Epilogue
MYA
A year and some change later
T he air smells like summer and sugar—honeysuckle in full bloom, fresh-cut grass, and the faintest trace of baked vanilla wafting from the cottage kitchen. If heaven had a scent, it’d be today.
I stand in front of the antique mirror that Reese swore would give me “old-world bridal vibes,” and for once, she might be right. The glass is warped at the corners, edges kissed with gold leaf and history, and it reflects back a girl who looks like the inside of a Pinterest board brought to life.
Me.
In the dress.
The Marion by Vera Wang—the kind of dress that looks like it was spun from stardust and stories. The softest gold, like the sky before dusk kisses the day goodbye. The illusion bodice hugs my ribs, delicate as breath, with sheer sleeves that shimmer like I’ve been dusted in moonlight. Tiny buttons trail down my spine like a secret. The skirt billows around me in layers of tulle so light they move when I so much as think about moving.
I am glitter and grit and all the galaxies in between.
And I’m getting married today.
“Don’t move,” Reese hisses from behind me, waddling like a very angry, very glamorous duck as she grabs a beauty blender from the vanity. “If you cry now, I swear to God I’ll lose what little patience I have left—and this baby might be born in your bathtub.”
“I’m not crying,” I say. Lying. Totally lying.
Because the second my dad walks in… I nearly break.
He freezes in the doorway like someone hit pause on the world. One hand still wrapped around the doorknob, his mouth parting just enough to let the silence seep in. And for a second, I’m six years old again. Standing on a kitchen chair while he laced up my sneakers, calling me bug and brushing a crumb off my cheek like it was sacred.
His eyes shine now—glassy, fierce, full of too many feelings for a man who’s always kept them locked up like fine china.
“Kid,” he breathes, rough and reverent. “Jesus. Look at you.”
“I know,” I whisper. “It’s a lot.”
“It’s perfect,” he says, voice cracking. “You’re perfect.”
“Nope,” Reese cuts in, lifting her chin like a general about to declare war. “You are not allowed to cry. I just did her lashes.”
Behind her, my mom dabs the corners of her eyes and mutters something about how much my hair looks like hers did on her wedding day. Isabel, in a satin rose dress that matches the florals, fans herself with a program. Sofia snaps a photo, pretending she’s not also blinking too fast. We’re a mess. A glossy, glammed-up, mascara-on-the-edge mess.
But this? This is the family I fought for.
“I’m proud of you,” my dad says, stepping forward. His hand lands over mine, calloused and warm. “I mean it, Mya. Everything you’ve come through… to be standing here now. You didn’t just survive—you rose. And he’s a lucky man.”
“He’s the right one,” I whisper. “Finally.”
Because Fletch didn’t save me.
He found me in the wreckage, handed me a hammer, and built a life beside me brick by brick. And when I broke? He didn’t flinch. He stayed.
“I’ve got the twins,” Reese says as she waddles toward the door with a maternal sort of smugness. “They’re both dressed. One tried to eat the boutonnière, and the other’s diaper exploded, but we’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
“We’re not fine,” Isabel grumbles. “We’re forty-five minutes late.”
“Fashionably,” Sofia clarifies.
“Divinely,” Reese says with a smirk. “She’s walking down that aisle looking like a golden hour fever dream and that man out there—” she jerks her thumb toward the window, “—he looks like he’s about to cry just waiting for a glimpse of her. So yeah. We’re good.”
My heart skips, stutters, sprints.
Because Fletch is out there. Probably pacing, fingers through his hair, dressed in that tailored navy suit he swore he didn’t care about but tried on six times. My boys are in their tiny suspenders and bowties, probably stealing snacks and causing chaos. The band is set up under the twinkle lights strung across the big oak. And everything—the table settings, the flower arch, the carefully mismatched chairs—looks like it was plucked out of a dream Reese and I conjured over chai lattes and color swatches.
It’s small.
It’s perfect.
And it’s ours.
The breath I take is soft but heavy, catching in my throat as the cottage door opens behind me.
My mom steps out first.
Isabel is right behind her, a graceful figure in dusty rose chiffon, her arm looped through Sofia’s, who’s all long legs and glossy waves in a sage-green wrap dress. The three of them look like a renaissance painting—sisterhood in motion. Timeless. Forgiven.
We exchange soft smiles. No drama, no tears. Just peace. Healing dressed in highlighter and heels.
And then… it’s time.
They lead me outside and?—
Oh.
The aisle is magic.
Boho-chic Pinterest could never. A winding carpet of woven jute and scattered white rose petals cuts through the emerald grass, framed by short lanterns and long-stemmed wildflowers in vintage jars. Pampas grass sways with the wind like it knows it’s having a moment, and macrame hangings dangle from overhead branches that twist and frame the path like something out of a storybook.
The chairs—just twenty or so—are mismatched but charming, draped with gauzy throws and arranged in a soft semi-circle around the small wooden dais. The setting sun backlights it all in molten gold, slanting through the leaves like God himself RSVP’d.
Fairy lights sparkle overhead, strung between old oak trees like constellations trying to bless us. The scent of honeysuckle rides the breeze, wrapped around notes of wood smoke and citrus. Everything is green and blooming and alive.
And at the end of it all?—
Fletch.
My breath stutters.
He’s standing beneath a floral arch woven with eucalyptus and pale blush roses, a dusting of baby’s breath tangled around the beams like stars caught in a dream. He’s in a tailored charcoal suit, no tie, hair loose around his ears, like he forgot to be anything other than breathtaking.
Thorin claps a hand to his back, whispering something that makes his shoulders shake with silent laughter. But when Fletch looks up—his eyes find mine.
And that’s it. Game over. I’m undone.
His jaw ticks, his eyes shining even as he tries so damn hard to hold it together. The muscle in his cheek jumps like it always does when he’s overwhelmed and trying not to show it. One blink. Then another. His lips press tight, like if he opens them, he might just break apart.
I’m the only thing he sees.
And I’ve never felt more seen.
The people we love are gathered around—Reese glowing and impossibly pregnant in a gold silk dress, one hand over her belly. Thorin beside Fletch, steady and loyal in black. Carson and Benji are here, arms slung over their girls—Mika in velvet navy, Ally in champagne sequins, both beaming like they’ve waited years for this moment.
Alex is here too, surprisingly not behind a camera or holding a schedule. He’s holding Penelope’s hand instead. They whisper something to each other, then look back toward us. Toward this.
My dad’s arm is solid under mine as we step into the aisle. And just before he lets me go, he turns to Fletch—my rock, my best friend, my forever—and clasps his hand.
“Take care of her.”
Fletch doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t blink.
“As long as I live.”
The breeze stills as my dad places my hand in Fletch’s, like the universe knows this is the moment it’s all been building to.
The moment the storm finally meets the shore.
My fingers curl into his without hesitation—because they know the shape of him. They’ve always known.
And when I look up?
Fletch is a mess.
Beautiful. Breathless. Wrecked.
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, and I swear it sets off a chain reaction through every nerve ending in my body. There are tears in his eyes, but he’s fighting them like hell. His jaw clenched. His lips trembling. His shoulders rigid from the effort of keeping it together when everything about today is meant to be felt.
“Hi,” he whispers.
It’s the only word I need to hear. Because it’s not just a greeting. It’s a heartbeat. A promise. A beginning.
“Hi,” I breathe back.
The officiant steps forward, her smile soft and reverent, as if she knows this isn’t your average love story. As if she can feel how hard we fought to get here.
“Welcome,” she says, her voice floating on the hush that’s fallen over the crowd. “To the union of two souls who refused to give up. Who turned pain into poetry. And who’ve chosen each other—again and again.”
Fletch’s grip tightens.
I feel everything in that squeeze. The fear. The fire. The forever.
We decided to write our own vows—of course we did. There’s never been a script for us. Just music and mayhem and meaning where most people wouldn’t find it.
I go first.
Because if I don’t, I might collapse into his chest and sob through his entire speech.
I hand Reese my bouquet and face him, heart jackhammering.
“I used to think love had to look a certain way,” I say, voice shaking. “Big and perfect. Cinematic. With grand gestures and glittering promises that never cracked or broke.”
I meet his eyes, and my whole chest caves in.
“But then I found you. And you weren’t perfect. And I was definitely not perfect. But somehow… we made something bigger than all of that. Something real. Something that survived everything we thought would destroy us.”
His eyes close, just for a second. Like he’s letting the words settle deep.
“You didn’t fix me, Fletch,” I whisper. “You stood with me while I figured out how to fix myself. You held space for my anger and my softness. For the broken and the beautiful.”
I blink back tears, but one slips down anyway. Screw it. Reese will live.
“You were the safe place I never believed I deserved. But I do. I know that now. And I promise I’ll never run from it again.”
I pause, swallowing hard. “I’ll love you with everything I am. The soft parts. The sharp edges. The pieces that almost didn’t make it. All of me is yours. Always.”
His hand lifts to brush the tear from my cheek. “You trying to kill me?” he croaks, voice shredded.
“Little bit,” I sniff, laughing.
Then he pulls his vows from his jacket pocket, but halfway through opening the folded paper, he stops. Crumples it. Drops it.
“Not gonna use that,” he says roughly. “Didn’t say enough.”
He holds my hand like he’s afraid it’ll disappear.
“You were the girl I could never get out of my head. Even when I tried. Even when I told myself I was better off alone.”
His voice cracks, and he doesn’t even bother trying to stop it.
“I loved you before I knew how to love anything. And even when I didn’t deserve you… I still looked for you. In every song. Every stupid headline. Every mile I drove back to the ranch wishing you were still here.”
I feel my knees go soft. I’m holding on by sheer force of will—and his grip on me.
“I’ve watched you fight like hell for your life. For our boys. For this family. And I swear to God, Mya—every time I think I’ve loved you the most I possibly could, you prove me wrong.”
The air is thick with silence. Sacred. Soft.
“I promise to show up, even when it’s hard. I promise to keep choosing you, even when life is loud and messy. I promise to be your partner, your protector, your idiot with a guitar and a diaper bag.”
Laughter bubbles through my tears.
“I promise to love you even when you leave dishes in the sink. Even when you cut me off in arguments. Even when you forget that you shine.”
His voice is steady now. Sure.
“I’m yours,” he finishes. “In every timeline. In every life. And as long as I’m breathing—I’ll never let you forget that.”
The officiant waits one beat. Then another.
“You may now?—”
But Fletch doesn’t wait.
He leans in, both hands cupping my face, and kisses me like he already knows we’re rewriting every definition of happily ever after.
And as the crowd erupts—cheers, laughter, and even a few ugly cries—Fletch presses his forehead to mine, and whispers just loud enough for me to hear:
“You were worth every damn fall.”
* * *
The music’s louder now. The firepit’s blazing. There’s laughter echoing across the fields like it’s been waiting all year to come out.
Shoes have been kicked off, jackets abandoned, and someone—probably Carson—is halfway through a tipsy retelling of the time Fletch tried to fix a broken amp with duct tape and blind optimism.
The twins are already asleep, swaddled in soft blankets, tucked into the arms of Thorin’s mom like she’s been waiting all night for the chance to hold them. Reese is camped out on a cushioned bench with her swollen ankles propped up, Mika brushing her hair back gently while Ally fans her with a clipboard that may or may not be the reception timeline.
Alex is dancing with Penelope in the grass, her head on his shoulder, her belly between them like a secret they’ve only just started sharing. Benji and Carson are battling it out at the s’mores bar, laughing like brothers.
It’s loud. It’s warm. It’s soft chaos and spilled cider and fairy lights reflected in wine glasses.
And it’s perfect.
But then… Fletch catches my eye.
One glance. That’s all it takes.
And suddenly it’s not the party I’m paying attention to.
It’s him.
He jerks his head toward the field. A silent come with me I don’t even think about denying.
We slip away from the crowd, hand in hand, dodging lanterns and half-finished drinks, until the music fades to a murmur and the stars stretch like a quilt over the open sky.
We don’t talk at first.
We just breathe.
The grass is soft beneath our feet, cool against my ankles. My dress trails behind me like smoke, the hem kissed with dew. Fletch’s jacket is long gone, his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened, his eyes locked on mine like I’m still that girl in the gold dress walking toward him.
“Can I confess something?” he says quietly.
I nod.
He reaches up, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “You in that dress… almost dropped me.”
I laugh softly. “You held it together.”
“Barely.” He leans in, voice rasping. “I think I stopped breathing when I saw you. Like—fully forgot how lungs work.”
I smile, curling my fingers into his shirt. “You didn’t have to breathe. I was already walking toward you.”
We lie down right there in the grass, my head on his chest, his heartbeat thudding strong and steady beneath my cheek.
The stars above us are endless.
No filter. No spotlight. Just us and the sky.
He tangles our fingers together and lifts our joined hands, pointing lazily at constellations he’s definitely making up.
“That one?” he says. “That’s the Mya Minor.”
“Sounds tiny and full of attitude.”
“It is. Prone to sarcasm. Deadly with a glare.”
I shift until I’m looking at him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You happy?”
His answer is instant. “You have no idea.”
I nod, my throat tightening, emotion pressed under my tongue.
Because it’s not the ring or the dress or the perfect playlist that makes this night matter.
It’s this.
His arms around me. The smell of woodsmoke on his collar. The sound of his heartbeat anchoring me to the ground.
The fact that we made it.
Together.
And when he pulls me into him, kisses my shoulder, then whispers “Welcome home, Mrs. Malone,” into my hair—I swear the stars blink in agreement.
Because somehow, in all the madness, we found a quiet kind of forever.
And it’s ours.
Always.
The End