Epilogue - Shelby 3 months later
EPILOGUE - SHELBY 3 MONTHS LATER
H e’s pacing.
That should’ve been my first warning.
Mason Ironside never paces.
He’s precise. Controlled. A weapon disguised as a man.
But right now?
He looks like a confused bulldozer with too many feelings and no outlet.
“I don’t understand,” he says—for the third time.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands curled tightly in my lap, the crumpled pregnancy test sitting next to me like a detonator.
“There’s nothing to understand,” I murmur.
He stops in front of me. Still. Silent. Eyes locked on mine.
“You’re saying… you’re pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s mine.”
I blink. “Mason, who else’s?—?”
“Right,” he cuts in, holding up a hand like he’s trying to physically stop the avalanche of emotions steamrolling his brain. “Sorry. No. Yeah. Of course it’s mine. I just—I need a minute.”
He turns in a slow circle like he’s looking for the nearest exit or an emergency whiskey stash.
Possibly both.
I wait.
Because this man has handled bloodbaths with a poker face. He’s stared down death itself with barely a blink. And now? He’s being taken out by one pink line… then two.
“I didn’t plan this,” I say quietly.
He freezes.
Turns.
And then he kneels in front of me.
Just like that.
Drops to the ground like he’s reverent. Like I’m holy.
I swallow. “Mason…”
His hands come up—tentative, gentle—and rest on my hips. His voice is wrecked.
“You’re carrying something that’s half you,” he whispers, “and half me.”
I nod.
He stares at my stomach like it’s sacred. Like he can already see her. Feel her.
“I’ve never done anything in my life to deserve this,” he says, eyes shining now. “But if you let me—I will spend the rest of my days making sure this child knows what safety feels like.”
I reach for him, my fingers threading through his hair.
“You already are,” I whisper.
He presses his forehead to my belly.
“I swear to God,” he murmurs, “if it’s a girl, I’m building a moat. A literal moat, Shelby. I’m not joking. There will be background checks. Facial recognition software. Maybe a bear.”
I laugh, watery and warm. “A bear?”
“I have contacts.”
“You are deranged.”
“I’m in love,” he corrects, looking up at me. “With you. With this. With everything I didn’t know I needed until you walked into my life and tore it apart.”
And just like that, the silence turns soft.
No more pacing. No more panic.
Just Mason—wrecked and whole—holding onto the first piece of forever.
Later, after the shock has worn off but the awe hasn’t, we’re lying in bed—our bed—wrapped in too many blankets, legs tangled like they’re afraid of being separated.
Mason’s hand rests on my stomach like it’s already a promise. Like he’s daring the world to touch what’s his.
Outside, the rain drums softly against the windowpane. Inside, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that feels full instead of empty.
“I googled prenatal vitamins,” he says suddenly, voice low.
I blink at him, lips twitching. “You what?”
“Right after you fell asleep.” His face is serious. Too serious. “I read five articles, Shelby. One of them said we need to talk about folic acid. I don’t even know what that is, but I’m ready to fight it if I have to.”
I snort, burying my smile in his chest. “You are so dramatic.”
He tilts my chin up. “And you’re not scared?”
I don’t answer right away. Because the truth is—I am. Of course I am.
But not of the baby.
Not of us.
Just… of being seen this clearly.
“Not scared enough to run,” I say. “Not this time.”
His fingers slip between mine, tightening. “Good. ‘Cause I was gonna block the exits.”
I laugh, breathless and bright, and he kisses me like he’s trying to memorize it. The sound. The moment. The way my laugh tastes on his lips.
“I want her to be like you,” I whisper. “Fearless. Loyal. Impossible to move once she’s made up her mind.”
“I want her to be like you,” he counters. “Smart. Brave. Better than either of us.”
“She’ll probably be a little chaotic.”
He grins. “She’ll fit right in.”
We lie there in silence for a while. The kind that feels like building something. A blueprint drawn with whispers and heartbeat promises.
“You know,” he says, “when I was younger, I thought I’d die with blood on my hands and no one waiting on the other side.”
I squeeze his hand.
“And now?” I ask.
He turns to me, eyes dark and steady.
“Now I think I might live long enough to teach our daughter how to throw a punch. And bake cookies.”
I grin. “Violence and carbs. The Ironside legacy.”
“Damn right.”
His hand drifts back to my stomach, thumb brushing slow circles there.
“I’m gonna screw this up sometimes,” he says quietly. “Not on purpose. But I will.”
“We both will.”
“But I’ll show up,” he says. “Every day. Every night. I’ll be there. I’ll try. I’ll love her with every piece of me, even the broken ones.”
I don’t cry.
But I want to.
Because this—this man, this moment—isn’t just the future. It’s the healing of every jagged past I thought I had to carry alone.
I press my forehead to his. Let my lips brush his jaw.
“We’re not perfect, Mason,” I whisper.
“But we’re enough,” he murmurs back.
And somehow… we are.
The rain keeps falling. The world keeps spinning.
But here, in the cradle of his arms and the future blooming quietly between us—we’re steady.
We’re home.
And we’re not going anywhere.