Epilogue
Sunlight filtered through the curtains in warm, drowsy stripes, golden and forgiving, the kind that softened everything it touched.
The floral fabric hung in gentle folds, catching the breeze now and then, stirring like breath.
Kitty lay still beneath the quilt, half-wrapped in the weight of sleep and the quiet hum of something deeper.
Peace, maybe. Or joy. She wasn’t entirely sure she knew the difference anymore.
Norman was warm beside her, his arm slung around her waist, his body pressed along the length of her back. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slow rhythm of his breath at the base of her neck. It was an anchor. A tether to something solid and good.
She kept her eyes closed at first, not out of fatigue but out of reverence—for the stillness, for the simple truth of him beside her. She wanted to hold onto this moment, to stay suspended in it. Not chasing, not fleeing. Just being.
When she finally opened her eyes, the room greeted her gently.
Pale morning light spilled across the hardwood floors, catching on dust motes in the air.
The bedside table was cluttered with things she now thought of as theirs—his pocket watch, her book, a half-empty glass of water. It looked lived-in. Rooted.
Real.
She turned slightly, just enough to look at him without disturbing the way they fit together.
Norman’s face was slack with sleep, mouth slightly parted.
His hair was mussed and boyish, falling across his forehead in a way that made her ache a little.
His lashes were ridiculously long—unfair, really—and his jaw shadowed with stubble.
He looked unguarded, vulnerable even, and still somehow entirely himself.
She reached out and traced the edge of his jaw with the back of her fingers, featherlight. His skin was warm. Real. Solid. Hers.
His eyes opened slowly, and his mouth curved into a sleepy smile.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough and low from sleep. He leaned in and kissed her shoulder lazily, like he was still dreaming. “You’re awake.”
“Just barely,” she whispered, lips brushing against his brow.
He hummed and buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in. His arm tightened around her waist, and Kitty felt herself melt into the contact, her body answering his without hesitation. They fitted like this.
“I had a dream about you,” he murmured into her skin.
“Oh?” Her voice was light, teasing.
“You were wearing your wedding dress.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Another wedding? I don’t think I’d be able to endure the planning and preparation again.”
He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through her. “I think so.” His eyes found hers then, blue and clear despite the sleep. “I’m still not convinced I’m awake.”
She kissed the corner of his mouth. “You are.”
He caught her then, deepening the kiss with a kind of hunger that surprised her even now.
It was slow but insistent, the kind of kiss that unraveled her thoughts and made her press closer without thinking.
His hand slid into her hair, the other tracing the curve of her spine.
She answered him without hesitation, her fingers finding the muscles of his back, pulling him closer.
They had kissed like this before—many times now—but something about this morning made it feel different. No urgency. No fear. Just the comfort of knowing she didn’t have to let him go.
When they finally parted, breathless and quiet, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I want to take you away,” he said.
She blinked at him, startled. “What?”
“To Europe. Or somewhere warm. Somewhere where we can simply enjoy each other. No responsibilities, no interruptions.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear with the kind of tenderness that made her heart stutter. “Just you and me, disappearing for a little while.”
The idea was dizzying. A younger version of herself—restless, constantly on the run—might’ve leapt at the offer. But Kitty wasn’t running anymore. She wasn’t chasing, either. She was here. Settled. Grounded in something she’d never thought she could have.
“I love the idea,” she said quietly, searching his face. “But… I think I’m still getting used to this.”
Her fingers brushed over the edge of the blanket, tracing nothing. “Having a home. Waking up in the same bed. Knowing I belong here.”
Norman watched her carefully, and for a moment, she wondered if he’d be disappointed. But instead, he just nodded. Slow. Certain.
“That’s okay,” he said. “You can take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
Something warm and painful lodged in her chest then. The kind of pain that came from healing, from the slow stitching together of old wounds. She leaned in and kissed him, soft and full of gratitude. “But I do want to be alone with you. Just… maybe not too far from England. Not yet.”
His grin turned wicked, slow-spreading. “Well,” he said, voice dropping, “I can take you somewhere nice right now, if you’d like.”
She laughed, even as heat stirred low in her belly. “Oh, can you?”
He kissed her again, mouth pressing to hers with more intent this time, more weight. His hand slid under the covers, tracing the curve of her hip, his thumb dragging along bare skin in a way that made her exhale sharply.
“You tell me,” he whispered.
His mouth found the hollow beneath her ear, and she arched into him without thinking.
Her body responded before her mind had the chance to catch up.
There was something about mornings with him—about the quiet, the warmth, the promise of a day stretched wide open—that made everything feel more tender. More charged.
His fingers traveled slowly, learning her again. Every dip and swell of her body, every place that made her sigh. She felt herself opening under his touch, unguarded in a way she never used to be. He had peeled her open layer by layer, never rushing, never prying. Just steady. Just patient.
“This is why you don’t want to leave the house?” he murmured against her collarbone, his lips brushing like a tease.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He smiled against her skin. “I thought so.”
His hand moved higher, and she gasped, her back arching instinctively. Heat pooled in her stomach, sharp and sweet, and she reached for him, needing him closer.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Always.”
He kissed her again, deeper this time, and her breath hitched. Every inch of her was awake now—every nerve attuned to the slide of his skin, the weight of his body, the heat of his mouth. He kissed her like he meant to take his time, like this was their first and last and only morning.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groaned, low and ragged. The sound shot straight through her.
“Norman,” she whispered, her voice breaking on his name.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be gentle.”
He stilled for a heartbeat, then pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. His own had darkened, something raw flickering beneath the surface.
“You sure?”
She nodded, breathless. “Yes.”
That was all he needed.
He kissed her hard then, his hand sliding down her thigh, anchoring her.
And then they weren’t talking anymore. They weren’t thinking.
They were moving together, urgent and sure and hungry.
She lost herself in the heat of him, the strength of him, the way he knew her body like it was his.
The way he never asked for permission, but always waited for it anyway.
She arched beneath him, her body aching—a hollow, desperate need that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. He kissed her like a man starved, like her mouth held every answer he’d ever needed. And maybe it did. Maybe the taste of her was the only truth he’d ever craved.
His hands roamed, relearning the map of her with rough devotion—the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the shudder that wracked her when his thumbs brushed the sensitive skin of her nipples.
But there was no patience now, no teasing exploration.
He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, yanking her against him, and the contact was so sharp, so blisteringly perfect, that her gasp fractured into a moan.
“Norman—”
“I know.” His voice was gravel and flame. ”I know.”
He slid inside her in one slow, devastating motion, stretching her until she cried out, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails biting into sweat-slick skin.
There was no gentleness this time, no playful torment—just the fierce, relentless cadence of their bodies, the slap of flesh, the wet sounds of their joining.
The air thickened with the scent of sex and salt, their mingled breaths and whispered curses twining like smoke in the dim light.
It was rougher than before. Messier. A collision of love and lust and something darker, something that tasted like forever. Each thrust dragged her closer to the edge, her muscles fluttering around him, her breath coming in shallow, broken gasps.
“Please—” She didn’t know what she was begging for, only that she’d die if he stopped.
He answered by hooking an arm under her knee, driving deeper, hitting a place that made her vision whiten.
She wrapped her legs around him, her heels digging into the taut muscles of his back, urging him closer, deeper, harder—and the groan he muffled against her lips vibrated through her very bones.
Sweat painted their bodies in glistening streaks, but she clung to him, fingers tangled in his hair, her other hand scrabbling at the sheets like she might drown in this pleasure.
He chased her release with single-minded precision, his rhythm faltering only when her walls began to tighten around him.
“Look at me,” he demanded, and when her eyes fluttered open—dazed, desperate—he swore softly. “Come for me, love. Let me feel it.”