Epilogue #2
I glance over at him. Three months sober.
Three months of coffee instead of vodka, of morning runs instead of hangovers, of being able to look in the mirror without flinching.
And through it all, he’s been here. Not saving me—because that’s not his job—but standing beside me, reminding me that I’m worth the effort.
We hit a red light near the edge of downtown. I steal another look at him, the streetlight painting his profile in gold and shadow. His lashes are ridiculously long. His hand rests palm-up on his thigh, open, trusting.
I want this forever.
The thought drops into my chest with the clean certainty of something I can’t ignore anymore.
The light changes. I drive the rest of the way home with my heart thudding quietly behind my ribs.
When we pull into the garage, Alaric stirs, blinking. “We home?” His voice is rough, soft around the edges.
“Yeah,” I say. “You fell asleep on me.”
“A full belly will do that,” he mumbles, stretching. He unbuckles, hair sticking up in back. “Remind me to thank Molly for that second plate.”
We take the elevator up to the condo. It still amazes me sometimes that this place is ours now—clean lines, tall windows, the faint smell of laundry detergent and lemon polish. The city hums outside, but inside it’s quiet, warm.
I set the keys in the bowl by the door and turn to see him leaning against the wall, half-smiling, sleepy and gorgeous in that disheveled way that always gets me.
I step closer, slip a hand to his jaw, and kiss him.
It’s soft at first but then he makes that low sound in his throat, and the world tilts a little.
When I pull back, he’s still smiling. “What was that for?”
“For being you,” I say.
He chuckles. “That’s corny as hell, Magnus.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug, heart hammering. “Get used to it.”
He starts to turn toward the bedroom, but the words tumble out before I can stop them.
“Marry me.”
He freezes.
The air between us goes still. The faint hum of the refrigerator suddenly sounds too loud.
He blinks. “What?”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “I said, marry me.”
He stares for a long second, then laughs, a startled, breathy sound. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Magnus—”
“I know it sounds crazy,” I say quickly, taking a step closer.
“I know we’ve been through hell. I know I’ve made mistakes that would’ve sent anyone else running.
But I’m not going anywhere, Alaric. I don’t want temporary.
I want all of it. The fights, the mornings, the late-night games on TV. I want you, always.”
His mouth opens like he’s going to argue, but I keep going, voice shaking a little.
“I don’t care that it’s been messy. I don’t care that people talk, or that the league still looks at us funny sometimes. You’re it for me. So, yeah.” I take a breath. “Marry me.”
He just looks at me, eyes wide, mouth trembling between a smile and disbelief. Then he presses his fingers to his temple and laughs again—this time softer, almost helpless.
“You’re serious,” he says.
“Dead serious.”
He shakes his head, smiling even as he does it. “You’re ridiculous. You know that, right? You can’t drop something like that after pasta and cheesecake.”
“Marry me.”
He exhales, the fight leaving his shoulders. “You have the worst timing.”
“I’ll work on it.”
He steps closer until our chests touch. His hand slides up the back of my neck. “Ask me again,” he whispers.
“Marry me?”
We stumble toward the bedroom, laughing between kisses. His fingers tug at my shirt; mine find the waistband of his jeans. We bump into a chair, curse, laugh harder. It’s clumsy and real and alive.
When we finally fall onto the bed, we just lie there for a moment, breathing each other in. The city lights spill through the curtains, scattering across his skin.
“You know,” he murmurs, “you’re not supposed to propose while I’m full and wearing an ugly shirt my sister bought me.”
“Then I’ll just keep asking,” I say against his shoulder. “Tomorrow. The day after. Every damn day until you say yes.”
He snorts, but his hand finds mine under the sheets, fingers lacing tight. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “But I’m yours.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns, presses his forehead to mine. His breath is slow, even.
“I love you, Magnus.”
It’s not new. He’s said it before, in whispers and arguments and quiet mornings. But tonight it feels like something different—steady, unshakable.
I close my eyes, letting it settle in. “I love you too.”
He drifts off first, his breathing deep and even. I stay awake a little longer, tracing circles on the back of his hand with my thumb.
In the dark, I think about the boy who used to drown his pain at the bottom of a bottle, who thought love was something that always left. And then I look at Alaric—warm, messy, real—and realize that for once, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the world to take something from me.
I feel like I’m part of it.
The small chip in my pocket presses against my thigh, the number 90 etched into it like a promise. I think of the next one, and the one after that. Of all the mornings still waiting for us.
Because forever doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be ours.