"You don't get the good chili unless she's decided you're worth feeding." I press my lips to his temple. "You're getting the good chili, Aiden."
He laughs into my neck. Low. Full. The laugh of a man who, for the first time in twelve years, woke up somewhere that isn't four in the morning.
"We fly home tomorrow," I say.
"Yeah."
"Back to the ranch. The timber. Your cabin."
"Our cabin," he says.
I go still.
"If you want." Quick. Almost shy, which is insane on a man his size. "Serenity's already used to the trail."
"You're asking me to move in."
"I'm asking you to stay."
My eyes fill. I blink them clear. Press my forehead to his.
"Ask me properly, Aiden Harrison."
He pulls back enough to see my face. Takes my hand off his chest. Brings it to his mouth.
"Stay," he says against my knuckles. "Stay with me. Wake up in my bed. Drink your coffee on my porch. Bring that horse upthe mountain. Help me plant that grain field. Fight me about the thermostat. Make me eat vegetables." His mouth presses to my palm. "Stay."
"That's more words than you've said in twelve years."
"Figured I was overdue."
I pull his face to mine. Kiss him soft.
"Yes," I say. "Obviously yes."
He rolls onto his back, takes me with him, and I settle against his chest in a sagging hotel bed in Nacogdoches, Texas, a thousand miles from home, listening to a heartbeat that's finally, finally steady.
Tomorrow we fly home. Back to the firs and the creek and a cabin in the timber that's about to get a lot less quiet.
Can't wait.
Epilogue
HARRISON
SIX MONTHS LATER
The grain field's got snow on it.
First dusting of the year, barely an inch, but it turns the whole northeast section into something out of a painting. The winter wheat's underneath, dormant, waiting. Come spring it'll push through green and stubborn, the way everything does on this ranch.
I stand on the porch with my coffee, the coffee that's good because she taught me the water temperature, and watch the sun come up over the ridge. The firs are frosted silver. The creek's running low, half-iced at the edges, making that sound it makes when winter gets serious.
Behind me, through the screen door, the cabin smells like bacon.
Paige is cooking. Her boots are by the stove, her hat's on the hook beside mine, and Serenity's in the small stable I builtin October, standing next to the sorrel mare Gabe gave us as a housewarming gift that neither of us asked for.
"That's what Gabe does," Paige told me. "He gives you things and dares you to argue."
