Chapter 44 – The Fire in the Quiet
Marissa didn't remember falling asleep. She only remembered the feeling: safe, full, worn down in a good way. The kind of tired that comes not from exhaustion, but from release. And when she woke up, she didn't even open her eyes at first she just listened. Mason's breath beside her. The distant rustle of wind through pine trees. A bird calling somewhere far away.
It was quiet. But not empty.
When she finally did open her eyes, she turned toward him. He was awake. Just watching her.
"You always do that?" she asked.
"Only when you look like you're dreaming something beautiful."
She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. "I don't think I ever used to dream. Not really."
"Maybe you just didn't feel safe enough to remember them."
That thought stayed with her the rest of the morning.
They drove into town after breakfast, an unhurried rhythm to their steps. She stopped by the tiny bookstore she'd seen on her first day in this place the one she hadn't dared go into. Mason walked in with her, fingers brushing hers as they browsed. She bought a book of poems. He bought a notebook.
"For what?" she asked.
"Stuff I want to remember."
Later that day, back at the cabin, Mason asked if she wanted to walk the trail behind the house. The sky was bruised with clouds, but the sun peeked through in occasional golden streaks.
They walked in silence for a long time, feet crunching on old pine needles, breath making soft clouds in the chill.
Then Mason spoke.
"What would you do, if you weren't afraid?"
She didn't answer at first. The question unraveled something in her.
"I'd stay," she finally said. "I wouldn't keep looking for the exits."
He reached for her hand. "Then stay. Even if you're scared. Stay anyway."
It rained that evening. Thunder rolled in the distance, soft and steady. They lit candles, played old records, slow-danced in the living room like there was nowhere else to be.
She let her head rest on his shoulder. He smelled like rain and home.
"This thing between us," she whispered. "It feels too good to be real."
"It's real because we choose it. Every day. That's what makes it strong."
Marissa closed her eyes.
Maybe healing wasn't always loud. Maybe it looked like dancing barefoot in the dark, trusting the arms that held you.
Maybe love wasn't a firework.
Maybe it was a fire.
Slow. Steady. Warm enough to live in.
The next morning, Marissa sat curled on the porch swing with her knees tucked to her chest, sipping coffee from the same chipped mug. The rain had passed, leaving everything washed clean the leaves glistening, the earth scented with petrichor.
Mason came out and handed her a blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders before settling beside her. She leaned into him.
"I don't want this to end," she murmured.
"Then don't let it," he said simply. "We write our ending. No one else."
She turned toward him, her expression searching. "Do you really think we can keep this? That the world won't tear it apart the second we step back into it?"
"The world will try," Mason said. "But we're not who we were before. We've grown roots. Deep ones."
She looked away, emotions crowding her throat. "I've never had roots. Just wind."
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Then let me be the soil you grow in. You don't have to float anymore."
Tears welled in her eyes but didn't fall. Not this time. This time, they shimmered like hope.
That afternoon, they made soup together chopping vegetables, bickering over seasoning, stealing kisses between stirring. It was so ordinary. And so extraordinary.
Later, they sat on the floor with bowls balanced in their laps, laughing over childhood stories and confessing quiet dreams.
"What scares you the most?" she asked him softly.
"Losing you before I get to love you enough," he replied.
And her heart cracked wide open.
That night, as they lay tangled in each other again, sleep just beyond reach, Marissa whispered into the hush, "You make it feel possible. To start over. To be whole."
Mason pressed his lips to her temple. "Then let's begin again. Every day. Until we forget what it was like to be broken."
And beneath that vast, silent sky, they promised each other not forever but every day they had.
Because some loves weren't written in fireworks. They were carved in the quiet. In the firelight. In the choosing.
Again and again.
Always.