Page 11 of Noel with the Mountain Man
Noel's curled against me, her hand resting over my heart, her breathing deep and even. I watch her sleep and try to remember the last time I felt this... settled.
Not since Maren.
The thought should bring guilt, but it doesn't. Maren would've kicked my ass for spending two years in self-imposed isolation. She was all light and laughter, and she would've hated knowing I'd turned into this—a hermit who avoided holidays and human connection.
She would've liked Noel.
The realization doesn't hurt the way I expect it to. Instead, it feels likepermission.
Noel stirs, her eyes fluttering open. When she sees me watching her, a slow smile spreads across her face.
"Hi," she murmurs.
"Hi yourself."
"How long was I asleep?"
"Couple hours."
She stretches beneath the blankets. "We should probably eat something," she says. "Real food, not just each other."
I raise an eyebrow. "Did you just—"
"Yep. And I'm not taking it back." She grins, climbing out of bed and pulling on my flannel shirt. It hangs to mid-thigh on her, and the sight of her wearing my clothes does something primal to my chest. "Come on, mountain man. Let's raid the kitchen."
We head downstairs, and I watch her move around the kitchen like she owns it—opening cabinets, pulling out pasta and canned sauce, humming some melody I don't recognize. She's added her red scarf to the back of a chair. Her boots are by the door next to mine.
The cabin doesn't feel like a hiding place anymore.
It feels like home.
"What?" she asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing." I move to help her, our shoulders brushing. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous activity."
"Says the woman who makes decisions based on feelings."
"Feelings are valid data." She hands me a pot. "Water?"
We work together to make dinner, and it's surprisingly easy. Natural. She tells me about her students—little kids with big personalities. I find myself telling her about a commissioned piece I'm working on, a dining table for a couple celebrating their fiftieth anniversary.
"That's romantic," she says, stirring sauce. "Building something that'll last that long."
"That's the goal. Build things that last."
She glances at me, something soft in her expression. "Is that what you want? Things that last?"
"Used to think I had it." I lean against the counter. "Maren and I had plans. House, kids, the whole thing. Then she was gone, and I couldn't... I couldn't picture any of it without her."
"And now?"
I look at her, at this woman who burst into my solitude wearing a ridiculous amount of optimism and somehow made me want things again.
"Now I'm starting to think maybe there are different versions of forever," I say quietly.
She sets down the spoon and crosses to me, sliding her arms around my waist. I pull her close, breathing in the scent of her.
