Page 46 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

“Then don't talk to me like I'm chasing ghosts.”

His voice softened further. “I'm not. I just want you to see what's already here, what you've made. The way your students light up when you explain something difficult. The way you've become part of this place, not just someone passing through because your truck broke down. Not just because of me either. It’s the way you belong here.”

I met his eyes again. The warmth and caring there was almost overwhelming - harder to handle than if he'd been angry or demanding. “Maybe I am seeing it. That's what makes this so much harder.”

He didn't answer right away. Just nodded with understanding that said more than any words could have.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, heat gathering beneath my scarf despite the cold air.

“You ever think maybe I'm afraid to stop chasing?” I asked. “That if I do, I'll have to decide between her and what I want?”

He gave a soft huff of breath, almost a laugh. “Cass, if anyone I know can separate borrowed dreams from real ones, it's you. You've been doing it since you got here.”

“Then why does it feel like I'm betraying something either way?”

He looked at me for a long moment, and I could see him choosing his words carefully. “Maybe because you care enough for it to matter. That doesn't make it betrayal. Just...a crossroads.”

I exhaled slowly, watching my breath cloud in the cold air. “Crossroads should come with snacks. And maps. And definitely less emotional whiplash.”

Levi leaned back against the cold metal of his truck, and after a moment, I joined him. We stood there, side by side, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“Do we have cornbread?” I asked because humor had always been my default coping mechanism. “A situation like this calls for cornbread. Or muffins.”

He smiled, the first real one since this conversation started. “We definitely have cornbread. I believe Will’s has an unlimited supply of that stuff.”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it, surprising both of us. It cut through the heaviness enough for me to breathe again, to remember that not everything in life had to be a dramatic decision with life-altering consequences.

“Do you want me to stay?” I needed to know where he stood in all of this. His answer would definitely be a factor in my staying.

Still, he looked at me as if my decision would have real consequences for his life too.

“I want you to choose what fits now,” he said carefully. “Not just what fit before. But yeah. I want you here. I want you to stay and build something with me, see where this thing between us goes. I want to keep fixing the squeaky hinges in your cottage and bring you coffee on cold mornings and listen to you complain about students who think photosynthesis happens in the nucleus.”

The honesty in his voice made my chest tight. “That helps,” I said, throat suddenly thick. “Knowing where you stand. It helps.”

“But it doesn't make the decision for you.”

“No,” I agreed. “It doesn't. But it makes me want to make the right one.”

We stood there for another minute, silence folding around us. And in that stillness, I felt it again—Everwood pressing in. Not demanding, not pushy. Just waiting. Patient in the way small towns are patient, confident that people eventually figure out where they belong.

I wasn’t ready to decide. But I was closer to understanding what the real question was. Not whether to choose Miller’s Pass or Everwood, but whether to choose the person I thought I was supposed to be or the person I was becoming.

When Levi left for fire training last week, it had only been three days. Not far, not long. But the cottage felt different without his truck pulling in, without his steady presence at the door, without the easy way he filled space without trying. I told myself it was silly to notice—after all, we weren’t anything official.

Still, the silence had pressed in sharper, heavier. And I couldn’t help thinking: if a few days felt like that, what would forever apart feel like?

We didn’t say goodbye when we finally separated. He just walked me to my truck, hands still in his jacket pockets, close enough that I could smell his cologne and the faint scent of motor oil that always seemed to cling to him. The sky was darkening toward lavender, early stars slipping into place like someone had scattered sugar across the horizon.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” I said, unlocking the driver’s side door.

“I'll be here,” he replied, and the certainty in his voice was comforting.

And he would be. That was the thing about Levi, about Everwood, about this life I'd accidentally built.

The drive home took me past all the landmarks that had become familiar: the crooked mailbox that marked the turn onto Pine Ridge Road, the house with the elaborate Halloween decorations that were still up even though it was past Thanksgiving, the spot where deer liked to cross and where I'd learned to slow down even when I couldn't see them.

My cottage was waiting with its flower-painted mailbox and Professor Fungi standing guard, porch light glowing warmly in the gathering dusk. Inside, I made tea, graded exactly two quizzes before my concentration gave out completely, and found myself standing in front of the framed photo of Mom on my bookshelf.