"Sorry," I murmur, not moving away. "He's still a work in progress."
"Aren't we all." His voice is low, intimate in a way that makes my skin tingle.
The moment stretches, charged with everything we're not saying. Then Rascal barks again, breaking the spell.
"We're almost there," Rowan says, releasing me reluctantly. "Just around this bend."
I follow him through a natural archway formed by two leaning trees, and then suddenly—magic.
A small clearing opens before us, cradled by ancient trees. A waterfall cascades down moss-covered rocks into a crystal-clear pool, sending rainbows dancing through the mist. Wildflowers dot the edges of the clearing in bursts of purple and gold.
"Rowan," I breathe. "It's beautiful."
"That's not all." He leads me to the far side of the clearing where, nestled among the trees, stands a small structure. It takes me a moment to realize what I'm seeing. It’s a wildlife blind, perfectly positioned for viewing both the waterfall and the clearing.
As we get closer, I can see the details. It's not just a simple blind. It's a tiny studio, its design clearly inspired by the sketches in my notebook. A comfortable seat at just the right height for drawing. A small shelf for supplies. Even a tiny window positioned to capture the perfect view of where animals would drink from the pool.
But it's the little touches that steal my breath. The shelf has compartments sized exactly for my different notebooks. The seat has a cushion in my favorite shade of purple. And hanging from a small hook is a jar of the peppermint tea I mentioned loving once, in passing, days ago.
"When did you..." I can't finish the sentence, too overwhelmed by what this represents.
"Been working on restoring it for about a week." He shrugs like it's nothing.
I run my fingers over the smooth wood, feeling the care in every joint, every detail. "You carved animals into the beams."
Tiny rabbits, deer, foxes, and yes, even a distinguished-looking groundhog peer out from the wooden supports, each rendered with surprising delicacy.
"Just some simple designs," he says, but his eyes watch my reaction carefully. "For atmosphere."
"This is..." I swallow past the lump in my throat. "No one's ever made anything like this for me before."
Derek's voice echoes in my memory:When are you going to grow up and get a real job? These animal stories are cute, but they're not a career, Daisy.
Rowan's quiet voice pulls me back. "You see things others don't. The magic in these woods. Seems only fair they give you a place to capture it."
Our eyes meet, and suddenly we're not talking about the blind anymore, or the woods, or my sketches. We're talking about something neither of us is ready to name, but both feel with startling intensity.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He nods once, his expression softening in a way I'm beginning to recognize as uniquely mine. "Want to try it out?"
I settle into the seat, which fits me perfectly. Rascal immediately curls up in the small sunny patch beneath the window, as if this space was made for him too. And maybe it was.
"How did you know exactly what I needed?" I ask as Rowan leans against the doorframe, watching me explore the small space.
"I pay attention," he says simply.
Three words that encompass so much. How he notices which wildflowers make me pause on the trail. Which tea I drink in the afternoon. How I hold my notebook when sketching. Three words that stand in stark contrast to everyone who told me to be different, more practical, less dreamy.
"Rowan." His name comes out like a question.
He moves closer, until he's kneeling beside the seat, eye level with me. "Daisy."
The way he says my name—like it's something precious, something special—breaks the last of my resistance. I reach for him just as he reaches for me, and this time when our lips meet, there's nothing hesitant about it.
His hand cradles my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my heart ache. I grip his flannel shirt, pulling him closer, trying to memorize every sensation. Thesoftness of his lips, the faint taste of coffee, the gentle strength in his hands.
When we break apart, his eyes are darker, more intense than I've ever seen them. "This is..." He struggles for words.
