Epilogue - Mason 3 years later
There’s a sock on the chandelier.
I don’t know how it got there.
And honestly? I’m too tired to ask.
The house smells like maple syrup and shampoo. Shelby’s shampoo—the kind I use every time I think she won’t notice. But she always does.
I walk barefoot down the hall, coffee in one hand, Lily in the other. She’s talking. Nonstop. Something about dragons and cupcakes and how the moon followed her home last night and how she’s “basically an astronaut now.”
I grunt in response.
Not because I’m annoyed. Because I’m wrecked. Wrapped. Gone for this kid.
She’s got Shelby’s eyes. Big, a dark forest green, full of questions and mischief and moonlight. She’s got my mouth—my scowl when she doesn’t get her way, which is ninety percent of the time.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
She’s also chewing on my necklace.
“Sweetheart,” I say, prying it from her teeth, “we’ve talked about this.”
She beams up at me. Two tiny dimples. Full of smiles.
“I’m teefin’, Daddy.”
“You’ve been teething for two years.”
“An’ you’ve been old for five hundred,” she shoots back.
Shelby laughs behind me.
I turn. She’s leaning in the kitchen doorway, barefoot, robe tied loose at the waist, coffee in her hand and sleep still in her smile.
She’s not wearing makeup. Her hair’s a mess.
She’s perfect.
“Your daughter called me five hundred years old,” I tell her.
She raises an eyebrow. “I mean… she’s not wrong.”
I glare. She winks.
“Come here,” I murmur.
She walks over, slow and soft, like she knows I need her close even on the quiet mornings. I kiss her—lazy, warm, familiar. She tastes like vanilla and home.
“Hey,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to mine.
“Hey.”
“I love you,” she says, like it’s easy. Like it’s breathing.
It still knocks the wind out of me.
“Love you more.”
The toddler makes a gagging noise and demands pancakes.
I roll my eyes. “I’ll make them.”
“I’ll flip them,” Shelby offers.
“You always burn them.”
“I like them burned.”
“You like proving me wrong.”
She grins. “Still trying.” She shakes her head and heads toward the stove. I watch her move—her hips swaying, her laughter trailing behind her like ribbon.
I set our daughter down. She toddles off to the living room to give the dog a lecture about space travel.
And I stand there for a moment.
Just stand there.
In a house I never thought I’d have.
With a woman I thought I lost.
Holding a future I didn’t believe I deserved.
This is it.
This is the life I didn’t know how to want.
Not perfect. Not clean.
But real.
Ours.
And it’s more than enough.
It’s late.
I should be asleep.
Shelby definitely is—curled up in bed, one leg thrown over all the blankets like she owns gravity. I kissed her temple and watched her breathing even out before slipping down the hall, past the nightlight shaped like a sleepy bear.
And now I’m here.
In the nursery.
She’s not crying. Not exactly. Just fussing. That low, restless whimper she makes when she’s dreaming something she doesn’t like. She kicks once under the blanket, and I swear it startles the pink bunny right off the edge of the crib.
I lean down and scoop her up.
“Hey now,” I murmur, voice gravel and velvet, “you’re okay, baby girl.”
She blinks up at me, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to her forehead in messy curls. Still half-asleep. Still clutching that ridiculous stuffed crow Shelby insists is not creepy.
“You were dreaming,” I say, settling into the old rocking chair. “I get it. Sometimes dreams don’t make sense. Like taxes. Or your mother’s taste in reality TV.”
She yawns, melts against my chest, one tiny fist curled around the fabric of my shirt.
I rock her, slow and steady. Back and forth. The way I used to calm myself down before a hit.
I should be saying something wise. Something parental. But all that comes out is...
“You know you’re stuck with me now, right? You, me, your mama, and whatever chaos comes next.”
She makes a soft noise—almost a giggle.
“Exactly,” I murmur. “A menace, just like your mother.”
I glance down at her tiny face, already slipping back into sleep, and feel something shift in my chest.
“You know what, kid?” I whisper. “I think I’m gonna call you Trouble.”
She stirs, just a little, like she heard me in a dream and is already offended.
“Trouble Monroe Ironside,” I say, nodding to myself. “Fits. Especially with those lungs. And that attitude.”
She snorts.
I grin.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “It’s just for now. You’ll outgrow it.”
Pause.
“Probably.”
She snuggles deeper into my chest like she knows I’m lying.
I press a kiss to the crown of her head, rocking her in time with the rhythm of the night. Just the two of us and the quiet, and the lingering scent of Shelby’s lavender lotion clinging to the walls.
“Get some rest, Trouble,” I whisper. “We’ve got a whole messy, beautiful life to raise you into.”