21. Epilogue
Forever and a Little More
Aubrey
2 Years Later
I’m perched on my favorite stool behind the counter, watching a college kid inspect a secondhand Gibson guitar while trying not to look too invested in whether he’ll buy it.
Between my expanding waistline and swollen ankles, standing for too long isn’t exactly fun these days. But apparently, our little half-naga is determined to be as active as possible, treating my insides like his personal jungle gym.
“The action’s pretty sweet,” the kid says, strumming a few chords. “But three-fifty?”
I hide my smile. He’s been here four times this week, playing this same guitar. I recognize the look in his eyes—it’s the same one I had when I first walked in here with my grandmother’s bracelet, desperate but trying to play it cool.
“Tell you what,” I say, adjusting my position. “If you can name three songs from that Nirvana album displayed behind you without checking your phone, I’ll knock fifty bucks off.”
His face lights up at the challenge. Behind me, I feel more than hear Sundar’s quiet amusement as he arranges a display of vintage pocket watches. Some are just beautiful antiques, others might have the power to briefly stop time—but good luck getting him to tell you which is which.
“Easy,” the kid says. “‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ ‘Come As You Are,’ and—”
A sharp kick from the baby makes me gasp, cutting him off mid-sentence. Instantly, Sundar is beside me, one hand on my lower back.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, though I don’t protest when he guides me to the more comfortable chair we keep behind the counter. “Your child just has opinions about 90s grunge, apparently.”
The warmth in his golden eyes makes my heart flutter, even after two years of marriage. “It seems he takes after me more than you.”
“You wish. I’m going to make sure he’s a huge ABBA fan, at the very least.”
The kid watches our exchange with poorly concealed fascination. Most of our regular customers are used to seeing a naga and his very pregnant human wife running the shop together, but we still get the occasional wide-eyed stare from newcomers.
“Um,” he clears his throat. “‘Lithium.’ That’s the third song.”
I beam at him. “Sold. Let’s write this up before my husband decides I need another prenatal vitamin smoothie or something equally fussy.”
“I merely ensure adequate nutrition,” Sundar says with dignity, though his fingers brush my neck in a way that promises less proper thoughts for later.
As I ring up the guitar, I catch my reflection in the glass case—my ring and bracelet gleaming with their usual soft light, my cheeks flushed with pregnancy and happiness.
Two years ago, I walked into this shop, desperate and hopeless. Now I’m building a life that feels like magic itself.
The sound of the shop bell cuts through our moment. “Honey, I’m home!” Maggie’s voice rings out. “And I come bearing gifts that will make your husband question my sanity. Again.”
I meet Sundar’s eyes and catch that slight rise of his eyebrow that means ‘your best friend, your problem.’ But the warmth in his gaze gives away his actual fondness for her—even if he’ll never admit it out loud.
Maggie makes her way to me, and with a flourish, she brandishes what I now realize is quite possibly the tiniest knitted tube I’ve ever seen. “Behold! A tail warmer, hand-knitted by me.”
I hear Sundar’s gasp behind me. He’s trying very hard to maintain his dignified expression, but I catch that slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Maggie,” he says carefully, “our son will be perfectly capable of regulating his own temperature.”
“Oh, I know.” She beams. “But it has these little pom-poms. I mean, come on.”
“True. The pom-poms are non-negotiable,” I agree solemnly, though I can’t quite hold back my grin when Sundar pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Just wait until I start knitting matching sweaters for the whole family,” Maggie threatens cheerfully. “I’m thinking neon yellow.” She then checks her phone. “Okay, I should head out. Monster Match waits for no woman, and I have three potential couples to terrorize with my matchmaking genius.”
After she bounces out, the shop settles into that peaceful quiet that comes in the evening. The setting sun streams through our windows, painting everything in warm golden light. Sundar moves behind me, his hands sliding around to rest on my stomach. Our son shifts beneath his touch, and I swear I feel the subtle pulse of magic between them—something ancient and wonderful.
“He knows you,” I murmur, covering Sundar’s hands with mine. “Two years ago, if someone told me I’d be here…”
“Carrying a half-naga child while wearing ancient magical jewelry?” Sundar’s voice rumbles with amusement against my neck. “I imagine your response would have been colorful.”
“Please. You love my colorful responses.” I turn in his arms, rising on tiptoes to kiss him. “Especially when they involve creative uses of your tail.”
His eyes darken with heat. “Perhaps we should close early.”
“Mmm. Responsible shop owners would never—”
His mouth captures mine, and responsible anything becomes a distant concern as he presses me against the counter. The lock on the front door clicks with a flick of his tail, and then it’s just us, tangled together in the golden light.
“Looks like responsibility can wait,” I murmur against his lips, already tugging at his sash.
“Indeed.” He lifts me onto the counter with ease, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, his eyes bright with love and lust. “Responsibility,” he says again, unbuttoning my shirt, “is overrated.”
“Completely.” My back arches as he kisses down my neck, his tail winding tighter around my calf. “Who needs it?”
“Obviously,” he whispers, “not us.”
An hour later, I’m straightening out the counter with extra care, trying not to think about what just happened on it. Sundar, the smug bastard, hasn’t stopped smirking as he straightens his perfectly pressed vest.
“You know,” I say, “for someone so concerned with proper shop protocol, you certainly have no problem breaking your own rules.”
“I believe,” he says smoothly, “that as shop owners, we’re entitled to adjust policies as needed.”
We move through our closing routine with practiced ease—me checking the displays one last time while Sundar balances the register. My grandmother’s bracelet catches the light as I reach up to adjust a crystal, its magic humming in harmony with my ring.
I take a moment to let it all sink in. Two years of marriage, and sometimes I still can’t believe this is my life: running a magical pawn shop with my naga husband, our child growing stronger every day.
As we finish up for the night, Sundar’s tail guides me carefully up the stairs to our apartment, and I lean into him, smiling as he nuzzles my neck. “You know,” I murmur, “I think we’ve gotten pretty good at making up our own rules.”
His answering kiss tells me he couldn’t agree more.
And I can’t wait to see what rules we make next.
The End