Page 36 of Mountain Storm

He angles his head to meet my eyes. "Now we decide. You can go down when the road opens. I won't stop you. Or you can stay and write from here. It won't be easy. I won't be easy. I'll still be what I am. I'll try to be softer. I'll fail sometimes."

"You think I want easy?" I let a small smile lift my mouth. "I drove into a blizzard to find a myth. I'm not a woman who looks for easy."

"True," he says, and the corner of his mouth tilts in a way that warms me.

I rise to my knees and swing a leg over his lap so I straddle him. His hands find my hips like they belong there. I press my forehead to his.

"I choose you," I say. "I choose the mountain. I choose the truth you offered me. I will write what I can and keep what is ours. I will not run when you go quiet. You will not shut me out when the past reaches for you."

His breath gusts against my mouth. "I'll try. If I falter, you drag me back."

"Don't worry. I will."

The air thickens. Heat rises. He kisses me, not with fury and not with demand. He kisses me like a man who understands the weight of consent and intends to carry it. I roll my hips and feel him respond, slow and certain. He lifts my shirt. I raise my arms. He takes his time, as if each inch of skin deserves notice. The fire paints us in amber. The window holds a square of white.

He lowers me to the mattress and follows. There is no rush. There is only a steady climb that feels like memory and promise braided together. His hands map paths he has taken before, but now he asks with each touch and I answer with each breath. He moves inside me, deep and sure, and I meet him, opening, taking, giving. The world narrows to heat and the soft rasp of skin and the sounds we make when we stop pretending we are not built for this.

My release gathers and crests. I clutch his shoulders and let it take me. He follows with a groan that vibrates through my ribs. He stays inside me, forehead to mine, breath unsteady.

"I love you," he says again, voice raw. "I will spend what is left of me proving it."

"Then start now," I whisper. "Start by trusting me with the next choice."

He eases free and pulls the blankets over us. We lie on our sides, facing each other. His thumb traces the line of my cheekbone. I catch his hand and kiss the center of his palm.

"You still owe me a story," I say. "Not for the world. For me."

"What story?"

"The first time the Beast met the girl who would not run."

He huffs a quiet breath. "I saw you on a trail you shouldn't have taken. You didn't cry. You didn't beg. You looked at me like I was a storm you meant to learn to endure. I carried you out and left you because I knew if I stayed, I would never leave. I have been walking in circles ever since."

"Until now," I say.

"Until now."

We drift in a warm hush that tastes like peace. The mountain groans and settles. Somewhere, ice cracks with a sound like distant thunder. The day leans toward afternoon and the light spills gold. I close my eyes and let myself believe, for the first time, that the storm carried me exactly where I was meant to be.

Somewhere far below, engines snarl and fade, the sweep moving out of range. For now, the mountain is ours.