EPILOGUE
Still Choosing Each Other
Kathy — POV
Three years later, Kathy still opened the shop early.
Old habits didn't disappear.
They just evolved.
But now the shop had two locations — both in Hood River. Small, still personal, but thriving. The original on Merrow Street and a second closer to the waterfront.
She stood behind the counter of the original store, arranging fresh flowers when she felt familiar footsteps outside.
She didn't even look up.
"You're late," she said.
Brad's voice came soft behind her. "Traffic from Portland."
Kathy smiled. "Liar."
He stepped inside and leaned against the counter beside her.
No suit.
No distance.
Just him.
"You still don't believe me?" he asked.
"Not when it's convenient," she replied.
That earned a quiet laugh from him.
He glanced around the shop.
Still hers.
Still growing.
"Everything okay here?" he asked.
Kathy nodded. "Always."
A pause.
Then she added, "Mostly because you stopped trying to fix everything."
Brad nodded slowly. "Best decision I ever made."
Kathy looked at him briefly.
"You still think that?" she asked.
"I don't think it," he said. "I know it."
Silence.
But warm.
Familiar.
Safe.
Later that morning, they sat together at a small table behind the shop with coffee.
Simple.
Quiet.
Normal.
Kathy rested her head slightly against his shoulder.
"You know," she said softly, "I used to think love had to feel perfect."
Brad glanced at her. "And now?"
She smiled.
"Now I think it just has to feel honest."
Brad didn't answer right away.
Then he said quietly:
"Good. Because that's all I can give."
Kathy nodded.
"That's enough," she said.
Brad leaned over and kissed her. Brad leaned over and kissed her. Slow and sure. The kind of kiss that didn't need to prove anything. The kind of kiss that said I'm still here. I'm still choosing you.
When he pulled back, she was smiling.
"Three years," she said, "and you still kiss me like that."
"Three years," he replied, "and you still let me."
"Always," she said.
Later that night, they sat on the small balcony behind the shop — their apartment now, above the second location.
The lights of Hood River blinked below them, soft and distant.
Somewhere down there, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a screen door slammed.
Ordinary sounds. Beautiful sounds. The sound of a life that didn't need to be perfect to be real.
Across the Columbia, on the Washington side, the Gorge house sat empty.
He had sold it last year. They didn't need two hiding places anymore.
Kathy leaned against Brad's shoulder.
"You ever regret it?" she asked quietly.
He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "The company? No."
"Not even a little?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I regret how long it took me to understand that none of it mattered without someone to come home to."
Kathy tilted her head up at him.
"That's a good answer," she said.
"I've had time to practice," he replied.
She laughed softly. "Still honest?"
"Always," he said.
And meant it.
The ring on her finger caught the light — simple, unflashy, perfect.
"Three years," she said.
"Three years," he repeated.
"And you're still here."
Brad kissed her forehead.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
And for the first time in his life —
he wasn't controlling the outcome.
He was just choosing her.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Because love wasn't part of the deal.
But somehow —
it became the whole story.