Page 67 of Fall is Brewing

She still stands only inches from me.

Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her despite the cold rain.

Close enough that I can still remember exactly how it felt to have her in my arms.

The moment stretches, taut as the wire fence running the perimeter of the orchard.

Then another crack of thunder rolls across Orchard Falls, low and deep, vibrating through the ground beneath our boots and reality comes rushing back with it.

I glance toward the barn where Evan and Jace are already halfway there, wrestling with a tarp that's threatening to become airborne. They're shouting at each other, though the rain swallows every word before it reaches us.

"Come on,” I grab her hand and pull her behind me. Her fingers slide into mine, for once not fighting me. They're cool from the rain but strong, the calluses across her palm fitting against mine with surprising ease. They're the hands of someone who has spent years climbing ladders, hauling crates, pruning branches, and refusing to ask for help.

Hands that somehow feel as familiar as my own.

“Where are we going?” she calls to me over the beating rain and thunder claps.

“My cabin!” I point to where beyond the western block of Honeycrisps, barely visible through the curtain of rain, the porch light of my house glows against the gray afternoon. The old farmhouse sits tucked beneath a stand of maples.

Mud clings to our soles, leaves slap against our shoulders, apples tumble from the branches with soft thuds. A gust of wind barrels through the orchard, sending rain sideways and I can feel her violent shiver rock up her arm.

By the time we reach the porch, we're both soaked straight through.

Her hair has completely surrendered, damp strands plastered across her cheeks. Water drips from the end of my nose onto the weathered porch boards as I fish my keys from my pocket.

“You lock your door?” she asks as I slide the key into the lock and twist.

“You don’t?”

“In Orchard Falls?” she shakes her head, smiling. “Never.”

Warmth greets us almost immediately as I push the front door open, carrying with it the scent of cedar, coffee, and the lingering spice of cinnamon from this morning's oatmeal.

I step aside, holding the door open for her. After she steps inside, I quietly close the door behind us.

The cabin is suddenly very still.

Rain rattles against the old tin roof, quieter here than it had been in the orchard, the steady rhythm wrapping around the little house until it feels tucked away from the rest of the world.

Willa pauses just inside the entryway, water pooling around both of our boots. She looks around slowly, taking everything in as I peel my soaking wet jacket off.

It's not a large house. The original farmhouse had been beyond saving when we bought the property, but this old hunting cabin tucked behind the western orchard had good bones. Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A stone fireplace that somehow survived every New England winter thrown at it. Wide-plank pine floors that creak exactly where you'd expect them to.

It isn't fancy.

Just... home. And my mom would have loved every inch of it.

Her eyes travel across the room to the leather sofa facing the fireplace, bookshelves lined with cookbooks and orchard manuals—reclaimed wood, of course, just as she had teased me for—and she pauses, one brow lifting as she glances back at me.

She points to the shelves. “I’m not usually a fan of the Rustic Pinterest boards, but I have to admit, those are some of the nicest reclaimed wood shelves I’ve seen.”

I huff a quiet laugh. "They were already here."

"Mm-hmm." Her mouth twitches like she doesn't believe me for a second before her gaze moves on to a framed photograph of my parents laughing beneath a tree with us kids standing in front of them. Beside the framed photo on the mantle, their urns rest.

"It doesn't feel temporary," she says. “The house, I mean.”

"No?"