Epilogue
EPILOGUE
I call out his name, but my voice only echoes against the walls of our 1990s four-level split, drifting from one level to the next, something I haven’t gotten used to since we moved from the tiny cabin to our first real house in the city. Gabe doesn’t answer—he never does when he’s immersed in a project—but then I remember—tomorrow, we’re handing off the keys to the new owners, and just like that, I know exactly where he is.
I crack open the door to the garage. A gentle glow spills from the overhead light onto the concrete floor, illuminating the silhouette of the Ford Explorer we’ve shared for years. Gabe is crouched in the back hatch, vacuum roaring.
I slip inside the garage, careful not to startle him, and open the rear passenger door. His head pops up, vacuum still droning until he flicks it off. The silence after the motor stops is deafening.
“Hey,” he says, a little out of breath. There’s a bit of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes flick down to take in the flimsy camisole and soft pyjama shorts I threw on before bed—the ones he always pretends not to notice but can never quite hide his reaction to.
“How’s it going in here?” I ask softly. The vacuum’s hose dangles from his hand, and I notice the swirl of sand and dirt inside the canister.
He shrugs, flashing a lopsided grin. “Didn’t realize how bad it’d be. The brown carpet really hides everything.”
I slide onto the back seat, the old upholstery creaking beneath me. “Find anything fun?”
“Actually, yeah,” he says. He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a small, plastic sheriff’s star. “Caught this in the vacuum.”
My heart skips at the sudden memory. “Oh my God.” I take it, the edges glinting under the interior light of the cab. “I wore this during that last big party night at Silvertip—that was just before I left.”
He nods. “You were so sexy in that cowgirl outfit,” he murmurs, a slow smile lifting one corner of his mouth. Then he arches a brow, his tone dipping into something warmer. “Speaking of which—do you still own those chaps?”
I swat at him playfully. “You’re ridiculous.”
We lapse into a quiet moment. In the hush, I let my gaze wander the familiar interior—scuffed plastic, the faint smell of old coffee and damp boots.
“I’m going to miss this. We had so many good memories in here,” I whisper, running my fingertips along the worn armrest.
“Me too.” Gabe sets the vacuum aside. “But I need something safer. More reliable. I’ll be on the road between Rocky Mountain House and Red Deer all summer, and this thing’s pushed beyond its limit.”
A lump rises in my throat. Three years ago, we fell in love at Silvertip Reforestation, lying in this very hatch after long days of planting trees, too tired to do much except stare into each other's eyes and talk about our dreams, and—let’s face it—make out.
After I moved to Alberta, Gabe managed to buy out Silvertip in just one more year—working his ass off, taking every job he could. I helped him wherever I could, too, because seeing how dedicated he was to our future made me want to match his effort. We lived at the cabin together; it worked out great since I worked remotely through fall and winter, and spent spring and summer on the road. With no rent to worry about, we managed to save enough for a down payment on a small place in Red Deer—close enough to the bigger cities for my job, but still laidback, and not too far from the cabin for Gabe.
Now that Gabe runs the entire Silvertip operation—driving between camps and staying ridiculously busy—I don’t see him much during planting season, but he still comes home to me for his days off. Or sometimes we meet at the cabin for “fishing lessons.” It’s funny how our life has grown so much, yet this old Explorer is still a time capsule of our earliest days.
I glance around, a sudden urge flaring inside me. “It used to feel huge back here,” I say, popping the seats down.
He snorts. “I still can’t believe we both managed to sleep back there.”
“Lie down,” I say, patting the folded seats. “Just once more before we let it go.”
He hesitates with a raised eyebrow, but then sighs, as if he, too, knows this will be the last time we get to lie in here. He lifts the vacuum from the rear and sets it on the concrete, then slips inside and lies down, knees slightly bent. I settle in beside him, and I can already feel how cramped it is—definitely smaller than I remember.
For a few seconds, we breathe in silence. The air tastes like warm vacuum air and stale upholstery, stirring up a wave of nostalgia. I can sense how hard it is for him to say goodbye to something that holds so many of our fondest memories. So I lean in, pressing my lips to his cheek. He turns his head and nuzzles my nose to find my lips, searching for something to anchor him to this place one last time.
My heart twists at the taste of him—so familiar it’s dizzying—but his beard scraping softly against my lips is a new sensation I’m still learning to love. I angle my head, letting the kiss deepen, my tongue exploring his in a slow, searching way. He startles—just a bit—and I feel his eyes flicker open, barely enough to read me, like he’s silently asking what I’m after in this moment. A breathless laugh slips out of me, and I feel his lips curve against mine in response.
We break apart, but before the moment can slip away, a sudden rush of boldness surges through me. I swing a knee over his thighs, pyjama shorts hitching up as I slide into his lap. His gaze darkens when he registers the soft bounce of my breasts beneath the loose fabric of my camisole.
That single heated look makes something clench low in my belly, and I press myself closer into his lap… grinding into him as a signal that I’m not playing around.
Then, instead of asking, I slowly shift my weight. Sliding my palms along his sides for balance, I begin scooching down his legs, letting the moment speak for itself. A small smile curves at the corner of my mouth as I settle into place while I slide my hand down his abdomen, fingertips ghosting over his sweatpants where he’s already growing hard. But just before I pull them down, he catches my wrist gently.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Sunshine.”
I let out a huff. “I’m no quitter.”
He laughs as I hook my thumbs under the waistband of his sweatpants. He lifts up his hips and I push them down past his knees so he can kick them off, then inch by inch, I ease the fabric of his boxers down, just enough to bare him completely.
He’s already fully hard—thick and veined—and the sight makes my pulse thrash. I glance up, catching his eye, relishing how he looks torn between bliss and agony. Leaning in slowly, I plant a soft, lingering kiss on the tip, never breaking our stare. He exhales sharply, his face a mix of excitement and need, like I’m torturing him in the best way. His fingers curl around my loose hair, gathering as much as he can, so he can watch what I’m about to do.
I tilt my head down, letting a thin strand of saliva slip from my lips and watching his breath hitch as it drips onto him. Just as I start to wrap my hand around his length, he murmurs, “Not that one. The one with the ring.”
A little jolt goes through me as I switch hands. I’m still not used to the weight of the engagement ring on my finger, but the moment I wrap my hand around him, I notice his gaze flicker over it—and the dark, hungry look in his eyes tells me he loves seeing it there just as much as I do.
I lean in and take him into my mouth, feeling his warmth against my tongue as I slowly slide down, my lips forming a tight seal.
He lets out a low moan as I deliberately slow my pace, letting more saliva collect and drip down to the base of his length. My eyes flutter closed briefly as he begins to thrust ever so slightly upward, each movement urging me to take him deeper. It’s overwhelming, and for a moment, I pull back, gasping for air, my lips still glistening. I quickly adjust, angling my head for a more comfortable fit, then envelop him once more. My mouth moves faster now, bobbing with a hungry tempo.
I feel the slick warmth of my own saliva coating my hand as I stroke him, each pump creating a wet, rhythmic sound that mingles with his low, breathless moans. My mouth is stretched around him, my lips sliding against the taut skin while his fingers grip my hair and the back of my head, guiding me up and down. I glance up, and the sight of him—head tipped back, chest rising with each ragged breath—fuels a surge of desire that pulses through me.
His moans grow louder, vibrating through his body and into my palm. My hand tightens around the slick surface of his shaft as my mouth works feverishly, tongue flicking and teasing at the tip before I plunge down again.
“If you keep going like that, you won’t get to enjoy this too,” he manages, as his breathing grows shakier.
I ease off, letting him hold back from going over the edge. But then, I realize I would like to relish in the memories of this “goodbye” too. With gentle urgency, I move my body up so my centre is straddled over him. I start to tug the hem of my top up, and the moment he notices my bare skin emerging, his hands slide in to help, his eyes locked on my chest. The fabric lifts away, and his fingers remain, lingering and exploring my now-peaked nipples.
My fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts, and I awkwardly shimmy them down while still straddling him—doing my best not to smack my head on the SUV’s low ceiling. His eyes darken even more, as he lets his head fall back in silent prayer. And even though the Explorer’s cab is cramped, I manage to settle on top of him without crouching too much.
He draws me in for a slow, lingering kiss, and my heart flutters as I slip my hand down, guiding him to where I’m already wet and needy for him. His head presses in, and I pause—my breath catching—before sinking further. A dizzy sweep of pressure nearly undoes me, so I grip his shoulders, needing his support. Then, with one final push, I let go, a shocked gasp leaving my lips as pleasure and relief flood my senses.
I arch my back and sink into the warmth of his touch, every shift of my body magnifying the quiet encouragement in his eyes. A low hum of pleasure ripples through me as I start rolling my hips in a steady rhythm, each movement coaxing a deeper ache of wanting. His hand finds its way between us, fingers deftly seeking out my clit, and as soon as he does, my breath stutters. The second he starts applying gentle, repetitive pressure, a wave of heat surges up my spine.
Knowing how much he was enjoying my mouth on his cock, I can already feel him trying to hold back as I grind into him, focusing on just the right spot to get me to finish faster with him. Each rock of my hips forward sends a pulse of dizzying pressure through me. My breath catches, and I grip his shoulders as my orgasm crashes over me in a fierce, head-spinning wave. I let out a broken gasp, head falling forward, but he keeps going, groaning low and urgent, his hips surging upward to meet mine. The exact moment I’m still pulsing with aftershocks, he tenses—and I feel him spill into me, a final rush that leaves me trembling.
I collapse against his chest, my heart hammering so hard I swear he can hear it. The last ripples of pleasure fade slowly, and we lie there, breathing in tandem.
After a few lingering seconds, he lets out a quiet, breathless laugh, his lips curving into that crooked grin I’ve loved since the first day I saw him at the airport three summers ago. “Damn,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “Can we christen the new truck like this too?”