Bonus Epilogue
Fiona & Dean
THE SUN WAS spilling across the kitchen floor in warm stripes when Dean came up behind Fiona, looping his arms around her waist. She was barefoot, wearing one of his old t-shirts, flipping pancakes.
Dean couldn’t stop the quiet joy curling in his chest. He pressed his lips to the side of her neck, just under her ear.
Fiona laughed, the sound light and unburdened. “I’m making pancakes, Dean.”
He pulled her back against himself and kissed her again. “And I’m getting to watch you do it. That’s my whole fantasy right there.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “Your fantasy is… pancakes?”
“My fantasy is you,” he corrected, tightening his hold on her so he could feel the small hitch of her breath. “Happy. Relaxed. In my arms.”
She turned in his arms, spatula in one hand, amusement in her eyes. Dean took advantage, sliding his hands up her back beneath the hem of his shirt until his thumbs brushed warm skin. He could do this all day—just touch her. Map her like he was still learning the contours of something sacred.
“You know,” she said, tilting her head toward the stove, “if you keep this up, we’re going to burn breakfast.”
“Then we’ll make more,” he said simply. “Whatever keeps you smiling like this.”
Her smile softened, and something in his chest kicked hard. He lived to chase it—the small curve of her mouth, the sparkle in her eyes—and here it was. Offered freely. It sometimes felt like a gift he wasn’t sure he deserved.
She turned back to the stove, flipping the last pancake onto the plate. Dean reached past her to slide the burner off, then swept her up—literally—before she could protest.
“Dean!” she laughed, arms winding instinctively around his neck as he carried her to the table.
“Delivery service,” he said, settling her gently into her chair before setting the plate in front of her.
She arched a brow. “You’re serving me pancakes now?”
“I’m serving you everything now,” he said. “Food, foot rubs—whatever you need.”
Her laugh caught just a little at that, and Dean felt a warm rush of satisfaction. He poured her coffee, set the mug within reach, then took the chair beside her.
Fiona forked a bite of pancake, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “You’re up to something.”
“Guilty,” Dean said, leaning in to steal a kiss just as she was about to take a bite. “I want to spend the entire day making you happy.”
She chewed, swallowed, and gave him a look that made his stomach drop in the best possible way. “Then clear your schedule.”
* * *
Dean came back from washing the breakfast dishes to find her curled in the corner of the couch with a book. Fiona. Sweet, kind, perfect Fiona. Suddenly, he couldn’t stand another second without touching her.
He knelt in front of her, taking the book gently from her hands.
Dean slid his palms up the length of her calves, over her knees, spreading warmth as he went. She was soft under his hands, warm and alive and his. He kissed the inside of her ankle, then her shin, working his way upward with deliberate slowness.
Fiona sank back into the cushions, eyes half-lidded. “You’re very focused.”
“I’ve got a full-time job,” Dean said, brushing his lips over her thigh. “Taking care of my wife.”
Her breath caught when he said wife, and God, he’d never get tired of that—of reminding them both that they’d made it back here. That she’d chosen him again.
“Dean,” she said, her voice a little breathier now.
“Say my name like that again,” he coaxed, lips trailing higher, his hands anchoring her hips.
She did, and he swore under his breath, kissing the sound into her skin.
When his mouth reached the hem of her shirt, he didn’t rush—just pushed it higher, then higher, until the fabric lifted enough for him to see the warm curve of her stomach, the edge of her bra. He bent and pressed his lips there, inhaling like he could memorize her scent.
Her fingers found his hair, tugging gently, and he followed the guidance until his mouth was on hers. The kiss was deep, hot, the kind that made his chest ache with how much he wanted her.
“You’re overdressed,” she murmured between kisses, tugging at the hem of his shirt.
He stripped it off without breaking contact, and the small hum of approval she made nearly undid him.
Dean shifted, laying her back against the cushions, settling between her thighs. He took his time—hands mapping the length of her body, lips following. He eased the shirt over her head, letting it fall, then hooked his thumbs into the soft band of her underwear and slid it down, baring her completely beneath his hands.
He broke away long enough to look at her—really look—and the sight hit him like it always did: awe, disbelief, hunger all tangled together.
“You’re everything,” he said, and meant it like a vow.
Then his mouth was on her again, lower this time, his hands steady on her hips. He gave her every ounce of attention he had, learning every twitch of her muscles, every gasp, every sound that told him she was close.
When she came apart under his mouth, he held her through it, murmuring quiet encouragement against her skin until she went soft and boneless.
Dean kissed his way back up her body, slow and unhurried, savoring every inch. When he reached her mouth again, she pulled him down into a kiss that was hungry now, pulling at his belt, urging him closer.
“Please,” she said, and there was nothing hesitant in it.
They came together with an ease that still startled him sometimes—like their bodies had been made to fit this way. He moved slowly at first, watching her face, then faster when her nails dug into his back and she whispered his name again.
Every thrust inside her, every sound from her lips, every arch of her hips felt like a celebration.
When she clenched around him, head tipped back, lips parted in a silent cry, Dean followed her over, the pleasure flooding him so hard he had to bury his face in her neck to hold himself together.
They stayed tangled afterward, breathing each other in.
Dean brushed his lips over her temple. “Still with me?”
“Mmh,” she hummed, utterly relaxed.
That made him grin into her hair, his chest going tight with that particular brand of joy he’d been living on lately. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”
She turned her head just enough to kiss him, slow and lingering, and he thought, not for the first time, that if this was the rest of his life—her, happy and warm in his arms—he’d die a grateful man.
* * *
Thank you for loving Fiona and Dean enough to want this extra glimpse.