I’m three weeks into this new routine. I’ve found a rhythm in this small mountain town. It feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived in years. At 8:30 sharp every morning, I walk into Mountain Mornings Cafe and order the same thing—a large black coffee with a splash of cream and whatever pastry Rhea recommends. It’s not that I need caffeine or sugar. I simply need to see her face to start my day right.

That morning conversation with Rhea has become my anchor. Even a quick, five-minute chat over her latest story about Mrs. Patterson’s granddaughter or Mrs. Chen’s newest romance arrival at Ink & Embers Bookstore sets the tone for everything that follows. During slower periods, we text throughout the day. I find myself holding my phone a little too often, waiting for a sign that she’s thinking about me, too.

The evenings have fallen into their own pattern. Every night, I find some excuse to see her. Bringing her dinner when she works late, walking her home when Emma ends her own shift early, or just sitting on the steps outside her building talking until the mountain air gets too chilly to ignore. It’s never planned, never official, just an easy companionship that feels as natural as breathing.

But lately, I’ve started to worry that I’m coming on too strong. The anxiety sneaks up on me, making me question the comfort I feel when we’re together. I’m always the one reaching out, always suggesting we hang out. What if I’m overwhelming her? What if she’s just being polite? That fear sits just under the surface, sometimes growing bigger, a shadow from my past that won’t quite go away. I remember how much it hurt to be rejected before, thinking I understood someone, only to realize I was wrong. There are times when that old dread comes back out of nowhere, making me worry I’ll fall into the same patterns. The fear of losing control and pushing her away feels a lot like the fear of slipping back into old habits I’ve worked so hard to break.

This morning is just like always. I order a coffee, an apple-cinnamon scone, and engage in a few minutes of easy conversation while Emma works behind the counter.

“What time does Rhea come on shift?” I ask, hoping to run into her in passing since she didn’t work the early morning shift today.

Emma offers a kind smile. “I sent Rhea a message last night, giving her the day off. She was looking more harried than usual yesterday.”

I immediately worry I’m the reason for her stress, so I go inward, politely thank Emma, and quietly accept my coffee. Back outside, I look across the street at the beautiful windows in Rhea’s living room, but the curtains are still drawn.

Instead of worrying about what I might’ve done wrong, I realize she’s probably just sleeping in on a last-minute day off. The thought of her resting just across the street brings a smile to my face. She works hard, so she deserves it.

Returning to the cabin, I drink my caffeine, eat my scone, and break out my guitar to work on a song I’ve been concerned about finding the right sound for. I do my best to occupy myself all morning, but today, there’s no midday text. My phone stays quiet. I keep checking it, hoping for that familiar buzz, but by noon, the silence in the cabin feels heavy. Without her usual messages, laughter over my romance novel jokes, and her perfectly timed GIFs, everything seems off.

Rhea is not a late sleeper. Even on her days off, she’s usually up by eight, texting me about whatever book she stayed up too late reading or sharing pictures of some elaborate breakfast she’s decided to make for herself. But radio silence until the afternoon is completely out of character.

By one o’clock, I’m pacing the cabin’s deck again, earning concerned looks from Andrew.

“She’s fine. People are allowed to sleep in on their day off.” Andrew tries to be helpful, but I know my girl.

“Rhea doesn’t sleep in. Ever. She’s like a human rooster.” Opening a coffee shop early in the mornings is the perfect job for her.

“Maybe she had a wild Saturday night? She might’ve stayed out past nine-thirty and lived dangerously for once in her life.” Zep throws out, being a complete asshole and unhelpful.

The joke falls flat because I can’t shake the feeling in my chest. The unease just takes over. What if something happened? What if she’s sick? Or what if she’s decided she doesn’t want me around, and this is her way of pulling back?

When my phone finally buzzes at 2:15, I practically dive for it.

Rhea: I just woke up! Can you believe it? What are you guys up to today?

Relief floods through me so completely that I have to sit down. The abrupt shift from tension to calm leaves me momentarily breathless, my muscles releasing as quickly as they had tensed. I take a moment to calm down a little more before responding.

Gray: Just hanging around the cabin. You okay? You never sleep this late.

Rhea: Confession: I stayed up to finish “just one more chapter,” which turned into half the book. Woke up when my e-reader startled me at four this morning. Very dignified.

I’m grinning like an idiot at the mental image of Rhea getting attacked by her own reading device.

Gray: Occupational hazard of book addiction. We missed you this morning.

Rhea: I missed you, too. Can I come up to the cabin for a bit? I want to hang out if you’re not busy.

I stare at the message for a full thirty seconds, convinced I’m misreading it. She wants to come here. She’s asking me to hang out. For the first time in three weeks, I’m not the one initiating contact.

Gray: Of course! We’re not doing anything important.

Rhea: Perfect. Give me an hour to make myself presentable. See you soon.

“Rhea’s coming over,” I announce to the room, probably sounding way too excited about it.

“We gathered that from your ridiculous grin. What’s the occasion?” Parker grins.

“She asked to come hang out. She never asks first.” I show my hand, letting the guys know how vulnerable I’ve been with her, but I can’t be bothered to care if they know I’m struggling without Rhea.

Andrew looks up from his guitar with understanding in his eyes. He knows how carefully I’ve been walking this line and how afraid I am of pushing too hard or wanting too much.

“That’s good, brother. It means she’s getting comfortable with the idea of you being in Dogwood Hollow.”

An hour later, I hear Rhea’s car in the driveway. I hurry to the window. She gets out, smiling so brightly it feels like the whole place lights up. When she sees me, she waves, and I wave back from inside.

“Gray! Can you help me unload?” she calls out.

Help her unload? I’m already moving toward the door, curiosity and delight warring in my chest. “What did you bring?”

“Fall projects,” she says mysteriously as I jog down the porch steps.

I reach her car just as she’s opening the back hatch, and my eyebrows shoot up. The entire cargo area is filled with pumpkins. Seven of them, in various sizes, from massive down to perfectly round mini ones.

“Jesus, woman. How many pumpkins does one person need?” I ask in mock concern.

“It’s not for one person. It’s for seven people. Well, six and a half, if we’re counting Cody.” She chuckles at her own joke, and I join her.

“Hey!” comes an indignant shout from Cody on the porch, where the rest of the guys have gathered to see what’s happening.

Within minutes, we’ve formed a pumpkin brigade, passing the gourds from car to cabin like we’re handling precious cargo. Rhea directs the operation with the efficiency of a woman who’s clearly put thought into this.

“Okay, those three big ones go on the kitchen counter.” She points to the spot she’s indicating. “The medium ones can go on the dining table, and the little ones wherever they look cute.”

“What exactly are we doing with all these pumpkins?” Wyatt asks, settling a particularly hefty one on the counter.

“Carving them, obviously. It’s almost Halloween, and this place needs a spookier atmosphere.” Rhea heads back to her car. “But that’s not all.”

She returns with two large boxes that she sets on the kitchen island with a flourish. “Halloween decorations. I figured you guys probably don’t have any, and the village goes all out for trick-or-treaters.”

“Trick-or-treaters come up here?” Cody peers into one of the boxes.

“A few brave families with older kids make the trek. But more importantly, you’re all volunteering at the Mountain Mornings Cafe booth in the village on Halloween night. Emma and I could use the help.” Her bossing us around arouses me in a way that makes it difficult to think of anything else but her ordering me around in the bedroom. We’ve never fully had a lot of time to experiment in the sex department because I was drunk for a large part of our relationship.

Parker’s head snaps up so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “Emma will be there?”

Rhea grins. “All evening. We’re serving hot chocolate and cider, along with some Halloween-themed pastries. And before you ask, yes, you all must dress up. No exceptions.”

I catch the way Parker tries to look nonchalant about Emma’s involvement and file it away for later teasing. Apparently, Zep isn’t the only one developing feelings for a local woman.

“What happens after trick-or-treating?” Andrew’s already unpacking fake spider webs from one of the boxes.

“The adults take over. There’s this whole parade down Main Street, kind of like Mardi Gras but with more ghost costumes and significantly less nudity. Very family-friendly debauchery.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, and I mean it. The thought of joining in small-town Halloween traditions and being part of a normal, wholesome event, and far removed from the music industry appeals to me more than I could’ve guessed.

For the next three hours, we turn the cabin into a Halloween wonderland. The scent of pumpkin and a hint of woodsmoke fills the air, making everything feel cozy. Rhea has thoughts on everything, from where to put the fake ravens to how to hang the spider webs. She’s clearly in her element, leading the decorating with the same focus she uses when making coffee.

“The skeleton needs to be more slouched,” she tells Zep, who’s attempting to pose a plastic skeleton in one of the deck chairs. “He’s supposed to look relaxed, not like he’s at attention.”

“How exactly does one slouch a skeleton?” Zep inquires, but he’s grinning as he adjusts the bony figure.

“Like this,” Rhea demonstrates with her own posture, slumping back in exaggerated relaxation. “Dead guy on vacation vibes.”

Once the decorating is done, we move on to pumpkin carving. Rhea spreads newspapers across the kitchen table and arms us each with carving tools that she’s apparently been collecting for weeks.

“I expect creativity,” she announces, settling in front of the largest pumpkin. “No basic triangle eyes and smile mouths. We’re artists here.”

“Some of us are artists,” Parker corrects, already sketching out intricate designs on his pumpkin. “The rest of us are just guys with knives and questionable judgment,” he adds, winking at Cody, who pretends to aimlessly poke at his pumpkin like it’s a balloon ready to pop.

“That’s the spirit.” Rhea laughs, shaking her head as she sets her tools in order.

Watching my girl work is mesmerizing. She approaches pumpkin carving with the same careful attention to detail she brings to everything else, sketching her design in pencil before making the first cut. Her tongue pokes out slightly when she concentrates, a habit I remember from our early days together that still makes my chest warm with affection.

“What are you making?” I try to peer around her protective stance.

She swats at me, smiling from ear to ear. “Hey, buddy! This is none of your business over here. No peeking until everyone’s done.”

My own pumpkin is taking on a shape that vaguely resembles a guitar, although the proportions are questionable, and one of the tuning pegs looks more like a tumor than anything musical.

“That’s either a very sad guitar or a very happy banana,” Cody observes, working on his own creation.

“Constructive criticism is not welcome at this table,” I reply with mock dignity.

“What about destructive criticism?” Wyatt asks.

“That’s encouraged,” I answer.

The afternoon dissolves into the kind of easy camaraderie I haven’t experienced in years. There’s no pressure, deadlines, or expectations beyond creating fun memories together. When Rhea suggests making caramel apples with the bag of apples she’s somehow produced from her car, we attack the project with the enthusiasm of children.

“The trick is getting the caramel hot enough to coat but not so hot it slides right off.” Rhea stirs a pot of melted caramel on the stove.

“How do you know all this domestic goddess stuff?” Andrew wrestles with a particularly stubborn apple stick.

“YouTube University and a lot of trial and error. Plus, my mom was really into holiday traditions. She taught me that making memories is more important than making things perfectly. There was this one Christmas when she accidentally swapped the salt and the sugar in the cookie dough. The cookies were inedible, but we laughed for days and ended up making a gingerbread house instead. That memory stays with me, reminding me that it’s the effort and laughter that count the most.” There’s a tone in her voice when she mentions her mom. It’s filled with warmth mixed with old sadness — a reminder of how little I know about Rhea’s childhood before we met. She mentions her mom a lot, in passing, but never shares many fond memories, nor does she provide the kind of detail or specificity that invites questions.

“She sounds like a good woman,” I say quietly.

“She was. She just had her demons at times.” Rhea tests the caramel’s consistency with a wooden spoon. “Okay, assembly line time. Gray, you’re on apple dipping. Everyone else, find your stations.”

By the time we’re done, the kitchen looks like a candy factory exploded, but we have a dozen perfectly caramel-coated apples cooling on wax paper and seven carved pumpkins that range from artistic to abstract to Cody’s attempt at recreating his own face, which looks more like a demented potato than anything human.

“Best day ever,” Parker declares, surveying our handiwork while licking caramel off his fingers.

“Better than the Grammy after-party?” Wyatt teases.

“Way better. No pretentious small talk, no photographers, and significantly better snacks.” Parker is right on the money.

As the sun sets behind the mountains, the sky turns orange and pink. The colors look great with our pumpkin display. Laughter fills the air, mixing with the sound of leaves and crickets. I realize that even though we just carved pumpkins and made caramel apples, Parker’s right. This has been one of the best days I’ve ever had.

But that’s exactly what makes it perfect. It’s normal. It’s simple. It’s the kind of day I never knew I wanted until I had it.

Rhea starts gathering her things as the evening light fades, and I feel that familiar reluctance to let her go. These moments together feel so precious and fragile that I want to hold onto them as long as possible.

“I should head home. Early morning tomorrow,” she says, though she doesn’t sound any more eager to leave than I am to see her go.

“Of course.” I walk her to her car with my hands shoved deep in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Thank you for today. For all of this.”

“Thank you for letting me come play Martha Stewart with you guys.”

When we reach her car, she turns to face me. The porch lights make her look even more beautiful and at peace, and I feel a strong ache in my chest. Before she says anything, her fingers brush my jacket sleeve and linger there, saying more than words could. Her touch is gentle, but it means a lot, and I hold my breath for a moment.

“Gray.” Her voice is so soft that I step closer.

“Yeah?” It’s barely a whisper.

Instead of words, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me in one of those hugs that feel like Christmas morning. I hold her carefully, breathing in the scent of her floral shampoo mixed with cinnamon and caramel from our afternoon projects.

“I had the best time today,” she murmurs against my chest.

“Me too. Best day I’ve had in years.”

When we pull apart, I can’t help myself. I press a gentle kiss on her forehead, letting my lips linger for just a moment longer than is strictly friendly.

“Text me when you get home?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.

“Always do.”

I watch her drive away, her taillights fading around the bend. For the first time since rehab, I’m not scared of what’s next. Still, as her car disappears, I recall the need to return to the studio, and there aren’t any in Dogwood Hollow. Each day feels like I’m getting closer to leaving this peaceful life behind, and that thought makes me uneasy. I hope Rhea gets some rest after today. Today was perfect. Tomorrow will be whatever it is.