Epilogue
Nikki
FIVE YEARS LATER
The cabin smells like cinnamon, pine, and cookies—our official holiday scent—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The place has changed since that first Christmas. It’s bigger now, thanks to the extension Ryder built the year I was pregnant with our first.
A bedroom, because my mountain man only had a bed in the living room-slash-kitchen.
Then a second bedroom that turned into a nursery. And another wing for the chaos that followed: two more babies.
A studio space for me, and an actual mudroom because Ryder insisted kids come with a ridiculous amount of snow-drenched gear.
He wasn’t wrong.
The cabin is fully decorated now, every window lined with warm lights, every corner bursting with color.
The tree in the living room is tall and wide, covered in handmade ornaments, paper stars, glittery pinecones, and a hundred tiny fingerprints.
Outside, snow falls in lazy flakes, blanketing the yard in soft white.
It’s quiet and beautiful, the kind of quiet you only get in the woods.
Until the shouting starts.
“Mommy! Look! He has a carrot nose!”
That’s our four-year-old, Will, announcing his masterpiece.
“He needs hat,” Ben, our two-and-a-half-year-old, insists with a fierce pout.
Ryder’s crouched in the snow beside them, sculpting the body of what I think is supposed to be a snowman, though with the help of two toddlers, it currently looks more like a snow blob.
He glances over his shoulder and grins at me. Hatless, snow in his beard, cheeks red from the cold.
And God, I love him.
Nestled in my arms, little Rose sleeps. Six months old and bundled in a fleece onesie that makes her look like a marshmallow.
Her tiny fingers curl around the edge of my coat as I rock her gently, watching the boys pile snow onto Ryder’s boots instead of the snowman.
Five years ago, I stepped into that cabin alone, thinking I was just escaping the world for a little while.
Now I have a whole world of my own.
Our wedding was in January, three weeks after I met my grumpy mountain man.
I wore a simple cream dress. Ryder wore his cleanest flannel. We said our vows with snow falling outside and a fire burning inside.
Evan stood beside Ryder as best man, beaming the whole time.
His now-wife, Aileen, cried more than I did. They got married two weeks later. She’s family now. Both of them are, like a sister and brother I didn’t know I needed.
My parents didn’t come to the wedding.
I found out through an Instagram story that they were on a beach somewhere warm, drinks in hand, smiling at someone else’s celebration.
It hurt. Of course it did.
But it didn’t surprise me. And it didn’t break me.
Because I was already whole.
Because Ryder stood beside me, holding my hand, holding my heart, and promising me a life full of messy mornings and soft nights and snow days like this.
And now? I look at our three kids, our life, the wild joy that spills out of this cabin every single day, and I know I was never missing anything.
Not really.
I press a kiss to Rose’s head.
“Hey, you three!” I call. “Don’t you think that snowman deserves arms?”
Will gasps. “STICKS!”
Ben squeals and runs off toward the trees, determined to find the perfect ones.
Ryder stands and brushes the snow off his jeans, walking toward me with that look on his face. The one that still undoes me after all this time.
“Need a break?” I ask, smiling.
He nods. “And a kiss.”
I stretch up on my toes, careful with the baby in my arms, and press my lips to his.
It’s slow, sweet. The kind of kiss that says everything we’ve built is still strong.
Still burning.
“I love you,” I whisper against his mouth.
He leans his forehead against mine. “I love you too. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Pierce.”
Behind us, Will yells that the snowman is now a snow warrior, and Ben proudly waves two crooked sticks in the air.
I laugh. Rose stirs and sighs.
The snow keeps falling, soft and endless.
Christmas feels exactly like it should: loud, warm, messy, beautiful.
The house is quiet now.
The kind of quiet that only comes after bedtime stories, warm baths, and three kids finally giving in to sleep.
The fire crackles low, casting golden shadows across the cabin walls.
Ryder pulls the blanket higher over my legs as I curl up on the couch. It’s big, soft, and deep enough for all five of us to pile onto during movie nights.
He built it.
Of course he did.
I’d made an offhand comment one morning—something about how we needed a proper couch that could fit the whole family.
Two weeks later, this beauty showed up.
Handcrafted, and somehow even more comfortable than it looks.
He sits beside me now, one arm draped along the back, body turned toward mine, watching me like he still can’t quite believe this is real.
Like I’m the best gift under the tree.
“You’re staring,” I murmur.
“Just appreciating my wife,” he says, voice low and rough and all mine.
“You did a lot of appreciating earlier while building that snowman.”
“Did I?” he drawls. “I thought I was just trying not to get buried alive by our sons.”
I laugh softly and stretch, the hem of my oversized sweater riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of thigh.
His gaze drops.
Stays.
Lingers.
“Ryder,” I warn with a half-smile, “the kids just fell asleep. You trying to start something?”
He shifts closer, his hand sliding up my bare leg, slow and sure. “Not starting. Continuing.”
My breath hitches.
He leans in, brushing a kiss against my neck, then my jaw, then just below my ear.
“You know I can’t go a full Christmas without unwrapping something.”
I tilt my head, already melting under his touch.
“Ryder Pierce,” I murmur with a teasing lilt, “are you trying to put another baby in me?”
His hand pauses, heat flaring in his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he says, voice dark. “Is that a request?”
I bite my lip, heart thudding, and tug him closer. "It's a maybe."
His mouth crashes into mine. Heat and hunger and five years of love wrapped into one kiss.
The fire is still the same as that first night.
The need.
The way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
He pulls me onto his lap, the blanket bunching around our waists. I straddle him, knees sinking into the cushions as I grind against him.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he growls, fisting the hem of my sweater.
“Then fix it,” I whisper.
He does.
He pulls it over my head, tossing it aside, then groans when he sees the red lace bra beneath.
“Seriously?” he mutters. “You wore this while we were building snowmen?”
“It’s Christmas,” I shrug. “I knew you’d want to unwrap something.”
He laughs, low and rough, then cups my breasts through the lace, brushing his thumbs over my already-hard nipples.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“But what a way to go,” I breathe, grinding harder.
He unsnaps my bra with a flick of his wrist, then dips his head, sucking one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the peak.
I gasp, threading my fingers into his hair, holding him close.
“Ryder…”
“I know,” he murmurs against my skin. “I know.”
He moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention, hands gripping my hips as I rock against him in a rhythm that’s anything but innocent.
He’s still wearing too much.
I push him back just enough to yank off his shirt, then work on his pants and underwear. He lifts his hips to help, and in seconds, we’re skin to skin.
I pause, breath catching.
Even after all these years, he still takes my breath away.
He’s broader now, stronger. But still my Ryder.
Still the man who wrecked me and then built me back up.
I press a kiss to his chest.
Another above his heart.
“Nikki…” he breathes, hands tightening on my hips. “I love you so damn much.”
I meet his eyes. “I love you.”
He freezes.
Then kisses me again. Deep, consuming, like he’s pouring every word he doesn’t say into the space between us.
He lays me back on the couch, body sliding over mine.
His hands roam. Then hook into the sides of my panties.
“Off,” he growls.
I lift my hips. “Yes, sir.”
He strips them off, tossing them somewhere behind us, and settles between my thighs, his cock thick and hard, pressing at my entrance.
He pauses. Looks down at me.
“Nikki…” His voice is hoarse. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I reach for him, pulling him down for one more kiss.
“Then show me.”
He does.
He pushes inside. Slow, deep, perfect.
I gasp, fingers digging into his back as he fills me, stretches me.
He stays still for a moment, letting me adjust, his forehead resting against mine.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I know,” I breathe. “I love you too.”
And then he moves.
A slow grind that builds, deepens, becomes more.
The couch creaks. The fire crackles. Our bodies move in sync, like they were made for this.
The snow falls outside.
The lights on the tree twinkle.
Merry Christmas, indeed.
THE END