But then his voice comes, rough and raw.
“Okay. You want to play games? Answer me this." He glares across the room at me. "What happens when the storm ends? To you. To your little gallery dream. What do you actually want, Penny?”
I swallow and sitting up straighter. “I want… more. To make something that matters. To prove I can stand on my own two feet, not just live under my parents’ roof listening to them harp about responsibility. I want—” I break off, biting my lip. “I want people tosee me. Really see me.”
His eyes soften enough to make my heart stutter.
“And you?” I shoot back, because I’m not about to let him get away with deflecting. “What happens when the storm ends, Edward Rogers? You just go back to hiding again? To sketching soldiers in the shadows and pretending you’re not still alive?”
His throat works a large swallow, but he doesn’t answer.
So I push harder. “See. I'm right. You should come with me. To Scottsdale. The gallery. You could even wear that new flannel shirt we found yesterday so you don’t scare the customers too much. Trust me, people will eat it up. Tortured veteran with talent? You’d sell out opening night.”
A laugh huffs out of him and he shakes his head. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely right,” I counter, grinning. “And don’t even try to argue, because we both know I’m stubborn enough to drag you there myself.”
His gaze pins me, a question forming on his brow. “Why?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with an underlying meaning that we both fully understand.
"Because… you’re more than what you think you are. And I—” My voice cracks. “I don’t want this to be temporary. Us. You and me, stuck in a storm. It doesn’t feel temporary, Edward. Does it?”
For a moment, the only sound is the fire crackling and the whisper of snow against the window. Then he rises, crossing the room with heavy boots until he’s standing right in front of me.
He crouches, his massive frame folding down until his eyes are level with mine.
“Penny,” he says, my name rough on his lips. “I don’t know what the hell you’ve done to me. But I know nothing about this feels temporary.”
His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing my skin with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
"Wh-what does that mean then?" I ask. "For us?"
He shrugs and holds his hand steady. “It means, I love you. I never thought I’d say those words again, but… fuck, I do. I love you.”
The dam breaks and tears sting my eyes, hot and absolutely unashamed.
I melt into him, every piece of me fitting against his solid frame. His scent, his heat, the rasp of his stubble against my skin—it’s everything I didn’t know I needed until now.
“I love you too, Edward Rogers,” I whisper, my voice shaking with joy. “You grumpy, stubborn, impossible man. I love you.”
He smiles. "This is a bit crazy, right?"
I nod and laugh and cry… all at the same time. "Of course it is! We barely know each other. But maybe that doesn't matter? What matters isthis… Us."
"You're right. You're always fucking right."
And then his mouth is on mine.
It’s not frantic this time. Not desperate, like the storm might steal us apart the moment this all ends.
It’s slow. Intentional.
A kiss that lingers, savors, and promises. His lips are warm, his hand steady against my jaw, anchoring me in place.
When he pulls back, just enough to press his forehead to mine, his voice is low, fierce. “You’re mine, Penny. And I’m not letting you go.”
“Good,” I murmur, tugging him down again. “Because I’m not letting you go either.”
