hung in the air between us, weighted with meaning. I set down my soup, suddenly aware of how close we were sitting, how easy it would be to reach out and touch him.
"Garrett..." I whispered feeling overwhelmed.
"You don't have to say anything." His voice was gentle. "I'm not trying to pressure you or move too fast. I just want you to know—this isn't casual for me. None of us are pursuing you because you're convenient or available or good enough for now.We're pursuing you because we see something real. Something lasting."
"I'm scared," I admitted, though I felt like I kept admitting this to them. I wasn’t used to telling people my fears. I took a deep breath as I continued. "Of feeling this much. Of wanting things I spent years convincing myself I couldn't have."
"I know." He sat up, turning to face me, his blue eyes soft with understanding. "And it's okay to be scared. Fear doesn't mean stop—it just means pay attention. You're walking into unknown territory. That's always frightening."
"How do you make it sound so simple?" I muttered, though he heard me as he gave me a soft look as I shifted and glanced away.
"It's not simple." He laughed quietly. "It's terrifying, actually. Letting someone see the real you, risking rejection, hoping that what you're building won't collapse—there's nothing simple about any of it. But the alternative..." He shook his head. "The alternative is staying small. Playing it safe. Never knowing what might have been."
"I've been doing that for five years." I told him, but it was more to myself.
"And how's that working out for you?" He asked, gaze burning into me making me stop and think for a minute.
The question was direct but not unkind, and I found myself laughing despite the ache in my chest. "Terribly. It's working out terribly. I've been miserable and didn't even know it."
"Then try something different." Garrett reached out, his hand covering mine on the blanket between us. His palm was warm and callused, rough with honest work. "Try letting us in. Try believing that you deserve good things. Try trusting that not everyone leaves."
His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand, and I felt the touch everywhere—in my chest, my stomach, the base of myspine. Such a small gesture, but it carried so much. Promise. Patience. The steady assurance that he meant every word.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked as I looked at the hand that hand mine with a soft and longing look
"Anything." He hummed, voice low as it almost sent shivers down my spine.
"When I first saw you—that morning you showed up at my property with your truck and your equipment—I was annoyed. I thought you were just another person invading my space, disrupting my peace." I smiled at the memory, how far away it seemed now. "I had no idea you were going to change everything."
Garrett's expression shifted, something vulnerable moving beneath his steady exterior. "I remember that morning. You came out of your garden like some kind of nature spirit—dirt on your hands, suspicion in your eyes, absolutely zero interest in being friendly." His laugh was soft. "I thought you were the most real person I'd ever met. No performance, no pretense. Just you, exactly as you were. I went home and told Oliver I'd found something special."
The tears I'd been fighting all morning finally spilled over, tracking down my cheeks in warm trails. I didn't try to hide them—didn't have the energy, didn't have the walls left to maintain. Garrett just watched me cry, his hand still holding mine, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of emotion.
"I'm sorry," I managed. "I don't usually?—"
"Don't apologize." His voice was fierce and tender at once. "Never apologize for feeling things. For letting yourself be affected by the world. “
He shifted closer, and then his arms were around me, pulling me against his chest in an embrace that was warm and solid and utterly safe. I buried my face in his shoulder and let myself cry—for all the years I'd spent alone, for all the walls I'd built, for the future I was only now beginning to believe might be possible.
Garrett held me through it, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back, murmuring words of comfort I couldn't quite catch but felt anyway. The mountain wind blew around us, the sun warmed our skin, and the vast world spread out below us in all its wild beauty.
When the tears finally subsided, I pulled back, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "Sorry. That was a lot."
"That was honest." Garrett's voice was warm. "And I'll take honest over polite any day."
We finished lunch in comfortable quiet, the emotional intensity of the moment settling into something softer, more sustainable. The food tasted better than it had any right to—simple flavors made extraordinary by the setting, the company, the strange and wonderful intimacy of sharing a mountaintop with someone who saw me clearly and wanted me anyway.
The hike back down was easier, gravity working in our favor, and we talked more freely now—about favorite books and movies, about childhood memories and adult dreams, about the mundane details of daily life that somehow felt significant when shared. By the time we reached the truck, the sun was well past its peak, and I was pleasantly exhausted in a way I hadn't been in years. The good kind of tired—the kind that came from physical exertion and emotional honesty and the expanding of boundaries I'd thought were permanent.
Garrett drove me home, and this time the silence was different. Fuller. Like we'd built something between us that didn't need words to exist. At my cabin, he walked me to the porch, his hand finding mine one last time.
