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Gabriel

Six months.

That’s how long she’d been here. Six months of waking up to the sound of her laughter echoing through the trees. Six months of finding her camera batteries charging beside my knives. Six months of Max trying to take over the bed like he owned the place.

Six months of a type of peace I didn’t realize I could have.

I used to think I liked being alone. Hell, I’d built a whole life around it. Routine. Silence. The kind of quiet that kept the world at arm’s length.

But now? Now I woke up to the scent of her shampoo on my pillow and the soft rustle of her moving through the kitchen. I listened for her the way I used to listen for threats in a war zone—always alert, always attuned. Except now, what I was listening for was life. Laughter. Her voice calling my name.

This morning, I found her out back, crouched low near the stream with her camera pressed to her face. There was snow along the edges of the bank—the kind that would melt by noon—but it was the first real sign winter was retreating. She was chasing light and movement, probably hoping for another glimpse of the fox family she’d been tracking since October.

Max was beside her, his tail thumping in the snow, doing a poor job of pretending he wasn’t dying to chase something.

I stood there, arms crossed, just watching. She had that look again—focused, sharp, content. She didn’t know I was there yet, which made it easier to take her in.

The way she fit in here still caught me off guard. She had sweaters hanging beside my flannel shirt. Her socks were mixed in with mine. Her lens caps were scattered all over the place. And I wouldn’t have changed a single damn thing.

Six months ago, I’d been terrified of this—of her. Of what it meant to let someone in.

Now? I couldn’t imagine a world without her.

“I thought I felt you staring,” she said suddenly, voice warm, eyes still trained through the lens.

I gave a quiet laugh. The sound was still a little rusty, but it was becoming just as frequent as my growls and grunts. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t.” She lowered the camera and stood, brushing snow off her knees. Max trotted over for his ear scratch. Slowly, she walked toward me and I vowed I’d never seen anything more beautiful. She pressed a kiss to my cheek—quick but soft. Familiar. “It’s supposed to snow again tonight. Think we’ll get stuck?”

“Probably,” I said. “Roads are shit already.”

Her eyes lit up. “Good.”

I shook my head, pretending to be exasperated, but the truth was, I loved being snowed in with her. She made the cabin feel like more than just shelter. She made it feel like home. Our home.

Back inside, she shrugged off her coat and moved to the stove, already pulling out ingredients for whatever she’d decided to bake that day. I followed her in, settling into the chair where I always watched her work. Max curled up by the fire. The silence between us wasn’t awkward. It never was. It was easy. Comfortable. But eventually, I broke it. “You happy here?”

She looked up, surprised by the question. “Of course I am. Why?”

I lifted one shoulder. “Just checking.”

She dried her hands on a dish towel and walked over, sliding onto my lap without hesitation. “I thought you figured that out after the third snowstorm.”

“Still figured you might run.”

“Gabriel.” Her voice softened, serious now. “I’m not going anywhere. You know that, right?”

I nodded, my throat tight. “Yeah.”

She cupped my jaw, her thumb stroking my cheek. “Six months ago, I thought I was taking pictures of birds. Turns out I was falling in love with a stubborn mountain man instead.”

I kissed her before I said something I couldn’t take back. I kissed her until Max huffed and shifted like we were ruining his peaceful fireside nap.

When we finally broke apart, I murmured against her lips, “You ever think about what comes next?”

She smiled. “All the time.”

“Kids?” I asked, low. Careful.

Her eyes softened. “Someday.”

I nodded. That was enough. That was everything.

She slid off my lap and headed back to the kitchen, humming to herself like she hadn’t just given me something to hope for.

Max groaned dramatically and walked over to lay beside me, flopping onto his side. “Yeah, yeah,” I said, reaching down to rub his belly. “I’m a goner.”

Outside, the wind was picking up again. Snow clouds were forming in the distance. But inside this cabin, the fire was warm, the woman I loved was making cookies she’d pretend were for her sweet tooth, but we both knew they were for mine. And our dog was snoring like a chainsaw.

And for the first time in a long damn time, everything felt exactly right.