He squeezes my shoulder. “Turning down that movie. The A-list director. David called it a career-making opportunity.” He looks down at our joined hands resting on my knee. “You gave up a lot to stay here, Mags.”
Ah, that regret. The memory of that phone call still makes my stomach clench. David had sounded personally offended. “It was a tremendous opportunity,” I acknowledge honestly. “The kind Lena Kensington spent years chasing. Mostly forthe awards season wardrobe budget, if I'm being honest.” I glance toward the man beside me, sturdy and real in his perpetually worn Henley. “And the director? Let's say his reputation preceded him, and not in a good way.”
“But?” he asks.
"But..." I sigh, trying to articulate the tangle of feelings. "It felt like choosing the costume—probably something uncomfortable involving Spanx—over the actual person. Like agreeing to keep playing a role when I'd found out the character underneath was way more interesting, albeit less likely to get good table service." I look around the fire-lit room, at the worn wood, the slightly askew painting of a moose, the man beside me who still occasionally forgets where he put his keys. "Staying here ... felt like choosing something real. Messy and complicated and sometimes involving actual bears, but real." I poke his arm. "You're part of the 'real,' by the way."
"So no more Hollywood?" Finn asks gently.
"Not right now. Maybe not ever. I'm taking a break from being Lena Kensington—could be temporary, could be the end of that chapter entirely. I'll know when I know."
Finn lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that's far too charming for a man who owns this much flannel. His eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I never expected you to stay, you know. After our argument ... after I was such a prize-winning idiot...”
“You were impressively stubborn,” I agree, tracing the faint scar above his eyebrow with my fingertip. “Reached new heights of stoic grumpiness. It was almost admirable,” I add with amusement. “But I recall being fairly headstrong myself. Something about demanding answers and refusing to be intimidated by bears or bank managers?”
“Maybe,” he concedes, a small, reluctant smile touching his lips. That expression still gets me every time. “But Mags, I need you to know, if you had gotten back on that plane ... ifyou'd decided that movie, that life, was what you needed ... I wouldn't have stood here moping.”
My breath catches.Okay, shift in tone.“What do you mean?”
He turns toward me, cupping my face with his hands—hands that can fix a generator or be infinitely gentle. His expression is serious. No trace of grumpy now. “I meant what I said on the dock. Losing you isn't an option. I would have figured it out.” He takes a breath. “Sold the lodge, rented it out, learned to navigate LA freeways—which frankly sounds more terrifying than any fjord—followed you, become a pool boy if I had to. Whatever it took. I wouldn't have let pride, or fear, or this pile of admittedly beautiful logs keep us apart. Not again.”
Okay. Wow.His words—the raw conviction simmering beneath them—knock the air right out of me. That's ... more than any grand gesture I've witnessed in my last five rom-coms combined. This vulnerability, this willingness to uproot his whole life for us ... it crashes through all my usual defenses and lands straight in my chest. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes.Damn it.
“Oh, Finn,” I whisper, covering his hand on my cheek, feeling the rough, steady warmth of his skin.
He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. Close enough to see the creases at the corners of his eyes.
“I know,” I say, my voice thick with unexpected emotion. And I do. It's in the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention, the way he automatically makes me coffee first thing, the way he grudgingly agreed to let me attempt decorating the guest cabins. Phase One—Operation Banish Beige is pending.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine, the intensity softening. “So, no regrets? Not even about the distinct lack of decent Thai food within a 500-mile radius?”
I laugh, wiping away a stray tear. “None,” I confirm, my voice soft but firm. “Not a single one. Though I reserve the right to complain about the Thai food situation. Loudly.”
The air between us crackles again, but this time, it's pure electricity. The confession, the shared vulnerability, has cranked up the heat more effectively than tossing another log on the fire. He leans closer, his lips finding mine in a kiss that speaks volumes—shared history, inside jokes, quiet battles won, and the thrilling uncertainty of what comes next. It's slow, deep, familiar, yet still sends a jolt right to my toes. His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer on the sofa that has known better days. My fingers tangle in his hair—still soft for a rugged mountain man. The kiss deepens, urgency simmering, fueled by the confession, the isolation, the simple, overwhelming miracle of this. He groans against my mouth, a low rumble that vibrates straight through me.
He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, eyes dark with a desire that mirrors my own. “This sofa”—he glances down at the long-suffering leather—”is not ideal for ... vigorous activities.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you blaming the furniture for what's about to happen? Bold move, Finn. Or are you suggesting a change of venue?” My breath hitches as his hand slides beneath my sweater, his calloused palm warm against the bare skin of my back. Goosebumps erupt.
“Thinking the floor might be more ... accommodating.” His eyes drop to the thick bear rug spread before the hearth. The one I swore I'd never get near.
A thrill shoots through me, sharp and immediate. Finally, putting those tracking skills to good use. “Leading the way, wilderness man?”
His answering smile is pure, unrestrained Finn—all rugged charm and wicked intent. He stands, pulling me up with him, then draws me down onto the soft fur of the rug.Apparently, Mr. Bear had excellent taste in conditioner. The firelight is warm on our skin as clothes seem like a terrible, unnecessary invention. Shedding them becomes a shared project, efficient and perhaps a little frantic, punctuated by kisses and muttered appreciations. Skin against skin, firelight flickering, shadows dancing like exhibitionists on the walls. The only sounds are the crackling flames putting on their show, the jealous-sounding sigh of the wind outside, and our ragged breaths.
His hands rediscover familiar territory, yet somehow it feels brand new, igniting sparks with every touch. My hands map the solid geography of him, emboldened by the raw desire hardening his eyes. This isn't the desperate, terrified coupling in the cave. This is slow-burn turned wildfire, deliberate and deep, grounded in three months of shared mornings, arguments over who finished the coffee, and the quiet miracle of building a life together. It's knowing and being known, flaws and flannel included. It's choosing this, choosing each other, with emphasis.
He enters me with a sigh that tangles with my own, a perfect, breathtaking fit. A coming home. The rhythm builds, slow and deep, then faster, more urgent, a frantic dance mirroring the pulse hammering beneath our skin. Firelight paints us gold, shadows merging and writhing. We move together, lost, found, until the world narrows to pure sensation, pure connection, cresting together in a shattering release that leaves us sprawled, breathless, tangled like poorly stored Christmas lights on the comfortable bear rug.
Later, wrapped together under the soft cashmere throw I definitely didn't order online during a moment of weakness, his arm is a warm, grounding weight around me. My head rests on his chest, where the steady drumbeat of his heart anchors me more than anything ever has. Peace settles over me—quiet, deep, and complete. LA might as well be a differentgalaxy. A noisy, glittering planet I visited once. This—the man currently breathing contentedly into my hair, the wild beauty outside these windows, the unexpected woman I'm becoming—this is what's real. What fits. Even the rug burn, I think drowsily, is probably worth it.
“Mags?” Finn says, his voice sleepy, muffled by my hair.
“Hmm?”
“You're smiling. What's so funny?”
“Am I?” I snuggle closer, pressing a kiss to his warm chest. “Must be the excellent company.” I pause. “And the fact that I think the bear rug winked at me.”
