The question hangs in the night air between us, more honest than anything I've heard in years. I think about Heather, how she tried to change me, change the lodge, change everything to fit her idea of what life should be. How I started believing maybe I was the problem.
"Maybe," I say finally. "Or maybe we're just looking for the place that fits us as we are."
Her hand finds mine in the darkness, her fingers slipping between mine like they belong there. And maybe they do.
"Maybe we've already found it," she whispers.
I don't answer. I can't. Because the moonlight is making her hair shimmer like silver, and she's wearing my jacket, and her dog is snoring softly against my chest, and everything about this moment feels too big, too important to trust with words.
We reach her cabin door, the porch light casting a warm circle in the darkness. I realize I'm still holding Rascal, his tinybody curled trustingly against my chest. The thought of handing him over, of ending this moment, makes something in me resist.
"I should probably..." I nod toward the sleeping dog.
"Right." Daisy steps closer, and suddenly the space between us feels charged with possibility. As she reaches for Rascal, her fingers brush against mine, lingering longer than necessary.
The dog stirs, blinking sleepily as he's transferred from my arms to hers. For a moment, we're so close I can smell the woodsmoke in her hair, see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
"Would you like to come in?" she asks softly. "I could make tea. Or coffee. Or hot chocolate with those little marshmallows..."
I should say no. I should thank her politely and retreat to the safety of my solitude. Instead, I hear myself say, "I should probably get going."
But I don't move.
"Probably," she agrees. But she doesn't move either.
We stand there in the porch light, searching for reasons to extend this moment. I find myself noticing details I'll carry back to my empty cabin. How the light catches on her lashes, the small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, the way she's still wrapped in my jacket like it belongs on her shoulders.
"You can take it back," she says, catching my gaze. "Your jacket."
"Keep it." The words come out rougher than I intended. "It's still cold."
"Such a gentleman." She shifts Rascal to one arm and reaches up with her free hand, her fingers lightly brushing my collar as if straightening it. "Always taking care of everyone but yourself."
Her touch sends a current through me, awakening things I've kept dormant for too long. "Daisy..."
"I know." Her voice drops to a whisper. "You didn't ask for this. For me barging into your quiet world with my chaos and my talking dog and my fairy tales."
"That's not?—"
"But here's the thing, Rowan Callahan." Her eyes meet mine with surprising intensity. "I think your world had room for a little chaos all along. Just like my stories needed a little groundedness. We just didn't know it until now."
Everything shifts in that moment. The world tilts on its axis, recalibrates around this truth I've been fighting since she first got lost on my trails. My carefully constructed defenses crumble under the weight of her simple understanding.
"I'm leaving in nine days," she whispers, the reminder like a physical ache between us.
"I know."
"And I'm still the impractical dreamer who talks to animals."
"I know that too."
Her free hand comes to rest against my chest, right over my heart. "And you're still the grumpy groundskeeper who pretends not to believe in magic."
"I never said I didn't believe in magic," I murmur, my hand covering hers, holding it against my heart. "Just that some trails lead places you don't expect."
Something shifts in her expression—hope and fear and longing all mingled together. "Rowan?"
I don't answer with words. Instead, I close the last breath of space between us, my free hand cupping her cheek as I finally, finally stop fighting what's been building since that first day in the woods.
