He pulls back. “Why not?”
“I run a bar full of drunk men and glitter bras, Cain. It’s chaos and whiskey and bad music. I’m not leaving that.”
He groans. “But the health code violations?—”
“—are part of the charm,” I say, grinning.
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, too.
Outside, the desert wind moves through the palms.
And inside, I’m finally, irrevocably…home.
“Fine.” He huffs. “But I reserve the right to grumble about it.”
We fall asleep like that—tangled and warm, the past finally laid to rest, the future cracking open around us like dawn.
31
THE QUIET YES
CAIN
It’s been two years since she walked into Ripley’s and changed everything I thought I knew about love, trust, and what it means to be a family.
Two years of us.
Of small steps.
Of morning coffees and shared silences, and learning to ask instead of assume.
Two years of finding the sacred in the ordinary. Of watching Faith laugh at terrible movies, dance barefoot in the kitchen, read five books at once, and remember every detail.
Two years of watching her come back to herself, piece by hard-earned piece.
There was a time I thought she’d run. That Silverton would always be a layover, not a home. That I would always be the man shealmosttrusted.
But she stayed.
Through Melody’s trial, conviction, and incarceration.
Through apologies and consequences, and the quiet justice that finally came.
She stayed on the nights she couldn’t sleep, and the mornings she woke up humming.
She stayed and changed everything.
I plan the proposal in secret. Not because Faith is the kind of woman who needs grand gestures—she isn’t. But this moment isn’t about showmanship, it’s about choosing her the way she chooses herself and me, deliberately, every day.
We drive out to the trail where I took her for a picnic many moons ago.
It’s quiet, the forest tall and close like a sanctuary. The falls crash in the distance, a low and constant drumbeat.
Faith doesn’t suspect anything. She’s wearing her favorite flannel, boots caked in mud, hair in a braid.
We sit on the overlook, legs dangling off the ledge like kids. The wind picks up a little. She shivers. I wrap my arm around her. She leans in.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say.
