Epilogue
Cody
One year later.
Cody stood at the window of the ranch house, coffee mug in hand, watching the mountains come alive with the first light of dawn. Snow had fallen overnight, transforming the landscape into a painting—pristine white against dark pines.
He'd come to love these quiet mornings. The stillness. The peace.
The trial had ended two months ago.
Daniel had pleaded guilty in the end—not out of remorse, Cody suspected, but because his lawyer had finally convinced him that a jury would only make things worse.
The prosecutor had laid it all out—the letters, the hotel break-ins, the hacked accounts, the months Daniel had spent working maintenance at the CMA venue with the patience of a man building a cage in order to get near Cody, and finally the knife he'd carried into green room three and wielded at Cody while he’d threatened him.
Twenty years. No possibility of parole for the first fifteen.
Cody hadn't gone to the sentencing. Diane had offered to fly out with him, and Reid had quietly told him he'd stand at his shoulder for every second of it, but in the end, Cody had stayed in Montana.
He'd written a victim impact statement instead—three pages, carefully worded, read aloud in the courtroom by a prosecutor he would never meet.
He hadn't wanted to look at Daniel again.
Hadn't wanted to give him the eye contact he was still so obviously craving.
For weeks afterward, Cody had waited for the relief to hit. Some grand, sweeping catharsis. It had never quite come. What had come instead was quieter—a slow loosening in his chest, a kind of settling, as if some part of him that had been braced for months had finally been allowed to stand down.
He'd stopped checking his phone the moment he woke. Stopped scanning faces in the small crowds when he played. Stopped listening for the creak of floorboards in the hallway at three in the morning.
Daniel was locked away, and Cody was here—in this warm house, with snow on the windowsills and a mate who would be home any minute.
That was enough. That was everything.
In the studio downstairs, he could have started working. He had a new song half-formed, waiting for him. But instead, he stood here, sipping coffee, letting the silence settle into his bones.
Through the bond, he felt Reid's contentment. His mate was out in his bear form, running around the perimeter in the pre-dawn light.
As if summoned by the thought, Cody saw movement in the trees. A massive grizzly bear, dark honey-brown fur bright against the snow. Even from a distance, Cody could feel Reid's presence through the bond—satisfied and happy, but eager to return home.
Cody set down his coffee and waited.
Reid shifted on the back porch, the transformation happening in seconds. He climbed the steps naked, not bothering with clothes, and slipped inside. Snow melted on his dark hair and shoulders.
"Morning," Reid said, pulling Cody against him without preamble. He was cold, but Cody didn't mind. He wrapped his arms around Reid and breathed him in.
"How was the run?"
"Perfect. The back boundary is secure, the perimeter alarms are all functioning. Everything's quiet." Reid's hands warmed against Cody's back. "What about you? How long have you been awake?"
"About an hour. I like watching the sunrise."
Reid tilted Cody's chin up and kissed him.
"Come back to bed," Reid murmured. "For a little while."
They had a few hours before Diane called with updates, before Cody's afternoon writing session, before the rest of the day intruded.
"Yeah," Cody said. "Let's do that."
Reid pulled Cody down into the sheets. They didn't make love—just held each other, trading warmth, content in the quiet intimacy. Sometimes, Cody loved those moments even more than the hot, passionate moments.
Reid's arm curled tighter around him, and Cody felt the bond hum between them, steady as a second heartbeat.
Through it flowed everything Reid felt—contentment, devotion, a fierce and quiet joy that had nothing to do with anything beyond this bed, this morning, this man.
Cody had spent so many years searching for home in cities, in crowds, in the thunder of applause.
He'd thought home was a place. He'd thought it was something you had to earn.
In the end, it had turned out to be so much simpler than that.
Home was here. Home was Reid. And as Cody let his eyes drift shut, wrapped in warm sheets and warmer arms, the bond pulsing gently between their chests, he knew—with the bone-deep certainty of a man who had finally stopped running—that he would never have to search for it again.
The End