Epilogue
EPILOGUE
PENNY
“Your sense of style is awful,” I said, deadpan, as I yanked the thrifted Budweiser sign off the wall like it had personally offended me.
Mac turned around, all mock indignation and wounded pride. Hands on his hips, mouth already open to argue. “Excuse you, that is a work of art.”
“It’s a work of something,” I muttered, tucking the frame under my arm, already making my way down the hall to the spare bedroom.
It took us two months to find a new home, which currently smelled faintly of paint and new beginnings. Mac moved into my apartment with me after his sister officially handed over the bar, and we spent a few chaotic weeks searching and arguing about backsplash tile, rug textures, and whether or not a vintage neon beer sign counted as “art.”
Spoiler: It didn’t.
Decorating with a man was not for the faint of heart. Especially not a man whose style leaned “college bar after last call.” Meanwhile, mine could only be described as “cozy Pinterest board with a personality.”
Still, somewhere between his chaos and my soft-girl aesthetic, we were finding a rhythm.
I was just shoving the sign into the corner of the closet when I felt him come up behind me. His arms wrapped around my waist, mouth grazing my neck in slow, strategic kisses.
“Mmm,” I sighed, letting my head fall back. “You’re not going to just kiss this decision out of me.”
“You sure about that?” he murmured, his tongue teasing along my skin, a lazy, devastating sweep that made my knees weak.
“Mac,” I warned, fighting a smile as his lips found the shell of my ear.
“I’ve learned a lot in the past few months,” he said, voice low. “For example, you’re a sucker for neck kisses… and books… and those lavender candles I pretend to hate but secretly like.”
“You’re very cocky for someone whose Budweiser art is about to die a lonely, dusty death in a closet.”
He pulled back just enough to grin at me, that damn dimple softening his smirk. “You love my hands, Pen. Let me make you love my taste, too.”
“Are we still talking about interior design?”
“Not even a little.”
I turned in his arms and kissed him before he could say anything else.
He kissed me back like he always did, with both hands, all in. Like he wasn’t just in this room, but in this life. With me. For good.
When we finally broke apart, I leaned my forehead against his chest. “Fine. You can keep the sign. In the garage. Behind the lawn mower.”
“Fair,” he said, pressing another kiss to my temple. “But I want it on record that you’re limiting my creative freedom.”
“I’m saving your reputation.”
He grinned and dove back into silence with a kiss.
We spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking boxes and bantering over wall art and throw pillows. At one point, I caught him trying to sneak in Jack Daniel’s bottles made into lights for the entryway.
He said it was “rustic.” I said it was “tacky.”
He lost.
Later, we ordered chicken parm, sat cross-legged on the floor of our new living room, and went through old photos we found while unpacking—ones from our high school years, blurry Polaroids of bonfires and bar nights, one of me on Boone’s shoulders, laughing so hard I looked windblown.
And then there were the newer ones. Me and Mac. Our lives slowly merging like two puzzle pieces we didn’t realize were always meant to fit.
At some point, as the sun dipped low and golden light filled the room, Mac leaned back against the couch and pulled me with him until I was sprawled across his lap, my head tucked beneath his chin.
He was quiet for a long time, his fingers running absently through my hair.
“You know,” he said softly, “this house already feels like forever.”
I smiled against his chest. “It does.”
“And someday,” he added, brushing a kiss to the top of my head, “when we’ve got a backyard full of dogs and maybe a couple of little monsters running around ruining your aesthetic…”
“You mean our aesthetic,” I corrected.
He grinned. “Right. Our aesthetic. Even then, I’ll still have that Budweiser sign. Somewhere.”
“Only if I get my dream reading nook and floral wallpaper in the bathroom.”
“Done deal.”
We were building something here, something messy and sweet and real.
Something that felt like home.
I saw my life with him, clear as day. A future built on love, family, and the kind of traditions that stitched people together. I was ready. Because if there was anything the last year had taught me, it was that life could change in the blink of an eye.
I held Mac close, breathing in the scent of him—clean laundry, a hint of cedar, and something warm that just felt safe. My mind flipped through images like a photo album: holidays with mismatched pajamas, our kids running through the house barefoot, late nights slow dancing in the kitchen.
“You know,” I murmured, leaning back just enough to tuck a loose piece of hair behind his ear, “I’d marry you right now if you asked.”
He let out a laugh, the kind that rumbled low in his chest, and tilted his head back like I’d just told him the wildest thing.
“Oh no,” Mac said, still chuckling. “When I ask you to marry me, it’s not going to be nonchalant. No way in hell.”
I smirked. “I wouldn’t be opposed to nonchalant.”
He raised a brow.
“Well,” I added, “maybe throw in a few fireworks.”
Mac leaned in, his lips brushing mine in a soft, lingering kiss that made the room go quiet and the future feel so close I could taste it.
“Fireworks,” he said against my mouth. “Got it.”