Chapter 47 – The Places We Hide
Marissa had never been one for New Year's resolutions. Promises made in the haze of champagne and temporary hope always felt destined to break. But that morning, as dawn painted golden streaks across the lake and frost etched lace across the windows, she made a quiet vow.
To stop running.
It had taken nearly losing herself to find that she wasn't broken just bruised. She had tried so hard to be untouchable, had worn her independence like armor. But with Mason, she didn't feel weak when she leaned in. She felt whole.
They spent the first day of the new year wrapped in flannel and quiet. There were no plans. No lists. Just slow sips of coffee and the easy peace of shared silence. Marissa found herself watching Mason more than usual memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how he always tucked his thumb over hers when they held hands.
She'd lived most of her life in chaos. In loud rooms and louder expectations. But here, she was learning the language of quiet.
And it was beautiful.
Later that day, while Mason chopped wood outside, Marissa sat with the notebook he'd started. She turned the pages carefully, heart aching in the best way. Her name was on every page. Not just mentioned but seen.
January 3: She laughed in her sleep last night.
January 10: She told me about her brother. I saw the crack in her armor and didn't look away.
January 15: She touched my chest when she said, 'I'm trying.' I believed her.
It was strange, reading how someone saw her. Not how she appeared but who she was. No edits. No self-defense.
She added a note of her own in the margin:
January 1: He saw the storm in me and stayed.
That evening, a sudden snowstorm swept in from the mountains. It covered everything in a blanket of white. They lit a fire and wrapped themselves in a quilt passed down from Mason's grandmother. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, their world was quiet.
"I used to think silence was the scariest sound," Marissa whispered. "Now, it feels like peace."
Mason brushed a hand along her cheek. "Maybe because it's finally yours."
She thought about the people she'd left behind. The city she used to crave. The versions of herself she'd shed to survive. There was grief there but also gratitude. Because every wrong turn had led her here.
And here mattered.
In the days that followed, Marissa found herself craving space. Not distance from Mason but closeness to herself. She began to walk alone each morning. Just twenty minutes. No phone. No plan. Just breath and thought and snow beneath her boots.
She didn't realize she was healing until she stopped apologizing for needing time.
One morning, she found an old wooden swing hanging from a pine tree at the edge of the trail. It was weather-worn, half-buried in snow, and creaked like an old memory when she sat on it. She rocked gently, eyes closed, and whispered her old fears into the wind.
That she wasn't enough. That she was too damaged. That love wouldn't last.
The forest took them all. Held them. Quieted them.
Back at the cabin, Mason greeted her with a grin and two steaming mugs. "You find what you were looking for?"
She nodded. "I think I found me."
One night, they stayed up late listening to an old record Mason's father used to play. They danced in the tiny living room, bare feet on cold wood, laughter echoing off the walls.
Marissa pulled back, breathless. "This still feels like a dream."
Mason held her gaze. "Then let's never wake up."
She smiled, but her heart ached. Because reality had a way of sneaking in. The world didn't stop spinning just because she'd found peace. Bills still existed. Deadlines. The pull of everything she'd left behind.
And yet, none of it felt as urgent anymore.
She didn't need to prove her worth to anyone. She didn't need to rush back into the life that almost broke her.
She just needed to live this one.
In the final days before they left the cabin, Marissa found herself writing. Not for work. Not for anyone else. Just for her. Short phrases. Fragments. Feelings that didn't need to be explained.
She wrote about rain tapping windows like old friends. About fear that tasted like metal. About healing that came not with fanfare, but with stillness.
And in the final pages of the notebook Mason had started, she added a line:
Love isn't loud. It's consistent.
On their last night, they sat on the porch wrapped in blankets, watching the stars break through the clouds.
"You ready?" Mason asked.
She hesitated. Then nodded. "Yes. But also… no."
He smiled softly. "We'll take it slow. The world will still be there. But we don't have to let it in all at once."
And for the first time, she believed that.
Marissa leaned into him, her voice barely a whisper.
"Thank you for not giving up on me."
He kissed the top of her head. "You never needed saving, Marissa. You just needed space to remember your fire."
She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of pine and him and everything that felt like home.
And maybe that was the biggest truth of all:
That sometimes the places we hide are exactly where we're meant to be found.