Epilogue
Micah
Six years later
The apartment smells like cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee, sunlight spilling across the hardwood while laughter drifts from the kitchen. Colton’s perched on the kitchen island, pretending to “help” his sister frost the rolls, which mostly means stealing the corner piece when she’s not looking.
Our place isn’t big by any means—two bedrooms, just enough space for both of us and the life we’ve built—but it’s full. Full of family, friends, noise, the kind of warmth you can’t fake.
Luke’s here with his fiancé, camped out on our couch like they own it, arguing over whether pineapple belongs on pizza. Ty and Will showed up with their partners and a ridiculous amount of pastries, because apparently, brunch isn’t complete without enough sugar to kill a man.
It’s chaotic in the best way.
This is the group we’ve built, the one that’s grown with us—m ore inside jokes than I can count, more history than I can explain to anyone outside of it.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I grab it, grinning when I see the name. “Hey, city boy,” I say into the receiver.
“Micah!” Caleb’s voice comes through loud and bright, the familiar background noise of New York traffic in the distance. “Just calling to check in before rehearsal. We open in a week.”
“Break a leg, superstar,” I say, leaning back against the counter. “You coming home anytime soon, or is Broadway life too good?”
He laughs. “I’ll make it back. Eventually. Give Colton my love—and tell him to send more pictures of the dog.”
I glance across the room where our golden retriever is sprawled belly-up in the middle of the rug, blissfully ignoring the chaos around him. “You got it.”
After we hang up, I watch the scene for a second longer—Colton laughing so hard his shoulders shake, Luke stealing a cinnamon roll, Will pretending to referee an argument no one’s actually serious about.
Six years ago, I couldn’t have pictured this. Six years ago, I didn’t know if we’d make it through the mess, the history, the fear. But we did.
I cross the kitchen and hook my arms around Colton from behind, pressing my mouth to the curve of his jaw. He leans back into me without hesitation, warm and familiar.
“This is good,” I murmur against his skin.
He turns his head just enough for our noses to brush. “Yeah. It really is.”
And with the people we love crammed into our apartment, our life stretched out ahead of us, I can’t imagine ever wanting anything else .
I grin against his skin and whisper just for him. “Still my Golden Boy?”
His mouth tips up slowly, and his eyes soften in that way that still floors me. “Only if you’re still my forever.”
“Always,” I say, sealing it with a kiss.
With the scent of cinnamon in the air, and his hand tightening over mine, I know we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.
The apartment’s quiet after everyone leaves—Luke, Ty, Will, their partners, his sister, my parents and Colton’s, even Caleb’s video call from New York still playing in my head.
It’s the good kind of quiet. The lived-in, safe kind that smells faintly like shared food and laughter.
Colton’s sprawled on the couch beside me, one foot tucked under my thigh, sipping the last of the wine like we’re not going to bed any time soon.
I glance at him, then at the coffee table where my laptop sits. “You ever think about it?” I ask.
His brow furrows. “Think about what?”
“How we found our way back here. How we went from best friends…to nothing…to—” I nod toward the laptop. “—falling for each other again without even knowing it. To having matching rings on our fingers?”
His mouth curves as if he knows exactly where I’m going. I pull the laptop closer, log into the old app we haven’t touched in years. The screen takes its time, but when it finally loads, there they are, our first anonymous messag es.
GoldenSpiral23: You said you want to burn. Mind if I bring the match?
SmokeScreen77: Careful. I burn hotter than most can handle.
My grin is instant, all teeth and nostalgia. “Guess you were asking for trouble from the beginning.”
He nudges my knee with his eyes still on the screen. “Guess I didn’t realize I already knew the trouble I was asking for.”
My gaze softens, and I lean in until our shoulders touch. “And you still want it.”
“Yeah,” he says, closing the laptop and setting it aside before climbing into my lap. “Still do.”
His knees bracket my hips, the weight of him settling over me like it belongs there—like it’s always belonged there.
I tip my chin up, meeting him halfway as his hands cradle my face, thumbs brushing just under my cheekbones.
The kiss starts slow, unhurried, the kind that sinks deep instead of stealing breath.
His mouth is warm and familiar, but it still sends a shiver through me, because even after all these years, he can undo me with something this simple.
He tilts his head, deepening it just enough to make my pulse kick. There’s no rush, no performance. Only the quiet press of lips that know exactly how to say I love you without a single word.
When we finally part, our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the space between us. His eyes are soft, his smile even softer.
“Best trouble I’ve ever gotten into,” he murmurs.
I huff a quiet laugh, my chest tightening in that way it always does when I realize—really realize—how lucky I am. “Yeah, ” I say, pulling him back in for one more kiss. “Me too.”
And in that moment, with his heartbeat steady against mine, I know there’s no version of our story I’d ever want more than this one.
THE END