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Despite the cool air, he’s got his shirt rolled up to the elbows. His left forearm is slightly tanner than his right. He’s shaved at some point because his face is smooth. I think maybe he’s even more beautiful like this: the strong line of his jaw more prominent. The curve of his cheekbones even higher. His eyes are the same, though.

And when they grab me across the pavement, his expression lifts like a question, unasked.

I mean to say something simple, like Hello, or meaningful, like You’re back. But instead I blurt out, “You shaved.”

Logan’s smile hitches and he rubs a wide palm against his chin like he’s still getting used to an unfamiliar sensation. “Mason held me down and attacked my face with a razor. The beard or the jugular, he said.”

I let my smile spread as my heart beats—one, two—heavy with anticipation. The wind picks up, tossing my curls into my peripheral vision. “It looks good.”

Logan steps toward me, eyes traveling down my dirt-stained overalls. “You’re picking.”

I consider telling him about my mom’s return, the bursting crystals. But there’s something far more pressing to attend to first. As though in agreement, a lick of wind nudges me forward. I take a few steps until I’m nearly an arm’s distance away from Logan.

“You’re here,” I say, the words more breathless than I’d expected. Another question without a question mark, this time mine.

Logan’s hands flex by his sides. “You kept telling me I should have what I want, that I deserve it.”

I nod, nose stinging, unsure if this is relief. “I did. You do.”

He closes the distance between us, cups my cheek. My breath hitches as he lifts my face toward his eyes, as warm as a backwater pool. “It took a week on the road to realize that what I want is right here.”

My eyes flutter closed. Suddenly I’m too full of everything—hope, relief, Logan—and looking at him is too much. “Really?”

I feel his forehead touch mine. “I’ve always known what it feels like to stay too long in the wrong place. I never knew how it felt to walk away from the right one.”

“Aren’t those the same places?” I whisper.

His head shakes against mine. “Not at all. Everything changes when you’re here.”

And, oh.

A breeze shudders over the orchard as my heart surges so fiercely it feels like it might wrench free of my chest. I feel like I’m floating, weightless, riding the gusts of wind.

I open my eyes to the fizzes of gold in Logan’s irises, the curl of his eyelashes brushing his skin. And even though everything is full and close, it’s the right amount of both.

“So, if you figured that out in a week, what did you do for the other three?” I ask, breathless.

He loops a finger through one of my curls. “I forced myself to be sure. I was worried that I felt that way because I missed you or because I was still rebelling against the idea of leaving. I didn’t want to come back until I could look you in the eyes and tell you I’m sure.”

“And are you?” I ask. “Sure?”

“Endless travel always seemed like a good answer to the riddle of what to do with my life because it was so different. But I know now it’s not right for me. I might not want to build barns, but I don’t want to be a world traveler, either.”

I reach for him, rooting my fingers to his. “What do you want instead?”

Logan tugs on my hand. He pulls me forward, leading the way through silvery trunks. Together, we forge across the grass, crunchy with the cold, until the barn crests into view.

The doors are open—we’ve been in and out all morning—so I can already see the constellation of my own face, framed by butterflies and pears.

“I stopped in Maplehurst on my way back,” he says as we come to a stop, “and found that designer in town. He’s about to retire and willing to take me on as an apprentice. I can study under him for a while, and then hopefully start my own shop.”

I go still. “It’s perfect.”

His lips quirk, something between a smile and a frown. “You think? I’ve been worried it’s a bit…”

I tilt my head, concerned he’s going to say juvenile.

“It’s carpentry in Maplehurst,” he finishes.