Page 114 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

The drive up the mountain is quieter than before.

Not tense.

Not awkward.

Just charged.

Clara sits beside me in the passenger seat, one hand resting on the giant flower plush in her lap like it’s a talisman.

The dash lights cast a soft glow across her face, catching in the loose curls falling over her shoulders.

I glance at her more than I should.

She catches me once.

“Eyes on the road, mountain man,” she teases.

I huff a breath. “Road’s fine. I’ve driven it in worse.”

“That’s reassuring.”

When the cabin finally comes into view, a strange calm settles over me. The porch light cuts a warm circle into the dark. The trees sway gently in the night breeze.

And for just a second—I swear I see movement near the tree line.

A heavy shape.

Broad shoulders.

Familiar hump.

Scar.

The old grizzly stands half in shadow, watching.

Not approaching.

Just there.

I don’t know if I’m imagining him. Don’t know if my mind is stitching symbols into the dark.

But tonight isn’t for bears.

Tonight isn’t for storms or running or hiding.

Tonight is for second chances.

I cut the engine.

The silence that follows feels different than it used to.

Full instead of empty.

Clara steps out first, smoothing her dress, looking around like she’s trying to memorize the place instead of fear it.

“It’s prettier on a clear night,” she murmurs.

“You’re biased,” I say. “You’ve only seen it in a thunderstorm.”