Epilogue
Hunter Black
Two Years Later
It’s Christmas morning and the cabin smells like cinnamon, coffee, and the faint burn of wrapping paper from the fireplace.
Snow presses against the windows but the cold air is securely locked outside.
Lana’s curled up on the couch in my flannel shirt, fuzzy socks pulled halfway up her calves, one hand on her expanded belly, the other balancing her laptop.
I proposed the Christmas after we met. It was a magical moment in the woods beneath a massive pine that sits behind the rental cabin I purchased. It wasn’t for sale at the time, but the owner couldn’t say no to my generous offer.
We married in the spring under the same tree. Sometimes, when I look out at it, I hear the vows we whispered into the forest. Other times, I see our future unwinding around it. Children playing, grandchildren swinging, the two of us rocking beneath its branches.
It’s a witness. A living bookmark to the story we’re telling. A physical representation of the roots we’re building here, of the family we’re creating.
Maybe that’s a little over the top, but as a writer, I look for the meaning in everything. The story behind the story, the life inside the book. Lana is like that too, though she’s much better at it than I am. She’s taught me to write when the mood strikes instead of forcing a regiment.
Sometimes, that’s after midnight following a quiet Friday in. Other times, it’s ten in the morning after we’ve taken a walk in the back forty to feed the deer. Creativity isn’t something we plan for, it just happens. And these days, it’s happening louder and faster than ever.
“Remember that part I was telling you about?” she says, voice low, gaze still distracted by the laptop. “The part in my story where the hero was about to tell the heroine that he loved her?”
“You mean the one where he brought her outside the cabin in the middle of a snowstorm and kissed her like he was afraid the words would melt?” I settle beside her and kiss her forehead gently. “Yeah, I remember that.”
Her fingers pause as she stares toward me, nostalgia in her eyes. “Is it weird that I’m using our life in the book?”
“We won’t tell anyone it’s real life,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “The same way we didn’t tell anyone that spanking scene was real in my newest release. Fiction gives us a reason, but reality is the heartbeat of the story. Without you, I’d have nothing to write about.”
She smiles sweetly, sets her laptop on the arm of the sofa, and leans into my lap. “I love you, Hunter Black.”
“I love you, my little plot twist.”
I rest my hand on the curve of her belly, feeling the quiet rhythm of the life we made.
In four months, our baby girl, Ellie, will be here, and we’ll have another blessing that stretches out beyond us and into everyone we know.
Starting with Lana’s mom, who can’t wait to meet her granddaughter, to Marley and Holly, who can’t wait to be honorary aunts. We’re lucky people.
“You know,” I murmur, tracing slow circles with my thumb, “I used to think stories were born from solitude and heartbreak, but this… us… it’s rewriting everything I ever thought I knew.”
She hums softly, eyes fluttering closed as she melts into me. “I never thought I’d be writing books that people would actually read.”
“People are doing more than reading your books. They’re devouring them. You’re so talented, Lana. Talented and driven, and I’m so thankful every day for you, your love, and that little hum you do when you’re editing. This life is more perfect than any fantasy I could’ve ever created.”
Another soft exhale sings its way into existence as she rests against my lap, and I can’t help but feel the plot thicken.
Soon, we’ll make cocoa, watch a Christmas movie, and cozy up by the fire, but right now I want to revel in the moment.
I’ve finally found her… the woman I’ve been writing about. The one I couldn’t get out of my head. The one that gave life to my words. The one that forever makes my story complete.
And that… that’s an ending I never thought I’d write.
THANK YOU FOR READING.
READ HOLLY’S STORY HERE.