Page 12 of Mountain Man's Firefly Girl
He said it looking at me. The same way he'd said “I know what I like” across the diner booth. The same way he'd said “thenwe stay” in the raft. Words that meant exactly what they said and also meant everything underneath.
I leaned into him. His arm came around my shoulders—unhurried, natural, like we'd been sitting on this bank together for years instead of hours. The night air was cooling now, the heat of the day finally letting go, and the contrast between the cool air on my face and the warmth of him against my side was something I wanted to memorize.
"Bishop."
"Yeah."
"What's your first name?"
He was quiet for a second. Then the corner of his mouth moved—the full version of the almost-smile I'd been collecting since yesterday.
"Bishop is my first name."
I turned to look at him. "Your parents named you Bishop?"
"My mother had opinions."
I laughed. It came out surprised and real, and the sound of it in the dark, on this riverbank, after everything—it felt like something finally falling open.
He pulled me closer. Pressed his mouth to my temple. Not a kiss—contact. Confirmation.
We sat on the bank and watched the last of the fireflies dim along the waterline. The river kept moving the way it always moved—steady, constant, carrying everything forward. Somewhere downstream, the Wildwood River Co. dock was waiting.
Tomorrow, I'd drive back to Raleigh. Monday, I'd be in the lab. Tuesday, I'd email my advisor about a field site in the mountains that would change the trajectory of my entire study.
And then I'd come back. To the river. To Hadley Bend. To the man who'd told me not to apologize for knowing things and meant it every time.
I wasn't giving anything up. I was finally letting something in.
