Epilogue #2
"It worked," I admit, turning to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of stubble against my lips. "Though I didn't want to admit it at the time."
"Look at us now," he murmurs against my hair. "Wells-Hayes Law thriving in our little hometown. This house. Daisy. Baby boy on the way."
His hand slides beneath the hem of my sundress, warm palm resting against my bare thigh in a possessive gesture that still makes my heart race.
The casual intimacy of his touch, the way his fingers slide perfectly into the spaces between mine when our hands intertwine—these everyday connections ground me, remind me that this isn't a dream that might dissolve at dawn.
"Mommy! Daddy! Look what I got!" Daisy comes racing back, her chubby hands filled with daisies she's gathered.
"Those are beautiful, sweetheart," I tell her, making room on the blanket. "What are you going to do with them?"
She plops down beside me, her expression serious as she begins arranging the flowers in my lap. "I'm making you a crown. Like in the pictures."
My heart swells. The only way she could know about daisy crowns is from the photographs we've shown her, from the stories we've told about our youth.
"Here, let me show you how," I offer, picking up several stems. "First, you need to make a small slit in the stem, like this." I demonstrate with careful fingers, then guide her small hands through the process. "Then you slide another stem through… that's it."
Jackson watches us, his expression soft. “You were wearing a daisy crown the day I knew I was in love with you," he tells me. "They've always been your flower."
“Hey, I’m Daisy," our daughter says, looking up from her weaving project as if she’s just now realizing it for the first time.
“Exactly, sweetheart. That’s why mommy and daddy named you that,” I tell her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Daisies also mean new beginnings and true love. And you were both of those things for us."
"What will we name the other baby?" she asks, returning to her crown with deep concentration.
Jackson and I exchange a glance. We've been circling various options for months without settling.
"We're still deciding," Jackson tells her. "Do you have any suggestions?"
She considers this with comical seriousness. "Unicorn!" she declares triumphantly.
I choke back a laugh. "That's… creative, honey. We'll add it to the list."
"What about Mason?" Jackson suggests, meeting my eyes over our daughter's head. We've discussed this name before but never quite committed.
I roll the name around in my mind. "Mason Wells-Hayes," I say experimentally, feeling how it fits.
"After Grandpa Mason?" Daisy asks, referring to my father.
"Yes," I say, surprised by the thickness in my throat. "After Grandpa."
"I like it," Jackson says quietly. "Mason it is."
The moment settles around us, another branch added to the family tree we're growing. Daisy finishes her crown with a final triumphant twist of stems and places it carefully on my head.
"Perfect," Jackson murmurs, “just like before."
I lean forward to kiss him, a gesture that makes Daisy giggle and cover her eyes with exaggerated disgust. But beneath the playfulness, there's a profound gratitude that rises in me like a tide.
A gratitude for second chances, for persistence, for the man who saw all of me and wanted every complicated part, even after time and distance tore us apart.
"I have something to show you both," Jackson says suddenly, reaching into the picnic basket. He pulls out a small wrapped package. "A housewarming gift."
"You didn't tell me about this," I say, accepting the package with curious fingers.
"That's generally how surprises work," he teases.
I unwrap it carefully to find a small wooden box, beautifully crafted with an inlaid daisy on its lid covered in glass.
Opening it, I find a single dried daisy—the one I recognize instantly as the flower Jackson pressed between the pages of his journal that last day in the field before I left for Northwestern.
"You kept it," I whisper, tears blurring my vision. "All these years."
"Of course I did," he says simply. "It was all I had of you for eight years."
"What is it, Mommy?" Daisy asks, peering at the preserved flower.
"It's the last daisy Daddy ever saved for me," I explain, my voice rough with emotion. "From this very field, a very long time ago."
"It's old," she observes with a child's blunt honesty.
"Yes," Jackson agrees, reaching out to stroke her hair. "But some things get better with age."
His eyes meet mine over our daughter's head, and in that glance I see everything—our past, our present, our future unfolding like the petals of the daisies surrounding us.
All the years of separation, the pain of miscommunication, the joy of rediscovery—all of it has led us here, to this field, to this family, to this love that has only deepened with time.
Twilight bathes the field in soft lavender as we walk hand in hand back toward our home. Daisy runs ahead, chasing fireflies that have begun to emerge in the fading light. Her delighted squeals punctuate the evening quiet as she tries to cup the tiny glowing creatures in her palms.
"Gentle, honey," I call to her. "They're delicate."
Jackson's arm is warm around my waist, supporting me as we navigate the uneven ground. The house rises before us, windows glowing with welcoming light—the physical manifestation of all we've built together.
"Hard to believe, isn't it?" he says quietly. "That day I proposed here, talking about someday building a home in this field—it seemed like such a distant dream."
"And now we're living it." I pause, turning to face him fully, framing his beloved face between my palms. "Thank you for waiting for me. For fighting for us when I was too scared to try."
His hands cover mine, eyes serious in the fading light. "We both waited. We both fought. And we both won." He presses his forehead against mine. "Some love stories are meant to take the scenic route."
"The very, very scenic route," I agree with a soft laugh.
He captures my lips in a kiss that makes my toes curl. His hand slides to cup the swell of our growing son, and as if on cue, Mason kicks against his father's palm.
"He knows your touch already," I murmur, covering Jackson's hand with mine.
Daisy races back to us, fireflies forgotten as exhaustion finally begins to claim her. "Carry me, Daddy," she demands, arms upraised.
Jackson scoops her up easily, settling her against his shoulder where she immediately nestles her face into his neck. "Getting heavy, princess," he teases her. "Soon you'll be too big for this."
"Never," she mumbles sleepily. “Always Daddy’s princess."
As we reach the porch, I pause to look back at the field now silvered by emerging moonlight. Daisies sway like ghostly dancers in the evening breeze, timeless witnesses to our story.
"Everything alright?" Jackson asks, noticing my hesitation.
I nod, tears pricking behind my eyes that have nothing to do with pregnancy hormones and everything to do with overwhelming gratitude.
"More than alright," I tell him, taking his free hand and pulling him through the doorway into our home. "Everything is exactly as it should be."
In a daisy field in Maple Ridge, our story found its beginning.
In this house overlooking that same field, it doesn't find its ending, just the continuation of chapters yet to be written.
With every breath, every heartbeat, every moment together, we add to the narrative that started when we were just teenagers, interrupted but never truly broken.
As Jackson carries our sleeping daughter upstairs to bed, I run my hand over the spot where our son grows stronger each day and look around at the home we've created together, and I know with bone-deep certainty that this—all of this—was worth the wait.
Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you’d consider leaving me a reivew here.
And if you enjoy a steamy rom-com, check out The Wrong Brother
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