The Cabin in the Pines
It started with a note on her pillow.
"Pack a weekend bag. You'll need warm clothes, nothing formal. I'll handle everything else."
—Grant
Scottland found herself smiling before she even sat up. A weekend away? Just the two of them?
After the heaviness of the past weeks—the rescues, the late-night tears, the silent grief carried by girls still learning how to breathe—this felt like something she didn't know she needed.
Healing. Not just for others.
But for her.
She packed a sweater that smelled like Grant's laundry soap. A pair of thick socks. Lavender lotion. One book. And a notebook—just in case she felt like writing something no one else would ever read.
When Grant arrived at the door to pick her up, he wore a navy thermal shirt that clung to his shoulders, and his smile was softer than she'd seen in days.
"You ready?" he asked.
Scottland nodded.
More than ready.
The Drive
They took one of the Pack's jeeps, the windows fogging lightly from the heat inside. Grant's hand found hers halfway through the forest road, warm and solid, fingers intertwining like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Scottland leaned her head on his shoulder. "You planned all this?"
He gave a modest shrug. "Mostly. Wren helped pack the kitchen. And Ezra lent me the keys."
"To where?"
He just smiled. "You'll see."
They passed pine trees dusted in snow, their branches heavy and glittering in the pale afternoon sun. The quiet between them wasn't empty—it was full. Safe.
A silence of knowing.
Of having nothing to prove and nowhere else to be.
The Reveal
The cabin appeared like a dream—tucked deep into the pines, wrapped in ivy and climbing frost, its chimney puffing soft smoke into the twilight sky.
It wasn't large, but it was beautiful.
Wooden beams.
A wraparound porch.
Big windows that reflected the golden interior light.
Scottland's breath caught.
"Oh…"
Grant watched her reaction carefully. "Too much?"
She shook her head, heart full.
"It's perfect."
Inside – A Soft World of Their Own
The fire was already lit when they stepped inside, casting a golden glow over thick rugs and worn-in couches.
In the kitchen, a basket of fruit and chocolate waited beside a folded note from Wren:
Don't burn the place down. Don't fight. Don't work. Just love each other.
—W
Scottland laughed.
Grant grinned and kicked off his boots. "That's an order, I guess."
Unpacking the Quiet
Scottland padded barefoot across the wooden floor, exploring.
The bedroom held a simple four-poster bed with thick quilts and big windows that looked out into the trees. A bookcase stood beside it, half full of old novels and forest guides. Everything smelled like pine and cedarwood.
No phones.
No pack politics.
No emergencies.
Just them.
She dropped her bag at the foot of the bed and wrapped herself in one of the blankets, standing by the window.
"I feel like I can breathe again," she whispered.
Grant came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "You never have to earn rest, sweetheart."
She leaned back into him, letting his warmth fill her bones.
"But it feels more real with you," she murmured.
Cooking Together
Dinner was simple—vegetable stew and thick toast with melted cheese. Scottland sliced carrots while Grant stirred the pot, occasionally sneaking kisses to her temple.
"Hey," she giggled, swatting his hand as he stole a bite. "I'm working here."
"You're adorable when you concentrate," he teased, blue eyes twinkling.
She rolled her eyes, cheeks pink.
The food didn't matter.
The laughter did.
The ease between them.
The kind of domestic, everyday joy Scottland once believed she'd never get to have.
The Fireside Blanket Fort
Later, wrapped in a blanket by the fire, Scottland curled into Grant's side and asked quietly, "Did you ever think you'd get a mate like me?"
He turned to face her, eyes serious now.
"Scottland, I didn't think I'd have a mate. Not like this. Not someone I would want so much it hurts to breathe without her."
She blinked back tears.
"You make me feel like I belong somewhere."
He reached up and brushed a strand of blonde hair from her cheek. "You are my somewhere."
And then he kissed her, soft and slow, his hand cradling the back of her head, as if to say:
This is real. You are safe. You are loved.
The Bath Under the Stars
The cabin had one secret: a claw-foot tub on the porch, hidden by a wooden privacy screen, perfectly angled to see the stars.
Grant filled it with steaming water and a drop of Scottland's favorite lavender oil.
When she stepped out onto the porch in her thick robe, breath fogging in the cold, she gasped.
"You did this?"
Grant shrugged, modest. "Thought you might like it."
She undressed slowly, heart thudding—not from fear, but from trust.
When she sank into the water, the heat hit her skin and stole her breath.
Grant knelt beside her, tracing the rim of the tub with a towel.
"I'm not going to rush anything," he said quietly. "Not tonight. Not ever."
Scottland reached for his hand.
"I know."
And when he leaned in and kissed her again, under a sky full of stars and snow-dusted pines, it wasn't hurried. It wasn't desperate.
It was the kind of kiss that said: You're mine. And I will never take that for granted.
In the Dark, Just Them
Back inside, they climbed into bed fully clothed, limbs tangled, hearts thudding in time.
Scottland curled beneath Grant's chin, listening to his breathing.
"I'm scared sometimes," she admitted softly. "That I'll always feel broken."
Grant didn't try to fix it.
Didn't tell her she was wrong.
He just held her tighter and whispered, "Then I'll hold the pieces until they come back together."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in her life, the dark didn't scare her.
The Next Morning – Slow, Safe Love
The sun rose pale and gold through the frosted windows.
Scottland woke with her face against Grant's chest, his hand curved over her hip, their legs tangled under the quilts.
She didn't move.
Didn't want to break the spell.
But then he stirred, and his voice—low and rough from sleep—said, "Good morning, beautiful."
Her heart fluttered.
She turned to face him, cheeks pink. "Morning."
They stayed like that, noses brushing, smiles soft.
And when they kissed this time, it was deeper.
More sure.
Hands curious and slow.
Clothes discarded carefully.
No rush. No pressure.
Just want.
Just trust.
He kissed every scar like a vow.
She whispered his name like a promise.
And when they finally came together—flesh to flesh, breath to breath—it was not about claiming.
It was about belonging.
After
They lay tangled afterward, the blankets a mess, Grant tracing gentle patterns on Scottland's back.
She looked up at him, shy and glowing.
"I never thought it would feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm allowed to love you."
His expression crumbled into something heartbreakingly tender.
"You were born to be loved, Scottland. The world just forgot to tell you that until now."
Before They Go
They stayed two nights.
Made pancakes from a mix they found in the cupboard.
Read out loud to each other from old fantasy books.
Watched snow fall in silence, hands joined on the windowsill.
And on the last morning, Grant kissed her hand and said, "I want to build you a place like this. For us. One day. Not a palace. Just something that feels like this."
Scottland smiled.
"Warm?"
"Exactly."