Epilogue
Piper
Six months later, and my life looks nothing like I thought it would.
Ryder's back porch—our back porch, I'm still getting used to saying that—overlooks the woods where the evening sun filters through the trees in stripes of gold and shadow.
The air smells like pine and the salmon he's grilling, and somewhere in the distance, Morris the moose is probably plotting his next dramatic entrance into our lives.
"Stop checking your phone," Ryder says without looking up from the grill. "The numbers aren't going to change in the next thirty seconds."
"They might." But I set my phone face-down on the armrest of the Adirondack chair anyway. "Three hundred thousand followers is statistically improbable. What if it's a glitch?"
"It's not a glitch." He flips the salmon with the kind of casual competence that still does unfair things to my pulse. "Your content is good. People like watching you actually live in Alaska instead of pretending to live in Alaska."
"Grizzly Girl goes legit," I say, grinning. "Who would've thought?"
The rebrand happened gradually, then all at once.
Less sponsored content about products I didn't believe in, more genuine posts about small-town life, firefighter boyfriends who let me film their terrible dance moves, and the occasional moose photobomb.
Turns out people respond to authenticity. Revolutionary concept.
My phone buzzes. I grab it before I can stop myself.
"I thought you weren't checking," Ryder says, amused.
"This could be important."
"It's Sage, isn't it?"
"She's sending me memes about your Footloose performance from last week's game." I turn the screen to show him a gif of his sprinkler move with the caption When bae says he can't dance but then does THIS. "She's made seventeen different versions."
"Of course she has." He plates the salmon, bringing it over to where I'm sitting. "She's been suspiciously quiet today. That's never good."
Right on cue, Sage's voice carries across the twenty feet separating our cabins. "I can hear you talking about me! My ears are burning!"
"That's called eavesdropping!" Ryder calls back.
"It's called being invested in your happiness!" She appears on her own porch—the crooked cabin's porch, which she's decorated with string lights and approximately forty-seven throw pillows. "Also, I made brownies. They're still warm. You're welcome."
"We didn't ask for brownies," Ryder says.
"And yet, you'll eat them." She's already crossing the distance between cabins, barefoot despite the cooling evening air, carrying a plate stacked with chocolate squares that smell incredible. "Besides, I have news."
"Good news or Sage news?" I ask.
"Both." She settles onto the porch railing like she's done this a thousand times—which she has, because Sage doesn't believe in boundaries or personal space or anything resembling normal social conventions. "Jax finally asked me out."
Ryder nearly drops his fork. "What?"
"Technically, I asked him if he was ever going to ask me out, and he said yes, so I'm counting it." She bites into a brownie with zero shame. "We're going to the Moosehead Lodge tomorrow night. You two should double date with us."
"Absolutely not," Ryder says immediately.
"Why not? Afraid I'll tell embarrassing stories about you?" Sage grins. "Too late. I already told Jax about the time you got stuck in a snow bank trying to impress Melissa Carter in eighth grade."
"I wasn't trying to impress her—"
"You wore cologne, Ry. To play hockey. The team still talks about it."
I'm laughing so hard I nearly spill my water. Ryder shoots me a look that's half exasperation, half fondness, and my heart does that stupid flutter thing it's been doing for six months straight.
"You're supposed to be on my side," he says.
"I am on your side." I lean over to kiss his cheek. "I'm also on team 'this story is hilarious.'"
"Traitor."
Sage helps herself to more brownies, completely at home on our porch. "So, double date? Come on. It'll be fun. We can do that couples thing where we pretend we're not competitive and then get way too intense about trivia."
"Pass," Ryder says.
"You're no fun since you became Fire Chief." She says it with mock disappointment, but there's real pride underneath. "All responsible and official."
The promotion came through two weeks ago. Chief Walsh's retirement became official, and Ryder accepted the position without hesitation. No NHL scouts, no last-minute offers, no looking back. Just a choice, made with both eyes open and zero regrets.
He'd turned to me the night the town council made it official and said, "This is what I want. Staying here. Building this. With you."
And I'd kissed him and said, "Good. Because I already applied for a mortgage."
We're still living in his cabin while we figure out logistics—whether to renovate here or build something new, whether to keep the crooked cabin as a rental or let Sage stay permanently. Future planning would've terrified me six months ago.
Now? It feels like the most natural thing in the world.
"Earth to Piper." Sage waves a hand in front of my face. "You're doing that thing where you zone out and smile at Ryder like he hung the moon."
"She does that a lot," Ryder says, not bothering to hide his grin.
"Because you're obnoxiously perfect together and it's disgusting.
" Sage stands, brushing brownie crumbs off her shorts.
"Fine. No double date. But you're both coming to Sunday dinner at Tessa and Gage's.
And before you say no, Tessa already said you're coming, and you don't say no to a pregnant woman. "
"Tessa's pregnant?" I sit up straight. "Since when?"
"Since three weeks ago, but she just told everyone today." Sage's grin is pure mischief. "Baby Grayson's getting a sibling. The Ashwood Falls baby boom continues."
After she leaves—taking the rest of the brownies with her, because apparently we "don't deserve them" after refusing the double date—Ryder and I sit in comfortable silence, watching the sky fade from gold to pink to deep purple.
"Your sister is a menace," I say eventually.
"She's your best friend."
"Also true." I lean my head against his shoulder. "How's it feel? The promotion being official?"
"Terrifying. Right. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be." His arm comes around me, warm and solid. "Dad would've been proud."
"He would've been insufferable about it," I correct. "Based on every story Sage has told me, he would've thrown a party and made a speech and probably embarrassed you in front of the entire fire department."
Ryder laughs, and the sound rumbles through his chest. "Yeah. He would've."
We're quiet again, and then he shifts slightly, reaching into his pocket. "Speaking of being where we're supposed to be..."
My heart stops. Completely stops. Because he's pulling out a small box, and the evening light catches on the edges, and oh my God, is this happening?
"Ryder—"
"Before you panic," he interrupts, opening the box to reveal not a ring, but a key.
A cabin key, brass and slightly worn. "I wanted to make it official.
This is your home now. Not just because you're staying here, but because I want you to stay.
Permanently. No more talking about 'Ryder's cabin' or 'your place. ' Just ours."
The key sits in his palm, and somehow it means more than any ring could. It's a promise of ordinary mornings and shared coffee and building something real together. It's choosing each other every day, not because of fake dating rules or social media strategy, but because this is what we both want.
"You already gave me a key six months ago," I point out, voice suspiciously thick.
"That was a spare. This is different." He closes my fingers around it. "This is me asking you to stay. To build this life with me. To put up with Sage living next door and Morris crashing our backyard and the entire town being invested in our relationship."
"That's a lot of commitments."
"I know." His thumb traces circles on my wrist. "Think you can handle it?"
I look at the key in my hand, then at the man who gave it to me. Ryder Lockwood, Fire Chief, terrible dancer, the most genuine person I've ever met. The man who chose his hometown over fame, who showed me what real connection looks like, who made me believe in second chances.
"I don't know," I say slowly, fighting a smile. "What about all those rules we had?"
He blinks. "The fake dating rules?"
"Mm-hmm. Remember? Rule four specifically stated clear professional boundaries." I'm fighting a smile and losing badly. "We violated that pretty thoroughly."
"We violated all the rules."
"Extensively." I thread my fingers through his. "Repeatedly."
"Think we should write new ones?"
"Absolutely." I lean in until our foreheads touch. "Rule one: No more fake anything."
"Rule two," he murmurs against my lips. "Morning coffee on the porch is mandatory."
"Rule three: Sage gets unlimited visiting privileges but has to text first."
"She'll never follow that one."
"Worth a shot." I kiss him, slow and sweet and real. "Rule four: We stay. Together. In Ashwood Falls. Building this life."
"Best rule yet," he says, and kisses me back.
Somewhere in the woods, a branch cracks. We both turn just in time to see Morris the moose emerge from the tree line, heading straight for our porch with the kind of determination that suggests he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"Morris, no—" Ryder starts.
Too late. The moose plants himself at the base of the porch steps, looking between us with what I swear is judgment.
"He's been showing up every time we're out here," I say. "It's like he knows."
"Knows what?"
"That we're disgustingly happy and he wants to ruin it." But I'm laughing, because this is exactly how our story goes. The moose who photobombed our first date is here for the real declaration of forever.
Ryder stands, grabs his phone, and before I can ask what he's doing, he's pulling me up and positioning us for a selfie. "Come on. The followers will love this."
"I thought we were having a moment."
"We are. We're just documenting it." He snaps the photo—me laughing, him grinning, Morris looming in the background like the world's largest third wheel. "Perfect. Caption?"
"'Six months later, still can't shake the moose. Or the firefighter. Keeping both.'"
"Excellent." He posts it, then sets his phone aside and pulls me close again. "Where were we?"
"Rule four," I remind him. "Staying together. Building this life."
"Right." His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "And rule five?"
"Rule five?"
"The one where I tell you I love you." His voice drops, serious now. "Not for content. Not for followers. Not because it makes a good story. Just because it's true."
The key feels warm in my hand. The evening air smells like pine and possibility. Morris is still watching us like a judgmental chaperone. And the man I fake-dated into real love is looking at me like I'm the best decision he ever made.
"That's a good rule," I whisper. "I love you too."
When we kiss, Morris makes a sound that might be approval or might be disgust—with moose, it's hard to tell. We ignore him, lost in each other and this life we're building and the absolute certainty that this is real.
Later, after Morris finally wanders off and we've moved inside to avoid the mosquitoes, Ryder pulls up the photo he posted. It's already got fifteen thousand likes and three hundred comments.
"Look at this one," he says, showing me the screen. "Jax commented 'told you so' with seventeen flame emojis."
"Sage wrote an entire paragraph about how she called it from day one."
"Tessa says congratulations on our 'moose-witnessed commitment ceremony.'"
We're scrolling through comments, laughing at the responses, when a new one appears. Unknown number, verified account.
Looks like Alaska treating you well, Piper. Happy for you. —Chad
The name sits there on the screen, and six months ago it would've sent me spiraling. Back then, I would've overanalyzed every word, wondered if it was genuine or passive-aggressive, maybe even responded with something carefully crafted.
Now? I delete the comment and keep scrolling.
"Everything okay?" Ryder asks, because he notices everything.
"Perfect." And I mean it. "Just deleting some old content that doesn't fit the brand anymore."
His smile is soft and knowing. "Good call."
Through the window, I can see Sage's cabin lights twinkling in the dusk. Beyond that, the woods where Morris probably lurks, waiting for his next opportunity to interrupt. Further still, the town of Ashwood Falls, small and imperfect and exactly where I belong.
The Grizzly Girl brand is thriving. Ryder's leading the fire department his father built. Sage is next door being gloriously herself. And me?
For the first time in years, I'm not performing. Not curating. Not trying to be anything other than exactly who I am.
Piper Meadows. Small-town resident. Grizzly Girl for real. In love with a firefighter who dances terribly and makes me laugh and chose this life—chose us—without looking back.
"Hey," Ryder says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Rule six."
"We have a rule six now?"
"Just made it up." He kisses my temple, then my cheek, then finds my mouth. "Every night ends like this. Us. Together. No matter what."
"Even if Morris is watching through the window?"
"Especially then. Let him learn what real commitment looks like."
And there, in our cabin, in our life, in our perfectly imperfect Ashwood Falls existence, we make good on rule six.
These new rules? These real ones, built on honesty and choice and love that doesn't need an audience?
These ones we're keeping.
Through the window, Sage's lights are still on—probably texting Jax another meme. Morris is somewhere in the woods, biding his time. And Ryder's arms are around me, solid and real and home.