"It's beautiful," I admit, pausing to take in the landscape.
"This is one of my favorite spots," Declan says, coming to stand beside me. "Especially after a storm, when everything feels washed clean."
Perhaps it's the lingering intimacy from our time in the blind, or the strange vulnerability that comes after being caught in a storm, but something compels me to share a thought I'd normally keep private.
"I used to climb the maple tree behind our house in Vermont to get views like this," I say softly. "My father would get so angry, worried I'd fall. But I needed to see beyond our little town."
"And now you have the corner office with the Manhattan skyline view," Declan observes.
"Forty-third floor," I confirm. "You can see all the way to the Statue of Liberty on clear days."
"But not trees. Or mountains."
"No," I concede. "Not those."
Our eyes meet, and the same electric current I felt in the blind passes between us again, stronger this time without the distraction of thunder and rain.
"We should keep moving," I say, breaking eye contact. "Mia will be wondering where I am."
"Sure." Declan gestures ahead. "It's mostly downhill from here."
We continue in silence for a while, the only sounds our footsteps on the wet ground and the occasional call of a bird. I find myself hyper-aware of his presence beside me—the rhythm of his breathing, the way he instinctively positions himself on the outside edge of the trail, the lingering scent of cedar and spice that clings to him.
"About Mia," he says eventually. "I hope it's okay that she's been spending so much time with my family. Mom tends to adopt every child who crosses her path."
"It's fine," I assure him. "More than fine, actually. Mia's clearly thriving here."
"She's a great kid. Smart, curious, kind."
"Yes, she is." Pride warms my voice. "Though I can't take all the credit. She came into this world with her own personality fully formed."
"But you've given her a solid foundation," Declan says. "That counts for a lot."
I'm touched by his perception, by how he sees the effort behind my sometimes rigid parenting. "Thank you for saying that. I'm not always sure I'm doing it right."
"Is anyone?" He shrugs. "My parents weren't perfect, but they gave us roots and wings. That's all any kid really needs."
"Roots and wings," I repeat, liking the phrase. "I worry I've focused too much on the wings part—preparing her for success, independence—and not enough on roots."
"You're her roots, Jules," he says simply. "You and whatever home you create together, wherever that is."
Something shifts in my chest, a truth recognized but not fully embraced until this moment. Home isn't my carefully decorated Manhattan apartment or my gleaming office. It's wherever Mia is. And right now, she's happier at this mountain lodge than I've seen her in months.
The thought unsettles me, and I quicken my pace slightly.
We round a bend in the trail, and the lodge comes into fuller view, now much closer. Staff and guests mill about on the terrace, enjoying the post-storm sunshine. The retreat activities have clearly resumed.
"Looks like things are back to normal," Declan observes.
"Yes," I say, suddenly eager to return to the structure and schedule of the retreat. "I should check on my team, see what I've missed."
"And I should make sure dinner preparations are on track." He sounds reluctant, as if also sensing the bubble of our shared experience beginning to dissolve.
We approach a small wooden footbridge that crosses a swollen stream—likely fed by the recent rainfall. Water rushes beneath it, catching golden light in its ripples.
"One more potentially slippery spot," Declan warns, stepping onto the bridge first and offering his hand again.
This time I take it without hesitation, our fingers interlacing naturally. He helps me onto the bridge, and we stand there for a moment, halfway between wilderness and civilization, our hands still joined.
