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"I want it to be perfect," Miles admitted, brushing his thumb across my lower lip. "And I don't want to rush anything. We have all the time in the world."

The tenderness in his voice made my heart swell. This wasn't rejection—it was care, consideration, the kind I'd never experienced before. I nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his palm.

"Then show me more of your grandmother's land," I said, letting him help me to my feet. "I want to see everything."

Miles's smile was radiant as he gathered our half-eaten lunch, carefully wrapping everything before taking my hand. "There's a wildflower meadow just beyond those trees that have a small waterfall.”

We spent the afternoon exploring every corner of the property, Miles sharing stories about his childhood summers as we wandered through the meadow he'd mentioned.

The waterfall was small but enchanting, cascading over moss-covered rocks into a clear pool that reflected the sky like a mirror.

I pressed more flowers into my journal, sketching rough drawings beside them while Miles built a small cairn of stones by the water's edge.

"Another offering for the creek guardians?" I teased, watching him carefully balance the final stone.

"Old habits," he said with a grin, but there was something reverent in the way he placed it, as if the ritual still held meaning for him.

As evening approached, we returned to camp where Miles showed me how to build a proper fire.

His hands guided mine as we arranged kindling, his patient instruction reminding me of Christopher's cooking lessons.

The first spark caught, and I felt a surge of pride as the flames grew, dancing and crackling in the stone circle.

"I did it," I breathed, watching the fire take hold.

"You did," Miles confirmed, his voice warm with pride. "Natural outdoorswoman."

I laughed, settling back on the log bench he'd positioned near the fire. "Hardly. But I'm learning."

As twilight descended, Miles unpacked the evening meal Christopher had prepared—foil packets filled with seasoned vegetables and chicken that we placed directly on the hot coals.

The scent of herbs and spices mingled with woodsmoke, creating an aroma that made my mouth water.

While we waited for the food to cook, Miles produced a small battery-powered speaker from his backpack.

"Music?" he asked, scrolling through his phone. "Or would you prefer just the sounds of nature?"

"Music," I decided, curious about his taste.

He selected something soft and acoustic, a melody that seemed to blend perfectly with the twilight sounds around us—crickets beginning their evening chorus, the gentle babble of the creek, the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

The music settled around us like another layer of warmth, complementing rather than competing with nature's symphony.

"This is perfect," I murmured, hugging my knees to my chest as I watched the fire dance. The flames cast Miles in a golden glow, highlighting the planes of his face and the warmth in his eyes as he watched me.

"Perfect," he agreed, his voice soft in the gathering darkness. "Though I have to admit, the company makes all the difference."

I felt a blush warm my cheeks as I met his gaze across the fire.

There was something magical about this moment—the crackling flames, the first stars beginning to appear overhead, the man who had opened his most sacred space to me sitting just close enough that I could feel his presence like a physical warmth.

“How about we make some s’mores?” Miles asked as he grinned at me.

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You came prepared for s'mores?"

Miles grinned, reaching into another bag I hadn't noticed.

"Christopher may have packed the gourmet meal, but I handled the campfire classics.

" He produced a box of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows, and several bars of chocolate—not just any chocolate, but the expensive kind that Julian preferred.

"Of course you got the good chocolate," I laughed, accepting the roasting stick he handed me.

"Only the best for your first s'mores experience," Miles said, threading a marshmallow onto his own stick. "Though I should warn you—there's a proper technique to this."

I watched as he held his marshmallow at the perfect distance from the flames, rotating it slowly until it turned a perfect golden brown. Mine, meanwhile, caught fire almost immediately.

"Like this?” I pulled my flaming marshmallow back from the fire, watching it burn like a tiny torch.

"Blow it out!" Miles laughed, and I quickly extinguished the flames, left with a charred black exterior that cracked to reveal molten sweetness underneath.

"I think I like it better this way," I said, carefully sliding the burnt marshmallow between graham crackers and chocolate. The contrast between the bitter char and sweet interior was unexpectedly delicious.

"A rebel," Miles observed with mock seriousness. "My grandmother would have called you a kindred spirit. She always burned her marshmallows on purpose too."

I took another bite, savoring the messy combination of flavors. "Did she really?"

"Every single time," Miles confirmed, successfully achieving another perfect golden marshmallow. "Said life was too short to wait for perfection when you could have character instead."

I grinned, licking melted chocolate from my fingertips. “I think I would’ve liked her.”

Miles looked at me over the fire, his smile fading into something softer.

“She would’ve spoiled you.” There was a quiet weight to the moment—something unspoken but deeply felt.

I let it settle around us like the night air, thick with the scent of pine and smoke.

The sky above had turned dark, stars freckling the horizon.

We finished our s’mores in companionable silence, the warmth from the fire soaking into my skin, into my bones, until I felt drowsy and safe in a way I hadn’t known I could be. Miles stood and stretched, then offered me his hand again.

“Come on,” he said, voice low and gentle.

“There’s one more thing I want to show you.

” I followed him through the trees, our flashlight cutting a soft golden cone ahead of us.

The forest looked different at night—more alive somehow, the sounds richer, the shadows deeper but less threatening with Miles at my side.

We walked for what felt like a long time but couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, until the trees thinned and the canopy above opened to reveal a clearing.

And then I saw it.

A field of lightning bugs.

Hundreds—maybe thousands—of tiny glowing lights blinked and shimmered, suspended in the air like stardust that had fallen to earth. I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest as wonder filled me so completely I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

“They only come out like this a few weeks a year,” Miles said quietly, watching my reaction more than the lights. “I used to think it was magic.”

“It is,” I whispered. “It’s absolutely magic.” I turned to look at him, and found him already watching me.

“I wanted you to see this,” he said. “To remember it. No matter what happens next, I wanted you to have this moment.” The lump in my throat made it hard to speak. I took his hand, weaving my fingers between his and stepping closer so I could rest my head against his shoulder.

“Thank you.” Was all I said, as he gave a low chuckle as I kept my eyes on the bugs lighting up the field. I felt myself lean into him fully, allowing the last pieces of my guarded heart to unfold in the safety of his presence.