Epilogue
Four Months Later
Harmony
Late spring had softened everything. The snow was gone from the ridge, replaced by green that felt almost unreal after the winter we’d survived.
The orchard below was alive again with buds growing on the trees, bees drifting lazily through the air, the promise of fruit not yet formed but inevitable.
The world had kept going. Somehow, so had we.
Eric parked at the crest of the hill and cut the engine.
“There,” he said quietly.
I stared. The house rose from the ridge like it had always belonged there; with clean lines, warm wood, wide windows that caught the afternoon light just right. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t trying to impress anyone. It was solid. Thoughtful. Built with intention. Built by him.
“It’s finished?” I whispered.
He nodded, watching my face more than the house. “It is.”
We’d spent the last four months living above Petals and Pines, surrounded by half-assembled furniture, fabric samples, paint swatches taped to the walls.
I’d helped him choose everything, from the sofa that fit just right to the dining table wide enough for family, and the king-size bed frame we argued about and then both loved.
It hadn’t felt like decorating. It had felt like building a life. A labor of love.
He came around to my side and laced his fingers through mine. “Come on.”
The front door opened easily, like it recognized us.
Inside, the house was warm with late-afternoon light and something else. Candles flickered along the entry table. Soft, golden light danced against the walls. Fresh flowers filled the air with a clean, delicate scent.
I blinked. “Eric…”
“Sandy,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth. “She insisted.”
Of course she had.
Every room felt finished. Lived-in. Ours. The kitchen windows framed the valley below. The living room held the couch we’d tested a dozen times. Down the hallway, the bedroom doors waited quietly, full of futures we hadn’t named yet.
My chest felt tight, not with fear but with something fuller. He stopped in the center of the living room and turned to face me.
“Harmony,” he said softly.
The way he said my name made my heart stumble.
“I built this house because I wanted roots,” he continued. “Not just walls. Not just a place to sleep. I wanted somewhere we could come back to. Somewhere safe. Somewhere real.”
My eyes burned.
“You helped me choose every piece of it,” he said. “Every detail. You made it a home before it even existed.”
He took a breath and then he dropped to one knee.
The world tilted.
“Harmony Bellerose,” he said, steady and sure and utterly Eric, “you are my choice. Every day. I don’t want a life without you in it. I don’t want a future you’re not part of.”
Tears slipped free before I could stop them.
“Will you marry me?” he asked. “Will you build this life here with me?”
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t speak.
Four months ago, I’d been running. From my past. From fear. From the belief I was too damaged to be chosen fully. Now, standing in a house built by the man who had never stopped choosing me, the answer felt as natural as breathing.
“Yes,” I whispered.
His breath left him in a broken laugh as he stood, hands shaking just enough to give him away. He slid the ring onto my finger; simple, elegant, perfect, and pulled me into his arms.
I pressed my forehead to his chest, laughing through tears.
“This is home,” I said.
He kissed my hair, holding me like he always did, steady, grounding, and sure.
“I know,” he murmured.
Outside, the ridge bloomed under the late spring sun. Inside, the house filled with light, laughter, and the quiet certainty of a future finally chosen. And this time, I wasn’t running toward it. I was home.