"Janet—"
"I'm just saying, I haven't heard you this excited about anything since before Derek told you writing children's books wasn't a 'real career.'"
The memory of Derek's dismissive tone still stings, but not as much as it used to. Not since Rowan looked at my sketches of Gordon the Mayor and actually smiled. Not since he started carving tiny animals into trail markers just to make me laugh.
"The lodge is having a bonfire tonight," I say instead of addressing her point. "I thought I might read some of the new pages, get feedback from the guests."
"Now that's the Daisy I remember." Janet's smile is back. "The one who used to read to her class with all the funny voices. Before you started doubting yourself."
"I don't doubt?—"
"You do. Ever since Derek. But something's different now." She pauses. "Or someone."
"He carved animals into trail markers for me," I whisper, like a confession. "He pretends to be all grumpy and practical, but he makes the magic feel real."
"Oh, honey."
"I know." I press my forehead to my knees. "I know, okay? I know I'm only here temporarily. I know he's got walls up higher than these mountains. I know this isn't..."
"What if it could be?"
"What?"
"What if it could be more?" Janet's voice is gentle.
My heart stutters. "Janet..."
"Sometimes the best stories aren't the ones we plan." A pause. "Your deadline's not set in stone, you know. If you needed more time for research."
I watch another butterfly land on the flowers Rowan planted.
"I should go," I say. "Need to get ready for the bonfire."
"Daisy?" Janet's voice stops me before I hang up. "Don't let Derek's voice in your head convince you that you don't deserve a little magic. In your writing or your life."
I end the call and flop back onto the grass, staring up at the mountain sky. Rascal abandons his leaves to curl up beside me, his purple sweater a testament to all the ways Rowan pretends not to care.
"I'm in trouble, buddy," I tell my dog, who responds by licking my chin. "Big, grumpy, flannel-wearing trouble."
In the distance, I hear the solid thunk of an axe. Rowan's probably chopping wood for tonight's bonfire, being all competent and capable and pretending he doesn't notice how I watch him when he works.
Ten more days.
I press my hands to my eyes, trying to silence the voice that sounds suspiciously like Janet asking "what if?"
Because "what if" is dangerous. "What if" makes me notice how the sun catches green and gold in Rowan's eyes. How his rare smiles feel like secrets meant just for me. How these mountains are starting to feel more like home than my city apartment ever did.
"Come on." I scratch Rascal's ears, trying to shake off the weight of realization. "Let's go get ready for the bonfire. Maybe we can convince your favorite grumpy human to actually sit with us tonight instead of lurking in the shadows."
The fire crackles, sending sparks dancing into the twilight sky. Lodge guests gather around with mugs of hot chocolate while I watch Rowan methodically stack firewood in the shadows, precise and careful even in this simple task. He moves like someone used to staying just outside the circle of light, of warmth, of connection.
"Who wants to hear about the time Dad accidentally set his boots on fire trying to impress Mom?" Connor settles onto a log with his guitar, grinning as the guests lean forward eagerly.
"That's not how it happened," Evie calls from where she's helping little Emma make the perfect s'more. "He was trying to prove he could juggle fiery marshmallow sticks."
"Because you said wilderness guides should be coordinated," Liam adds with a laugh.
"And romantic," Evie's eyes twinkle. "Though I'm not sure third-degree marshmallow burns were quite what I had in mind."
