Epilogue - Ollis
Two years later
I ease the front door closed, mindful of the late hour and the likely sleeping occupants. The house is quiet except for the soft murmur of the television in the living room. My boots are caked with mud from the brush fire we've been fighting all day in the foothills outside Cedar Falls, so I remove them at the door—a habit Everly has firmly instilled in me.
My body aches with the particular exhaustion that comes from fourteen hours of physical labor and high-stress decision-making. We managed to contain the fire before it reached any residential areas, but it was touch and go for a while.
I pad silently down the hallway in my socked feet, my turnout gear already stowed at the station. Still, I smell of smoke and sweat, my t-shirt and uniform pants bearing the grime of the day. A shower is definitely in order, but first—
I pause in the doorway to the living room, my heart doing that familiar little stutter it still performs every time I see them together.
Everly is curled on the couch in her favorite oversized sweater, her dark hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head. She's watching some home renovation show with the volume low, but her attention is primarily on the sleeping bundle resting against her chest. Her hand makes gentle patting motions on our daughter's back, a soothing rhythm that kept Kate asleep through what I'm sure was a challenging evening of teething pain.
For a moment, I just watch them—these two people who have completely rewritten the story of my life. Kate with her dark curls and my hazel eyes. Everly with her quiet strength and boundless compassion.
As if sensing my presence, Everly looks up, her face softening into the smile that's become my true north.
"Hey," she whispers. "You're home."
"Just now," I confirm, crossing to the couch and bending to press a kiss to her forehead, then one to Kate's downy head. "How was she today?"
"Fussy," Everly admits. "The bottom molars are giving her a hard time. But she finally conked out about twenty minutes ago."
I sink onto the couch beside them, careful not to disturb Kate's precarious slumber. "Sorry I missed bedtime. Again."
"Hey." Everly's free hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "You were saving people's lives. That's a pretty solid excuse."
This is what I love about her—the way she sees my work not as competition for my time and attention but as an extension of who I am. From the beginning, she's understood the demands of my profession in a way few partners ever could.
"You smell like a campfire," she observes, wrinkling her nose slightly though her eyes remain warm.
"Hazard of the job," I reply with a tired smile. "I'll shower in a minute. Just wanted to see you two first."
Kate stirs against Everly's chest, making those little snuffling noises that signal she's either going to settle back down or wake up completely. We both freeze, holding our breath. After a tense moment, she sighs deeply and relaxes back into sleep.
"Bullet dodged," Everly whispers, and we share the smile of battle-tested parents.
"Let me put her down," I offer. "You've been on duty all day."
Carefully, with the precision of disarming an explosive device, I lift Kate from Everly's chest. She's heavier than she was even a month ago, growing so fast it sometimes takes my breath away. I cradle her against my shoulder, inhaling the sweet baby smell that somehow cuts through even the smokiest day.
Kate's room is painted a soft green with a mural of a forest that Lewis painted as a baby shower gift. The crib that once seemed impossibly big now looks almost too small for our growing girl.
I lay her down gently, holding my breath as her little brow furrows momentarily before smoothing out again. I stand watching her for longer than necessary, mesmerized as always by the miracle of her existence.
When I return to the living room, Everly has stretched out on the couch, her feet tucked under a throw blanket. She looks tired but content, the slight shadows under her eyes testament to the juggling act she performs daily—running her private practice three days a week while caring for Kate the other two.
"Successful transfer," I report, lifting her feet to sit down and then placing them in my lap. My thumbs find the arch of her left foot, pressing in the way I know she likes after a long day.
"Mmm," she hums. "Keep that up and you might get lucky tonight, Chief Crawford."
I chuckle, continuing the impromptu foot massage. "Even covered in soot and smelling like disaster?"
"Especially then," she says with a playful smile. "You know I have a thing for heroic firefighters."
"Is that so, Dr. Crawford?" I tease back. Her decision to take my name when we married was unexpected—she'd built her professional reputation as Dr. Morgan, after all. But she said she wanted us to be a united front, a single family unit. Kate Morgan Crawford completed that unit thirteen months ago, arriving three weeks early but perfectly healthy.
Our path here wasn't without complications. The professional ethics committee had questions about the timing of our relationship, as we'd both anticipated. But Dr. Reynolds, who took over my case, provided documentation that our romantic relationship began after the formal transfer of care, and several character witnesses spoke to Everly's otherwise impeccable ethical record. In the end, she received a warning but retained her license and reputation intact.
"How was the big presentation?" I ask, referring to the workshop on first responder trauma she delivered through video call today.
"It went well," she says. "There was a lot of interest, especially from departments looking to implement better mental health protocols for their teams."
Pride swells in my chest. After everything that happened with us, Everly found a way to transform it into something positive—developing a specialized program for first responder departments that addresses trauma response without stigma. Cedar Falls Fire Department became her pilot program, with Chief Brock's enthusiastic support. The success has been so notable that departments across three states are now implementing her approach.
"Of course there was interest," I say. "You're revolutionizing how departments handle psychological trauma."
She smiles, a hint of color touching her cheeks. Even after two years together, she still blushes at direct praise.
"It's collaborative," she demurs. "I couldn't do it without the insights from you and the other first responders who've shared their experiences."
My thumb finds a particularly tight spot in her arch, and she groans. We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the TV providing gentle background noise.
"Lewis called while you were out on the brush fire," she mentions eventually. "He and Sarah set a date for the wedding. June 15th."
I nod, pleased but not surprised. My brother has been engaged to the lawyer he met last year, but they've been dragging their feet on actually picking a date.
"About time," I say. "Did he ask about—"
"Yes, he wants you as best man, of course," Everly confirms. "And Sarah asked if Kate could be the flower girl, which might be optimistic given she'll barely be walking by then."
The thought of our daughter todding down the aisle, likely veering off course and charming everyone in the process, makes me smile.
"We'll make it work," I say, sliding my hand up to massage Everly's calf. "We always do."
Her eyes meet mine, and I see in them what I've seen every day since that first afternoon in her office—understanding, acceptance, and a love that still takes my breath away.
"Do you ever think about how unlikely all this was?" she asks softly. "How many things had to align exactly right for us to be here now?"
I consider this. If Brock hadn't mandated therapy, if I hadn't been assigned to Everly specifically, if she hadn't helped me face my trauma, if we hadn't run into each other at Lou's that morning—any deviation in the sequence might have led us down entirely different paths.
"I think about it all the time," I admit. "But mostly I just feel grateful that whatever cosmic lottery brought us together, somehow we won it."
She sits up, moving closer until she's nestled against my side, heedless of the soot and grime still clinging to my clothes. "Even on the hard days? Even when Kate's teething and you're working overtime and I'm drowning in case files?"
"Especially then," I assure her, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. "The hard stuff just makes me more certain we can handle anything together."
Through the baby monitor on the coffee table, we hear Kate stir again, a whimper that quickly escalates to a more distressed cry.
"Those molars," Everly sighs, beginning to rise.
"I've got her," I say, standing first. "You've been on solo parent duty all day. Besides, I need to shower anyway—might as well soothe the savage beast first."
Everly smiles gratefully. "There's leftover lasagna in the fridge if you're hungry. And Ollis?"
I pause, looking back at her.
"I love our life," she says simply. "Every messy, complicated, beautiful part of it."
As I head toward our daughter's room, heart full despite the exhaustion seeping into my bones, I reflect on how far we've come from that first therapy session. From the frozen firefighter and the guarded psychologist, each hiding behind professional facades, to this—a family forged in understanding, in shared vulnerability, in the courage to reach beyond boundaries toward something authentic and enduring.
"I love our life too," I whisper, though Everly can't hear me now. It's a truth that bears repeating, a gratitude that never diminishes, a fire that never goes out.
Thank you for reading it!