Updated Jan 14, 2026 • ~11 min read
POV: Reid
The wedding was tomorrow.
A full week had passed since the storm. A full week of Hailey being back in town, coordinating vendors, finalizing details, making Morgan’s wedding perfect.
A full week of stolen moments between her obligations. Coffee at Rose’s store. Quick lunches when she had thirty minutes. Late-night texts when she was too wired to sleep.
A full week of trying to figure out what we were doing.
Because that’s what we were doing—trying. Figuring it out. Building something fragile and new and terrifying.
And tomorrow she’d leave. Back to Seattle. Back to her promotion. Back to her real life.
Away from me.
The thought sat heavy in my chest all week. We hadn’t talked about it. Hadn’t made plans. Hadn’t—
Hadn’t defined what this was or what happened next.
Because defining it made it real. And real things could fail. Could break. Could prove that we were both still too broken to build something lasting.
Safer to stay undefined. Stay temporary. Stay—
Stay in denial that this was ending.
I was chopping wood—again, always, the physical work helping not-think—when Wade’s truck pulled up.
Great. An intervention. I could feel it coming.
“You look terrible,” Wade said by way of greeting.
“Thanks. You too.”
“I’m serious. You’ve been moping for a week. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“That’s bullshit and we both know it.” He leaned against my truck, arms crossed. “This is about the wedding planner, isn’t it?”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Wade knew me too well.
“You like her.”
“I don’t—it’s not—” I stopped. Started again. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s only complicated if you make it complicated. Do you like her?”
“Yeah.”
“Does she like you?”
“I think so. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Have you asked her?”
“Not explicitly.”
“Reid.” Wade’s voice was patient but firm. “You spent four days trapped with this woman. You’re telling me you didn’t talk about feelings?”
“We talked about—other things. Harder things. But not—not what happens next. Not how this works when she’s in Seattle and I’m here and we barely know each other and—”
“And you’re terrified it won’t work so you’re sabotaging it before it starts,” Wade finished. “Classic Reid Foster move.”
“I’m not sabotaging—”
“You’re avoiding. Which is the same thing. When are you going to tell her how you feel?”
“I don’t know.”
“She leaves tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“So you’re just going to let her go? Not say anything? Not try?”
“What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I know we’ve known each other for two weeks and you have a whole life in Seattle but want to try long distance with a broken recluse who lives on a mountain’?”
“Yes. Exactly that. Because if you don’t try, you’ll spend the next three years wondering what if. And trust me—that’s worse than trying and failing.”
He was right. I hated that he was right.
“What if I’m not ready? What if I’m still too—too broken to do this?”
“What if you’re exactly broken enough? What if she’s broken in exactly the right ways to understand yours? What if—what if this is your chance to stop hiding and you’re about to blow it because you’re scared?”
“Of course I’m scared. Vanessa left. Everyone leaves eventually.”
“Not everyone. I’m still here. Rose is still here. Parker’s still here. We didn’t leave even when you tried to push us away. And Hailey—she’s been texting you every day for a week. Does that sound like someone who’s planning to leave?”
It didn’t. But fear wasn’t rational.
“What do I do?” I asked, hating how lost I sounded.
“You tell her the truth. You tell her you want to try. You tell her—you tell her she’s worth the risk. And then you let her decide. That’s all you can do. Be honest. Be brave. Be—be the man who chopped wood in a blizzard to keep her warm. Be that guy.”
“That guy was terrified too.”
“I know. But he did it anyway. That’s what bravery is.”
After Wade left, I sat on my porch staring at mountains and thinking about Hailey.
About the way she’d organized food supplies with such careful precision. The way she’d held me while I broke. The way she’d said “I’m not leaving” like a vow.
The way she made me want to try. Want to build. Want to—
Want to be more than the ghost I’d become.
My phone buzzed. Hailey: Wedding venue looks perfect. Wish you could see it. Everything’s ready for tomorrow.
Me: You did good.
Hailey: We did good. You helped too. With the storm stuff. The surviving stuff. The being-trapped-together stuff.
Me: That’s generous.
Hailey: It’s true. You kept me sane. Kept me safe. Kept me—real. Thank you.
I stared at the message. Kept her real.
She kept me real too. Kept me from hiding completely. Kept me—
Kept me hoping.
Me: Can I see you? Before the wedding tomorrow? Before you—before you leave?
Long pause. Typing. Stopping. Typing again.
Hailey: Yes. Please. Can you meet me at the cabin? Our cabin? Tonight around 7?
Our cabin. She’d called it our cabin.
Me: I’ll be there.
I arrived early. Built a fire. Made the space warm. Waited.
She showed up at 7:03, bundled in my borrowed coat she still hadn’t returned, face flushed from cold, eyes bright.
Beautiful. God, she was beautiful.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Hi.”
We stood in awkward silence—so different from the easy rhythm we’d found during the storm. Reality had made everything harder. More complicated.
More real.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. “After the wedding. Driving back to Seattle. Back to work. Back to—everything.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t know what that means. For us. If there is an us. If this was just—just a storm thing. A temporary thing. A—”
“It’s not,” I interrupted. “It’s not temporary. Not for me.”
She looked at me with something like hope and fear mixed together. “What is it then?”
“I don’t know. But I know—I know I don’t want it to end. I know I’ve spent a week thinking about you constantly. I know—I know you leaving tomorrow feels wrong. Like—like I’m losing something I just found. Something important. Something—”
“Something worth keeping?” she finished quietly.
“Yeah. Something worth keeping.”
She crossed to me slowly, stopped a foot away, close enough to touch but not touching. “I feel the same. This week has been—hard. Being in town, being busy, not having time to just—be. With you. I missed you. Which is crazy because you’re here and we barely know each other and it’s only been a week but—”
“But you missed me anyway.”
“Yeah.”
“I missed you too.”
“So what do we do?” she asked. “Long distance? Phone calls and texts and visits when we can? Or do we—do we call this what it was? A beautiful moment. A storm connection. Something that—that doesn’t survive reality?”
“Do you want it to survive?”
“Yes. God, yes. But I don’t know how. I don’t know how to do long distance. I don’t know how to be with someone when I’m in Seattle chasing a career I’m not sure I want and you’re here hiding from a life you’re not sure you can face again. I don’t know how—”
I kissed her.
Couldn’t not kiss her. Couldn’t stand the distance or the words or the fear anymore. Just—
Just kissed her. Soft. Tentative. Asking a question I didn’t know how to voice.
She answered by kissing me back. Deeper. Desperate. Like she was afraid this was the last time.
Maybe it was.
We broke apart breathing hard, foreheads touching, both trembling.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered.
“You won’t. We’ll figure it out. Somehow. We’ll—”
“How? I’m eight hours away. You’re here. We’re in completely different worlds. We want different things. We’re—”
“We’re both scared,” I finished. “We’re both carrying damage. We’re both—both learning to be real. That doesn’t have to end just because you’re in Seattle.”
“But it might. Long distance is hard. We might—we might grow apart. We might realize this was just proximity. We might—”
“Or we might not. We might keep growing. Keep learning. Keep choosing each other. We might—” I stopped. Tried again. “We might be worth the risk.”
“What if we’re not?”
“What if we are?”
She pulled back slightly, looked at me with those hazel eyes that saw too much. “You’re really willing to try? Long distance? Phone calls instead of coffee? Texts instead of—this?”
“I’m really willing to try. Because you’re worth trying for. Because—because I spent three years not trying and it was safe and lonely and empty. And then you showed up and made me want to try again. Made me want to—to build instead of hide. I don’t want to go back to hiding.”
“What if I hurt you? What if I can’t do this? What if—what if I’m still too broken to build something real?”
“Then we’ll be broken together. And we’ll figure it out. But Hailey—” I cupped her face, made her look at me. “I’d rather try and fail than not try at all. I’d rather risk being hurt than play it safe and lose you. I’d rather—I’d rather be brave with you than safe without you.”
She was crying now—silent tears streaming down. “No one’s ever said that to me before. No one’s ever—ever chosen the risk of me.”
“Then everyone else was an idiot. Because you’re worth every risk. You’re worth—everything.”
“You can’t know that. We barely know each other.”
“I know you organize things when you’re anxious. I know you say ‘fine’ when you’re falling apart. I know you perform happiness to make people stay. I know you’re terrified of being returned. I know—I know the real you. The scared, brave, complicated you. And I want that. I want—you.”
“Even from eight hours away?”
“Even from eight hours away. We’ll make it work. Visits. Calls. Texts. Whatever it takes. We’ll—we’ll try. And if it doesn’t work—if we can’t make long distance work—at least we tried. At least we were brave enough to try.”
She kissed me again—fierce, desperate, like she was trying to memorize this moment. This choice. This—
This beginning.
Because that’s what this was. Not an ending. A beginning.
“Okay,” she whispered against my lips. “Okay. We try. We be brave. We—we build something even though it’s scary and uncertain and probably impossible.”
“Definitely impossible.”
“You’re supposed to be optimistic right now.”
“You’re the optimistic one. I’m the grumpy realist.”
“Then what are we doing? Trying anyway?”
“Trying anyway.”
She laughed through tears, kissed me again, and I felt something impossible:
Hope. Real hope. For a future that wasn’t just survival. For connection that wasn’t just temporary. For—
For love. Maybe. Eventually. If we were brave enough.
If we tried hard enough.
If we—
If we chose each other every day even when it was hard. Especially when it was hard.
“Stay tonight,” I said. “Don’t go back to the inn. Stay here. With me. One more night before everything changes.”
She looked at me with question and want and fear all mixed together.
“Just sleep,” I clarified. “Just—be here. With me. One more night.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “One more night.”
We slept in the sleeping bags by the fire—like that first night, but everything different. Everything changed.
We were choosing this now. Choosing each other. Choosing to try despite every reason not to.
That was terrifying.
That was brave.
That was—
That was worth everything.
I fell asleep with her hand in mine, her breathing steady beside me, and thought:
Tomorrow she leaves.
But she’s not leaving me.
She’s just—going home. For now. Until we figure out how to make this work.
Until we build something permanent from something temporary.
Until we—
Until we prove that love isn’t about proximity or convenience.
It’s about choice.
Daily choice.
Brave choice.
Impossible choice.
We were choosing.
That was enough.
For now.
For tomorrow.
For—
For however long it took to figure out how to build forever from eight hours apart.
We’d figure it out.
Together.
Even when we were apart.
We’d find a way.
We had to.
Because losing her wasn’t an option anymore.
She’d become necessary.
Essential.
Mine.
And I was hers.
Whatever that meant.
However that worked.
We’d build it.
Together.
Starting tomorrow.
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