Epilogue
Sadie
Cardigan
Taylor Swift
One Month Later — Oak Park, Illinois
Late August smells different in Oak Park. Warm pavement, cicadas, fresh-cut grass, and the scent of Dean’s neighbor burning something on the grill that absolutely violates every fire code. The kind of quiet that feels like a deep breath after weeks of too much noise.
The tour ended two weeks ago, and I swear my soul hasn’t caught up yet. Every morning I wake expecting the rumble of a bus engine, the clattering of a venue load-in, Cherry shouting through a headset, Hayden cursing about coffee.
Instead, I wake up in Dean’s sheets. The cotton soft, faintly smelling like cedar and whatever sinful cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear. Sunlight filters through the big oak trees, streaking across the bed. It’s the silence, the calm, and him that steady me now.
Dean’s house is nothing like I expected. It’s warm wood, mismatched frames, guitars everywhere, plants he swears he’s keeping alive (they’re absolutely dying), and a kitchen he uses like he was made to be a chef in another life.
Right now, he’s standing by the sink shirtless, wearing nothing but a faded pair of jeans, washing a bowl, humming something completely off-key. The light glints off the chain on his neck, and for a moment I just watch him.
I never thought I’d see Dean Ross like this. Domestic. Barefoot. Calm. And never did I think I would call him mine. He glances over his shoulder. “You staring at me?”
“Absolutely.”
He smirks. “Come here baby.”
I pad across the kitchen and slide into his space. He’s warm. He always is. His hands settle on my hips like they’ve figured out the exact shape of me as they grip on and lift me onto the counter. His hands slide up the inside of my thighs, stopping at the hem of the long shirt I’m wearing. His.
“I like you in this.” He smirks, his fingers now starting to crumble the material into his fists. “But I think it’s a little too big for you.”
And in one fluid motion, he tugs the shirt over my head and drops it onto the marble beside me. He openly assesses me, his brow ticking up as his head tilts. “No panties?”
One side of my mouth tilts up teasingly. “I find they get in the way.”
I snag a finger under the chain around his neck and use it to tug him closer. “I’m not sure why yours are still on.”
“I can fix that.” His hands making fast work at peeling off his jeans, his cock already hard, springing up against his navel. I reach for him, but he shakes his head, a devilish glint in his eyes as he grips onto my thighs, yanking my bottom to the edge of the counter as he drops to his knees.
A second later his head is between my legs and his tongue begins to stroke up and down between the lips of my center.
He’s feasts on me like a man who’s been starving.
He sucks and laps and nibbles, taking me to the very edge before rising to thrust himself inside of me just as I combust. My muscles clench and pulse around his hard length as he fucks me on the counter, his hips slamming against mine, his release exploding a minute later, both of us yelling out each other’s name.
He holds me tightly as our hearts slow, as our breathing normalizes, his fingers stroking the back of my neck.
“Good morning.” He chuckles when we finally break apart.
“It’s turning out to be.” I smile up at him.
“You slept in,” he murmurs, kissing my jaw.
“I’m trying the whole ‘rest’ thing.” I sigh in contentment. “It’s new.”
“You’re good at it.”
“I’m excellent at it.”
He laughs softly, forehead dropping to mine. “Stay another week.”
“I was planning on it.”
“Stay two,” he pesters, his grip tightening.
“We’ll see.”
He kisses me again; slow, certain. It’s the kind of kiss that knots something in my chest and unravels everything else. After a moment, he brushes his thumb across my cheek. “Quinn texted me this morning.”
My brows lift. “You’re texting Quinn now?”
“She added me to something called the ‘Michael Needs Therapy’ group chat.”
I snort. “That sounds about right.”
“She said she’s coming here next week. She’s got an interview at a facility downtown.”
My heart does a warm, gentle flip. “I didn’t think she was serious when she said she was going to consider relocating.”
He shrugs. “She said she’s ready for a change. And she liked Chicago when she visited a couple years ago.”
“And Mikey?” I tease.
Dean smirks. “He’s been cleaning his apartment for three straight days. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
“Mikey doesn’t know what love is.”
“He’s learning,” Dean replies softly. “We all are.”
I lean into him. “You’re doing pretty well at it.”
His expression shifts. Something tender, something open, something rare. “Yeah?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I confirm, brushing my lips against his.
He swallows. Hard. And for the first time, I see the nerves flicker behind the confidence. Dean Ross, the man who walked into fire every night on stage, looks afraid of one small thing: the truth.
He cups my face with one hand. “Sadie…” And my pulse stumbles at what he says next. “I love you.”
It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Not a grand gesture. It’s just simple. It’s real and spoken like an exhale he’s been holding for years. Warmth floods my chest, my ribs, my whole stupid heart.
I slide my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and whisper, “I love you too.”
His breath leaves him in one rough, quiet sound.
Relief. Joy. Something bigger. He kisses me like he’s memorizing it.
Like he’s found a home he didn’t think he deserved.
And when he steps back between my legs, his hands sliding over my skin, voice thick and unguarded as he growls my name, the rest of the world falls away.
Hours later, we’re lying tangled in the late-afternoon heat, the windows open, cicadas singing like a lullaby. Dean traces slow lines down my spine. “Band’s meeting next week,” he shares. “Eight months here. Writing. Recording. Real life.”
“And me?” I wonder out loud.
He tilts my chin up with a gentle fingertip. “You know I want you here for all of it. You’re like a warm sweater I never want to take off.” Emotion swells through my whole body. He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “We’re not hiding. Not running. Not pretending. We’re doing this.”
I smile into his skin. “Together.”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Together.”
A soft breeze rustles the trees outside his window.
Somewhere in the distance, a train horn echoes.
Life moves. Shifts. Begins again. And in this small, quiet house outside Chicago, with Dean’s heartbeat steady against my cheek, I realize something simple and true, wherever we go next, whatever the band writes, whatever storms come, we’ll face them side by side.
Because we’re choosing each other. And just like that, the future settles into place and the next chapter begins.
The End…