Epilogue
CHARLES
Six Months Later
My hands were shaking.
I stood at the back of the Holy Cross Church, adjusting my tie for the fourth time in as many minutes, and tried to calm the butterflies that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach.
The church was packed to capacity with everyone who mattered to us.
My parents stood on either side of me, tears already streaming down Mom’s face, Dad looking proud enough to burst his buttons.
Solstice stood at the front as my best person—she’d threatened bodily harm if I called her a maid of honor—looking stunning in a flowing emerald dress with actual flowers woven into her hair instead of her usual daisies.
Behind them, the pews were filled with familiar faces.
My sister, of course, plus a whole flock of aunts, uncles, and cousins.
Then Dani and Judith, Dolly and the other Wedding Row merchants, Sheriff Morrison and half the sheriff’s department in their dress uniforms, Edna dabbing at her eyes, and Mr. Peterson looking uncharacteristically emotional in his best suit.
The whole town had turned out, it seemed, to witness me marry the man who’d swept into Charming and stolen my heart.
Father Judson stood ready at the altar, looking dashing in his robes.
When he’d heard we were getting married, he’d come to the bakery and had offered to marry us.
Being Irish, Eamon had grown up Catholic, but considering the official Catholic doctrine was against same-sex marriage, we hadn’t expected to be able to get married in the church.
“God’s house should welcome all who come seeking blessing for their unions,” Judson had told us during our meeting to discuss the details. “Love is love, and it’s never a sin. It’s a miracle.”
I’d cried right there in his office.
The past six months felt like a dream I was afraid to wake up from.
Eamon had integrated into life in Charming so seamlessly that it was like he’d always belonged here.
Within his first month as deputy, he had solved the town’s first real crime in decades—a string of break-ins that turned out to be the work of a teenager from the next county over.
The respect he’d earned from his colleagues was genuine, and watching him find purpose in protecting people on a human scale instead of a cosmic one had been beautiful to witness.
The bakery expansion was complete, transforming Sweet Relief into the café I’d always envisioned.
Eamon had thrown himself into helping with the renovation, learning to install shelving and paint walls with the same intensity he brought to everything else.
Our house felt like a true home—filled with both our belongings, our shared routines, the comfortable domesticity of two people building a life together.
The music began—not the traditional wedding march, but an Irish ballad Eamon had requested, played by a string quartet from the community college. Then Eamon stepped into my line of sight, and my breath caught in my throat.
Eamon looked devastatingly handsome in his dark-blue suit, his hair perfectly styled but still slightly rumpled in that way that made my heart skip a beat.
But it was his smile that undid me completely—bright and joyful and so full of love it was like looking directly into the sun. Plus, obviously, those dimples. Swoon.
As I took my first step and then the next one, walking down the aisle accompanied by my parents, his eyes never left mine, and tears blurred my vision. Six months ago, I’d been a lonely baker hiding from a mob boss. Now I was marrying the love of my life in front of everyone who mattered to us.
When I reached the altar and took my place beside him, the rest of the world seemed to fade away. My dad hugged me and my mom kissed me, but I only had eyes for Eamon. Father Judson’s voice became a distant murmur as Eamon reached for my hands, his fingers warm and steady against mine.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered, his accent thick with emotion.
“So do you,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Father Judson cleared his throat gently, bringing us back to the ceremony. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of Charles Michael Garrity and Eamon Patrick O’Rourke in holy matrimony…”
The words washed over me like a blessing. This was really happening. After everything we’d been through, all the secrets and danger and impossible revelations, we were here. Together. Making promises in front of El and our community that would bind us for whatever time we were given.
When it came time for our personal vows, Eamon spoke first, his voice clear and strong despite the tears shining in his green eyes.
“My love, six months ago, I thought I knew what my purpose was. I thought I understood my place in the world. Then I met you, and everything changed. You taught me what it means to truly live, not just exist. You showed me that the most profound miracles happen in quiet moments—in shared meals and lazy Sunday mornings and the simple act of choosing to love someone completely.”
He paused, swallowing hard, and I squeezed his hands encouragingly.
“I promise to love you for all our mortal days. To build a life with you filled with laughter and fresh bread and terrible morning hair. I promise to dance with you in our kitchen and help you perfect new recipes and grow old beside you with gratitude for every moment we’re given.
You are my home, Charles. You are my heart.
And I choose you, today and every day for the rest of my life. ”
By the time he finished, I was openly crying, not caring that the entire congregation could see.
When it was my turn, I somehow managed to find my voice despite the emotion clogging my throat.
“Eamon, I fell in love with you before I knew who you really were. I loved your strength and your protectiveness and the way you made me feel safe in a world that had become dangerous. But knowing the true you has only made me love you more.”
I couldn’t say more, but he knew what I meant. And so did El or whoever was listening. “I promise to love every version of you, past, present, and future. I promise to create a home where you can belong completely, where we can build snowmen and dance in the kitchen and grow old together.”
Father Judson pronounced us married with obvious joy in his voice, and when he said, “You may kiss your husband,” Eamon cupped my face in his hands and kissed me with a tenderness that spoke of promises kept and dreams fulfilled.
The church erupted in applause and cheers, but all I could hear was Eamon’s whispered “I love you” against my lips.
We turned to face our community as husbands, hands clasped tightly, both of us grinning through tears.
I looked out at all the faces beaming back at us—Mom and Suze crying openly, Dad wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, Solstice whooping loud enough to wake the dead—and felt overwhelmed by the love surrounding us.
And then I saw him.
In the very back pew, slightly apart from the other guests, sat a figure in an impeccably tailored suit. Gabriel looked exactly as he had that night at the cabin—ageless, elegant, carrying an aura of quiet authority. But his expression was softer than I remembered, almost…proud.
Our eyes met across the crowded church. Gabriel smiled—a real, warm smile that transformed his entire face—and offered a small salute before winking at me with obvious affection.
Then he was gone, as if he’d never been there at all.
But I’d seen him. The message was crystal clear: El approved. This love, this choice, this beautifully human life we were building together had a divine blessing. Whatever cosmic rules governed angels and mortals, our love transcended them all.
My heart swelled with gratitude and perfect happiness as Eamon and I walked back down the aisle together, rice and flower petals raining down on us from our cheering friends and family.
We stepped out of the church into brilliant spring sunshine, the kind of perfect May day that made everything look possible.
“How does it feel to be married, husband?” Eamon asked as we posed for pictures on the church steps.
“Perfect, husband,” I replied, and meant it with every fiber of my being.
We had a lifetime ahead of us—probably fifty or sixty years if we were lucky, filled with quiet mornings and shared meals and all the beautifully mundane moments that made mortal life precious.
There would be challenges and arguments and the inevitable sorrows that came with being human.
But there would also be love—deep, abiding, chosen love that had already proven stronger than duty, stronger than divine law, stronger than anything the universe could throw at us.
As our friends and family gathered around us, offering congratulations and promises of embarrassing wedding photos, I caught Eamon’s eye and saw my own joy reflected back at me.
He’d chosen mortality for this—for us, for love, for the chance to build something real and lasting and beautifully human.
And looking at him in the afternoon sunlight, surrounded by everyone we loved, I knew with absolute certainty that it was the best choice either of us had ever made.
Some love stories were worth waiting centuries to find.
Thank you for reading Dirty Angel!