Epilogue Nora #2
He straightens suddenly and turns to face me. I turn to face him too. His hands come out of his pockets. One of them holds a small box.
“I, um—” He clears his throat. His gaze drops to the box in his hand, then lifts to mine, then drops again. His ears redden. “I made you something.”
I take it from him, my fingers brushing his, and open it carefully. The lid lifts and inside, against a bed of soft cotton, is—
My breath catches.
Inside is a delicate bracelet. A thin silver chain, each link catching the streetlight, throwing small, bright points of light against my palm. Strung along it are tiny, perfect dandelions, their yellow heads pressed flat and preserved in clear, glossy resin. They look like they’re floating.
My hand trembles around the box.
It’s the wild, stubborn flower I chose for myself, made permanent.
“I found this place,” he says quickly. “Where you can press flowers. Make things yourself.” He smiles, a little sheepish.
“I messed it up twice before I got it right. The first time the resin bubbled—I didn’t mix it properly.
The second time… I crushed a petal trying to fit it in the mold.
” He shakes his head lightly, amused. “Took me longer than I thought it would.”
He looks back up at me. “But I wanted it to be right. I wanted to make you something.”
I imagine him bent over a table, concentrating, his hands careful and patient. Messing up. Starting over. Not giving up. Because that’s who he is. That’s who he’s always been.
I can’t look away from it. “It’s beautiful,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The words feel too small for what I’m holding. Too simple. Too ordinary.
Carefully, I lift it out. “Can you—?”
“Yeah.” He steps closer.
His fingers brush my wrist as he fastens it, careful, attentive. The contact is familiar now. It doesn’t startle me. It doesn’t make me pull back.
When the clasp is fastened, he lets his hand linger for a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly over the inside of my wrist, where my pulse is. I wonder if he can feel it racing. I wonder if his is racing too.
He pulls back. “There’s… one more thing.”
I look up.
He turns around. Just… turns his back to me completely, blocking my view.
I blink, confused. “Kieran?”
“Just—” He holds up one hand. “Give me a second.”
I hear the fabric shift. His hand goes to his pocket, then out. A few seconds pass. He breathes deep—I see the rise and fall of his shoulders.
Then he turns back to face me.
He holds his trembling hand out between us.
On his ring finger is a simple band. Silver, like the bracelet. It’s thick, unadorned except for the small, flat surface where the resin sits. And pressed into it like a frozen drop of honey, the same clear resin holds a single, perfect dandelion.
The flower is smaller than the ones on my bracelet. More delicate. But unmistakably the same—the same bright yellow, the same fragile petals, the same stubborn, impossible beauty. A small piece of the sun, held on Kieran’s finger.
“I made this too,” he says, and there’s a different weight in him now. “With the flower you gave me.” His gaze flickers to mine, searching. “I just… wanted to keep it. With me. Always—”
I don’t let him finish.
I step forward and wrap my arms around him, sudden and unplanned, burying my face against his shoulder.
He freezes. His whole body goes rigid. A soft, startled sound slips out of him. His hands hover at his sides, fingers slightly curled, caught somewhere between wanting and waiting. Checking. Making sure this is real. Making sure I mean it.
Then they rise.
First his fingertips find my back, tentative, barely pressing.
Then his palms flatten, spreading warmth through the wool of my jacket.
His arms wrap around me, drawing me closer.
His chin comes to rest on top of my head.
A weight, a gentle weight, the weight of a hand resting on a sleeping animal’s flank.
I press my face into his shoulder and breathe.
Coffee. Clean linen. Something underneath that I cannot name but would know anywhere.
It’s the smell of him, as specific as a fingerprint.
His heartbeat is warm against my cheek, and I stop trying to find the word for it.
I just stay there, inhaling him, letting the smell of him tell me I belong right here.
“I’m really grateful,” I say. The words come out muffled against the fabric of his shirt, but true. “For you. For all of this.”
I feel him breathe out against my hair. “Me too.” His arms tighten just slightly, enough for me to feel it.
He holds me for a long, long time. Long enough that my breathing finds its rhythm against his shoulder. Long enough that I lose track of time. Long enough that the street is a blur of grey and movement. Long enough that letting go feels impossible.
Eventually, we pull back. Neither of us wants to break whatever this is too fast. His hands slip from my back, his fingertips trailing along the fabric of my jacket, letting go inch by inch.
I step away first, turning toward the café. I take two steps towards the light before I stop.
The door is right in front of me. The lights are warm inside. I can hear Maeve’s laugh, unmistakable, bright through the glass—silver bells in a warm room.
I turn back toward him. He is still standing in the same spot. Eyes on me.
“The view from the terrace of my new place is really nice,” I say. My voice stays flat, but my heart pounds somewhere behind my ribs—wild, hopeful, unfamiliar. “I have time after work.”
I hesitate, then continue. “Maybe… you could come over. And maybe we could just… keep doing what we’re doing.”
He looks at me for a moment, his expression softening with understanding. Then a smile spreads, open and warm, reaching his eyes the way it always does when he looks at me. “I’d love that.”
I smile back, easy and unburdened. I turn to head back inside. My hand reaches for the door and a memory rises.
A younger version of me, curled under a table, knees pulled in, arms wrapped around my shins, my forehead pressed tightly to the bony ridge of my kneecaps. Listening for the next sound that would tell me what to do, how to be, how to stay out of the way.
I used to want to run.
All the time.
Away from raised voices. Away from doors that slammed hard enough to echo. Away from the sharpness that could turn a room into something I had to survive.
And every time I imagined leaving, the same question would come, cutting through everything else:
Where would I go?
There was never an answer.
Just the question, circling, closing in, making escape feel impossible.
I push the door open. Step inside. The noise returns, warm and loud and full of life.
For years, I didn’t know. For years, I didn’t have anywhere to go.
Now I do. Now, if I ever need to leave, I know exactly where I’ll go.
I’ll go home.
My home.