Epilogue
The first morning in our new house feels like waking up inside a dream.
Sunlight filters through the curtains Phoenix insisted on picking out himself—soft cream, not my style at all, but he said they made the place feel like home, and who was I to tell him no.
The mattress is new, still smelling faintly of plastic, but Phoenix is sprawled across it like he was born here, one arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against my neck.
I don’t move. Not because I’m tired, but because this—him, us, here—is everything.
It’s quiet except for the creak of the porch swing outside. The breeze carries it in through the cracked window, a soft back-and-forth rhythm. A reminder that the house is real, that this isn’t just another night in his rented house, or my apartment, or the cabin in the mountains. This is ours.
Our home.
When I finally slip out of bed, Phoenix groans, half-asleep. “Where’re you going?”
“Kitchen,” I whisper. “Coffee.”
“Bring me some. Strong. Sweet.” His grin is lazy, lopsided, and I laugh despite myself.
The kitchen smells faintly of fresh paint and cedar. Boxes are stacked in the corner, half-open, spilling our lives onto the counters—my books, his endless collection of mugs, our mismatched jackets tossed over chairs. It’s messy and perfect.
The sound of claws clicking against hardwood makes me turn.
“Hi, Puck,” I murmur.
Our puppy bounds toward me—clumsy, floppy-eared, brown fur soft as velvet. Phoenix swore we’d wait until we were settled before we got a dog, but two days after signing the papers, he showed up with Puck cradled in his arms like a baby.
“Couldn’t resist,” he’d said, smirking. And I’d fallen in love all over again.
Puck noses at my leg while I pour coffee, tail wagging so hard it thumps against the cabinets. I ruffle his ears, heart swelling.
By the time I bring the mugs back upstairs, Phoenix is sitting up in bed, hair sticking up in every direction, smile sleepy but warm. He pats the mattress beside him.
“C’mere.”
I climb back in, pressing the warm mug into his hand. He takes a sip, sighs, then sets it aside, tugging me into his lap instead. His arms circle me, heavy and sure.
Puck cries at the base of the bed, asking to be picked up so he can cuddle too.
“Ugh, what a baby.” Phoenix releases me, picking up the whining puppy.
He kisses Puck’s nose before placing him on the bed.
I swallow hard, my chest tight with something bigger than words. I think about the boy who didn’t grow up loved except by his big brother. He made himself small so he could survive another day, and he never guessed he would be here, loved, cared for, and safe.
But here I am.
“I could do this forever,” I whisper.
Phoenix smiles and tilts my chin, eyes dark and endless. “Good. Because I’m never letting you go.”
And when he kisses me—soft, lingering, tasting faintly of coffee—I believe him. With everything I am, I believe him.
The porch swing creaks outside. Puck barks at a bird on the windowsill. And I know, without question, that this is love.