Epilogue - Eva
Three years later…
I can’t stop staring at him.
He’s just three days old, small and warm in my arms. He has a thick patch of dark hair and wide, serious eyes that seem far too aware for a newborn.
“Is he really ours?” I ask, my voice tiny.
“He’s really ours,” Hudson confirms.
And just like that, tears fill my eyes again.
We just signed the papers that make us the proud parents of this tiny person in my arms.
Sarah, the social worker, smiles broadly. “Have you picked a name?”
Hudson and I look at each other.
And together, at the exact same time, we say:
“Lucian.”
Sarah’s face softens right away. She knows enough about us to understand what this means.
Not everything.
But enough.
She knows we both grew up in violent homes and built lives away from the criminal worlds our families were part of. She knows we’re orphans, and that I have difficulty having children.
Yes, that fact was confirmed about a year after the events that took Lucian from us.
A year after Hudson and I survived each other long enough to become something real.
After that, we both put in the work—counseling, therapy, and long talks we didn’t know how to have at first. We moved in together slowly and awkwardly, like two people learning how to live in peace for the first time.
I rebuilt my company.
Hudson rebuilt himself.
The diagnosis didn’t give us much hope.
But when I missed a period.
Then another.
And for a little while, I let myself hope.
When the tests came back negative, I cried more than expected.
The disappointment surprised me, because by then I’d started to imagine it.
A future.
A family.
Us.
After that, adoption became something we talked about quietly at first.
Then seriously.
For the past eighteen months, we've worked our way through the process.
Today, we're parents.
This baby boy is ours.
Hudson buckles baby Lucian into the car seat as if he’s diffusing a bomb, concentrating so hard it’s almost painful to watch while Sarah tries not to laugh.
“His head, babe,” I whisper nervously.
“I know where his head is,” Hudson mutters back immediately. “I’m aware babies have heads.”
Sarah laughs outright at that.
The summer air feels warm and bright as we leave the hospital. Hudson puts the carrier in the backseat, and I slide in next to it, not wanting our son to take his first ride alone.
Hudson catches me doing it and huffs out a quiet laugh before climbing into the driver’s seat.
The whole drive home, I just stare at the baby.
At our baby.
His tiny fingers flex in his sleep. His eyes flutter open every so often, unfocused and serious.
“He looks judgmental already,” I murmur.
“That’s genetic,” Hudson says solemnly.
I snort out a laugh.
When we get home, Hudson unbuckles him with total focus. He lifts Lucian to his chest and starts carrying him through the apartment.
And I swear to God, watching this enormous, scarred hockey player talk softly to a newborn nearly kills me.
“This,” Hudson says quietly to the baby, “is the kitchen. Your mom makes food in here that’s way too healthy and somehow still tastes good.”
I lean against the counter and press a hand over my mouth, tears rolling down my cheeks.
“This is the couch where I watch hockey and yell at the TV like a psychopath.”
He walks slowly toward the windows overlooking the city.
“That’s Chicago,” he murmurs. “Big city. Loud as hell. There's a river that turns green every St. Patrick's Day. And there's a lake out there, too. Looks like an ocean when the wind picks up.”
Lucian makes a tiny squeaking sound.
“Yeah,” Hudson says seriously. “That’s what I thought too.”
I laugh through my tears.
He keeps going, wandering through the apartment while Lucian blinks up at him sleepily.
“This,” he says, stopping beside a shelf, “is a replica of the Stanley Cup. I won the real one once.”
“Actually twice,” I correct automatically.
Hudson glances at me over his shoulder.
“Don’t make me sound arrogant in front of the baby.”
"I play for the Chicago Reapers," he continues. "Scary name, I know. This is an award I got for being the best goalie. I broke a record the year your mom and I got together."
I laugh harder.
Then his voice softens again as he stops beside a framed photo.
“This is your uncle Lucian,” he says quietly.
The air changes instantly.
“You’re named after him.”
I see his throat move.
“He would’ve loved you,” Hudson says softly. “He was smart as hell. Talked too much. Loved hockey more than anybody I ever met.”
His thumb strokes lightly over the baby’s back.
“He would’ve been the best uncle.”
I have to look away for a second because my chest hurts too much.
Hudson carries him down the hallway after that, showing him the nursery we spent months putting together.
Books lined neatly on shelves.
Tiny clothes folded in drawers.
A stuffed dinosaur Connor bought that’s almost bigger than the baby himself.
And finally, Hudson carries him into our bedroom right next door.
“This,” Hudson says solemnly to the baby, “is the bed where your mother and I tried to make you the traditional way. Repeatedly. Here, the floor, the shower?—”
“Oh, my God.” I snatch the baby out of his arms before he can continue. “He absolutely does not need to hear this. Thank you very much.”
Hudson grins, leaning down to kiss the top of my head.
“He has no idea what I’m saying.”
“Well, in case he secretly does.”
“That’d honestly be impressive for three days old.”
I laugh despite myself.
And God, I love hearing him laugh now.
In the beginning, Hudson’s smiles felt rare. Fleeting. Like something he didn’t entirely remember how to do after losing Lucian.
Grief hollowed him out for a long time.
Now he laughs more. Teases me constantly. Sometimes I catch him singing badly to the baby when he thinks nobody’s listening.
It feels like watching the sunlight return after a brutal winter.
He steps closer and kisses me softly, and like always, it deepens before I even realize it’s happening. I still react to him the same way I always have—completely and helplessly.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop.
Baby Lucian lets out a fussy little sound between us, and we both laugh.
“Okay, okay,” I murmur. “You’re clearly starving.”
I carry him back into the kitchen and start making a bottle while balancing him awkwardly against my shoulder. My shirt rides up as I reach for the formula container.
When I turn around, Hudson is staring at the scars across my stomach.
The scars have faded into pale jagged lines across my skin. The brands on my shoulder and foot disappeared beneath tattoos long ago, but I left these untouched.
“They’re just scars,” I sing-song lightly as I test the bottle temperature against my wrist.
“I know,” he says quietly.
But his eyes linger.
I sigh softly.
“Hudson.”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“I don’t think about it all the time anymore,” he admits. “But today…” His throat is hoarse. “Today I did.”
And there it is again.
That sadness that still sneaks up on him sometimes when he least expects it.
Not as sharp as it used to be.
Just deep.
Permanent.
I meet his gaze.
“You’re okay. We’re okay,” I tell him softly.
That’s what I always say when the ghosts come back.
And just like always, he nods once and answers quietly:
“We are. I am.”
I settle into the rocking chair with the baby and start feeding him. He attacks the bottle with shocking determination for someone who weighs less than a sack of potatoes.
The tiny noises he makes are ridiculous.
Little grunts and sighs and sleepy hums.
I’m completely fascinated by him.
Eventually, his eyes drift shut mid-bottle, tiny mouth falling slack as sleep wins.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “He fell asleep eating.”
Hudson carefully lifts the baby from my arms, and Lucian startles immediately, tiny arms jerking outward.
“Easy, buddy,” Hudson murmurs instantly, holding him against his chest and swaying gently. “I got you.”
The sight of this enormous man pacing softly through the nursery with our tiny son tucked against him feels so surreal; my chest aches.
Once Lucian settles again, Hudson lowers him carefully into the crib like he’s placing down something impossibly fragile.
Then we both just stand there.
Watching him breathe.
Watching his tiny chest rise and fall.
“He’s perfect,” I whisper.
Hudson reaches for my hand without looking away from the crib.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “He really is.”
He leads me into the living room and pulls me close.
We sway together, dancing quietly.
“You dance now?” I tease as he spins me carefully beneath his arm.
He smirks faintly.
“I contain multitudes.”
I laugh, looping my arms around his neck.
“You are full of surprises, Mr. Cross.”
He grins, but that hint of sadness is still there. “Good, Mrs. Cross. I hope I never stop surprising you.”
“I know how much you still miss him,” I say. "If hearing his name ever hurts too much, you can tell me. I don’t want this to be hard for you.”
“No way,” he says quickly. “No. His name is perfect. It’s okay.”
"Look at us," I say softly. "We made it."
Emotion chokes me.
“We're parents, Hudson. Can you believe that?”
Hudson’s arms tighten around me.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We are.”
He kisses me after that, slow and familiar and full of everything we survived to get here.
The kissing turns into laughter.
The laughter turns into us tangled together on the couch, unable to stop touching each other.
Three years later, he’s still my favorite place to be.
Hudson brushes his knuckles along my cheek.
"You know what's crazy?"
"What?"
His mouth twitches.
"I still can't believe you're real."
My chest tightens in the best way.
"That's a ridiculous thing to say."
"Maybe."
His forehead rests against mine.
"Doesn't make it less true."
I smile and kiss him before he can say anything else.
Somewhere between the couch and the blanket, our clothes end up abandoned on the floor.
We make love quietly, with the baby monitor a few feet away and the city lights glowing through the windows.
Nothing urgent.
Nothing desperate.
Just us.
Afterward, we lie tangled beneath a blanket, warm and exhausted.
I must drift off at some point because the next thing I hear is the soft crackle of the baby monitor and the tiny, unhappy noises of a waking newborn.
I smile immediately.
Carefully, I untangle myself from my husband and pull on clothes before padding toward the nursery.
I’m halfway through changing a diaper when Hudson stumbles in, looking sleepy and confused.
“You can go back to bed,” I whisper. “I’ve got him.”
He yawns, dragging a hand through messy blond hair before wrapping his arms around both of us from behind.
“You know,” he murmurs, “I used to feel bad we couldn’t do this the traditional way.”
I glance up at him.
“I always thought pregnant you would’ve been beautiful,” he admits. “Glowing and terrifying and probably yelling at me constantly.”
I snort.
“Pregnant women do it for you, huh?”
He grins sleepily.
“Only you. But honestly, you do it for me all the time, so I think that’s just a you problem.”
I turn and kiss him softly.
“I love you, Hudson Cross,” I whisper. “I’m not sorry for any of it. Not one thing. I’m happy we found each other.”
His expression softens into something so full of love it still catches me off guard sometimes.
Then he presses his forehead against mine and says quietly:
“Yeah, baby.”
A kiss.
A sleepy smile.
"We're home."
THE END