Epilogue
OZZY
“ C UPCAKE!”
I don’t mean to scream it so loudly, but Indy and I have never been known for subtlety.
The second we spot each other in the middle of the closed Hel’s Ink showroom, we collide like two freight trains made.
My boots skid across the concrete floor as she drops her cane, throws her petite body into my arms, and I hold her tight, laughing and maybe crying a little.
“You’re here,” she beams, her voice choked with emotion, arms squeezing around me like she hasn’t seen me in a decade instead of a couple months. “You’re really here.”
“Damn right I am,” I whisper back, pressing my cheek against hers. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Jackson lingers just behind me, waiting for the reunion chaos to subside. Indy lets go of me just long enough to throw her arms around him, too.
“You better be treating her like a goddess,” she warns into his ear.
“Every day,” he replies, and the thing is—he means it.
We walk together down the long hallway of the empty shop, the buzz of machines replaced with soft music coming from someone’s speaker.
It’s two days after Christmas, the shop is officially closed until the new year, and everything smells faintly of antiseptic and ink.
The fluorescent lights are dimmed, casting a softer glow over the place that’s known for stories told in skin.
All around us are framed flash sheets and custom drawings.
I pause to stare at one—a detailed sketch of a hand holding a blooming poppy—and I smile.
Derek is already at his station when we round the corner. He doesn’t stand or offer a handshake, just glances up and gives me one of those quiet nods that says ‘I see you.’
“I appreciate you doing this,” I say softly, letting my coat slide from my shoulders as I glance around. “Especially since the shop’s closed.”
Derek shrugs one shoulder. “Indy would’ve had my balls if I said no.”
“She absolutely would’ve,” she agrees brightly, already rifling through a drawer for gloves. “Now go on, bathroom’s waiting. Get prepped.”
I head to the back without hesitation. I’ve waited years for this moment.
Inside the bathroom, I flick on the light and stare at myself in the mirror. Just me and the scar.
The brand.
I slowly unbutton my jeans and slip them down, standing in my underwear, cold air brushing over the jagged, ugly remnants of something that used to own me. Raised skin. Letters I never asked for. The mark of a man who wanted to ruin me.
For a long time, I couldn’t even look at it. Couldn’t touch it. Couldn’t let Jackson see it without curling in on myself like I was still the same girl who’d cowered in silence for too many years.
But now?
I run my fingertips over the letters. They’re still there. But they don’t scream anymore.
They whisper. And I whisper back— I’m not yours. I never was.
I’m not hiding from it anymore. I’m ready to cover it—not to pretend it didn’t happen, but to reclaim it. To turn the ugliest thing he ever gave me into something beautiful I chose for myself.
I walk out slowly, my breath steady, and climb up onto the tattoo table. The paper crinkles beneath me as I lie back. Jackson is already waiting at my side, pulling up a stool and gripping my hand like it’s the only thing tethering me to Earth.
“Okay?” he asks, voice low.
“Okay,” I nod, swallowing hard. “Let’s do this.”
Derek works silently, placing the stencil with precision, sliding my underwear just low enough to fit the design exactly where the scar is. The buzz of the machine starts—and god, it’s sharp. I forget how much it hurts, especially over thicker scarring.
Jackson never lets go of my hand.
Every time I squeeze, he squeezes back. Every time I wince, he’s there, brushing the hair from my face, kissing the back of my hand, whispering soft encouragements.
“You’re doing amazing, baby.”
“You’ve got this.”
“It’s almost done.”
Hours pass in a blur of pain, antiseptic, and Jackson’s voice in my ear. He feeds me crackers. Holds a straw to my mouth so I can sip Gatorade. Rubs my thigh when I start to shake.
And all I can think is how much I love him.
Not just in the ways that are easy, like when we’re laughing or kissing or making snow angels with Wyatt. But in these quiet, brutal ways, too. In the way he shows up for the hardest parts. In the way he sees every inch of me—especially the ruined parts—and still looks like he’s holding treasure.
When Derek finally sits back and flexes his sore wrist, he lets out a grunt that sounds suspiciously like admiration.
“Alright, Ozzy,” he says. “All done.”
I sit up slowly, every muscle screaming, and lean against Jackson as I make my way to the full-length mirror on the far wall.
And when I see it, I gasp.
Where the scar used to be now blooms a cascade of vivid red poppies—full petals, gentle stems, buds not yet opened. Greenery weaves through like vines reclaiming broken ground. It’s delicate and wild and strong and soft all at once.
It’s me.
I blink against the tears rising fast in my eyes.
“I can’t even see it,” I whisper.
“You’re not meant to,” Derek replies simply.
I turn into Jackson’s arms and press my face to his chest. “Thank you,” I say, voice barely audible.
“You’re welcome, baby. You did it.”
“I didn’t do it alone.”
“No,” he murmurs into my hair. “But you’re the one who walked through hell to get here.”
Behind us, Indy is already stripping Derek’s gloves off. “Alright, tough guy. Time for a cherry popping!”
Derek grunts at Indy. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah. That’s why you love me.”
Jackson just laughs at the two and grabs my bag for me, nodding toward the back room. “Go get wrapped up with Indy.”
I give him a kiss before following Indy down the hall, where she helps me tape the bandage over my tattoo and slip on loose sweats. It aches like hell, but it’s a good ache—like I earned this pain.
“By the way,” I ask, wincing as I sit down, “what is Jackson getting tattooed?”
Indy just smirks. “You’ll see.”
I walk back into the room just as Derek is cleaning his machine and Jackson is rolling his sleeve back down.
“That was fast,” I say suspiciously. “Fifteen minutes?”
Jackson turns and holds out his wrist with a sheepish smile.
There, in clean black ink, sits a tiny red poppy—no bigger than a quarter. And next to it, written in looping, careful script:
Always.
My breath catches. I press a hand to my mouth and feel everything hit me all at once—every scar, every sunrise, every moment I thought I was unlovable and broken and wrong. Every time I almost gave up. Every time someone told me I was too much or too loud or too ruined.
And now here I stand, loved.
Marked in ink that I chose. With a man who chooses me back.
Always.
I walk into his arms, my forehead pressed to his, and whisper the only words that matter anymore.
“I’m ready for forever.”
He smiles like he’s been waiting to hear it all his life. “Then forever starts now.”
As we step out into the cool night, the air bites at my cheeks, but I barely feel it.
My entire body is still humming, raw and alive from everything that just happened.
The tattoo burns beneath my skin—sting and salve all at once—but it’s not pain I fear.
It’s a reminder of everything I’ve walked through.
Of the girl I used to be. And of the man walking beside me now.
Jackson laces our fingers together like it’s second nature, his thumb running absent circles over mine as we walk toward the car. Behind us, the lights inside Hel’s Ink begin to dim. Derek and Indy follow, arms around each other like they’ve never known what it is to walk apart.
And I think—God, how did I get this lucky?
I have family. Real family. People who don’t just show up for the holidays, but who show up for the hard shit, too.
For grief. For recovery. For silence and tears and poppies blooming over scars.
I’ve got Indy and her endless chaos and warmth.
I’ve got Theo. I’ve got Wyatt’s giggles echoing through the halls of my home.
I’ve got a whole damn ranch.
And I’ve got Jackson.
My heart aches with how much I love him. With how much I want this life to stretch on and on, with every new day carved out like soft wood—imperfect and real and ours.
Indy elbows me gently as we reach the sidewalk, her dark curls bouncing under her beanie.
“You sure we can’t convince you to stay past tomorrow?” she asks, not quite joking.
I shake my head, grinning. “Can’t. My other Christmas present gets here in three days.”
Her eyebrows lift with interest, eyes sparkling under the streetlight glow. “Ohhhh? What did he get you?”
I dig into my coat pocket and pull out my phone, flipping open the camera roll. One swipe, and there he is—an eight-week-old German Shepherd puppy, all ears and chaos and floppy paws. The photo shows him mid-yawn, tongue too big for his mouth, curled in a soft blanket Jackson picked out himself.
Indy lets out a squeal that could shatter glass. “Shut the hell up! Are you kidding me?”
I laugh as she wraps me in another tight hug, jumping in place like we’re seventeen and just found out we got into our dream colleges. “That’s your other present? He got you a little protector sidekick? I’m obsessed.”
We wave goodbye to her and Derek, with promises to meet for breakfast before our flight. Jackson opens my door for me, ever the gentleman.
The moment I settle in and shut the door, I look over at him—his tall frame rounding the hood of the car, the familiar lines of his body etched beneath that old flannel I’ve come to steal more than I wear my own clothes.
When he gets in and starts the heater, I don’t say anything at first. I just look at him.
His profile in the soft streetlight.
The line of his jaw. The little scar on his chin. His hand resting on the gear shift like he’s done it a thousand times.
I lean across the center console and whisper, “Hey.”
He turns, eyebrows lifted. “Yeah?”
“I love you.”
There’s no big swell of music. No flash of cinematic drama. Just the sound of the car heater, the faint buzz of the city at night, and the soft creak of leather as he shifts toward me.
But Jackson smiles—God, does he smile. It’s the kind of smile that starts slow and stretches into something too beautiful to be put into words. A smile that softens the hardest edges of my day and tells every broken piece of me that I’m finally home.
He squeezes my hand. “I love you too, baby.”
Then, quieter he asks, “Can I kiss you?”
My chest warms all over again. It’s not like he needs to ask. But he does. Every time.
Because consent still matters. Because he respects me. Because he sees me.
I give him the biggest, truest smile I have and tilt my face toward his.
And with everything inside me—every ounce of certainty and softness and strength—I say:
“Always.”
His lips meet mine, and for a moment, there’s no cold. No past. No pain.
Just us.
Always.