Chapter 25
Always, Us
ZAYN
The Spring Rose Festival feels brighter this year.
Last year, I stood at this same adoption booth, desperate for Sophie to give me even five seconds without that ice in her eyes.
Today, she works beside me like we’ve been doing this our whole lives, sunlight catching in her hair as she strings roses around our tent.
All around us, kids sprint between booths, elderly couples stroll hand-in-hand, and the high school band murders “Walking on Sunshine” from the gazebo.
But I can’t stop watching her hands as she arranges those pink flowers.
My fiancée. That word still hits me in the chest every single time.
“You’re staring again,” Sophie says without looking up, a smile playing at her lips.
“Can you blame me?” I reach over to tuck her hair back, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. She leans into my hand for a moment before returning to her work.
Last year, she would’ve flinched away. Last year, there was nothing but walls and wounds between us—five years of damage I’d caused. Now we move around each other like we were always meant to fit together exactly like this.
“The puppies are getting restless,” Sophie nods toward the pen where six rescue pups tumble over each other. “Mrs. Wilson’s bringing the kittens at noon, and we need space.”
I head to the puppy pen, crouching down to give them scratches and belly rubs. A black and white border collie pup launches herself into my lap immediately, tiny paws on my chest, tongue assaulting my chin with enthusiastic kisses.
“This one’s getting adopted first,” I call over my shoulder. “Too damn cute for her own good.”
“Like someone else I know,” Sophie says, those green eyes hitting me with a look that still makes my pulse stutter.
I scoop up some flyers from our table, tucking the puppy against my chest with one arm.
She settles there warm and trusting, like she belongs.
Last year, I would’ve forced myself to look professional while feeling completely out of place.
Now I feel solid as I approach a family lingering near our tent.
“She needs a home with space to run,” I tell the kids as they reach out to pet her soft fur. “Your yard would be perfect for her.”
Their dad looks surprised. “How do you know about our yard?”
I grin. “You’re the Hendersons, right? Handled your property dispute last fall. You’ve got three acres backing up to the state forest.”
Recognition lights his face. “Blackwell! The attorney with all the ink.” He sounds genuinely friendly, which still catches me off guard after years of expecting small-town judgment.
“That’s me.” I hand him a flyer and watch his kids take turns loving on the puppy. “Application’s on the back if you’re interested. No pressure—we’ve got five more who need homes just as badly.”
As they wander off discussing it, Sophie appears at my side, her hip bumping mine in that casual intimacy we’ve built. “You’re terrible,” she whispers, eyes dancing. “Using your clients to find homes for puppies.”
“Whatever works.” I shrug, resisting the urge to pull her against me with everyone watching. I settle for my hand on her lower back instead—professional enough for public, but I still get to touch her.
Suddenly there’s commotion from the pen. The chocolate Lab pup—the biggest, most adventurous one—has his front paws hooked over the edge, trying desperately to escape.
We move in perfect sync without a word. Sophie grabs his front paws while I circle around to unlatch the gate. Our hands meet as we catch the wiggling puppy, who’s as determined as before.
“Just like Mrs. Tate’s Great Dane,” Sophie laughs, securing the Lab against her chest. “Remember when he decided the exam room was a prison and made a break for it?”
“How could I forget? You went left, I went right—”
“And he went straight through the reception desk,” she finishes, laughing. “Poor Jen nearly had a coronary.”
The sun climbs higher, warming the town square.
I catch the scent of cotton candy from the adjacent booth, grilled corn from the food trucks, and roses absolutely everywhere.
Our pet adoption station sits directly across from where elderly gardeners argue over their entries in the rose naming competition.
“You two make such a lovely couple,” Mrs. Peterson announces, approaching with her minuscule Chihuahua tucked under one arm. “I was just telling my book club how wonderful you look together.”
Sophie’s cheeks flush that pink I love, while I stand taller, feeling both proud and protective.
“So glad it all worked out,” Mrs. Peterson continues, patting my arm. “I told Sophie last year when you helped save our clinic that you were a keeper. Didn’t I, dear?”
“You did,” Sophie confirms, shooting me a look that says she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Multiple times.”
“Well, when you’ve been married fifty years like Herbert and me, you develop an eye for the real thing.” She adjusts her sunhat, beaming at us like a proud grandmother. “So when’s the wedding?”
“Still finalizing the details,” I say smoothly, knowing Sophie hates being cornered about wedding planning.
Mrs. Peterson nods knowingly. “Don’t wait too long. Life moves faster than you think.”
As she toddles away, I catch Sophie watching me with an expression that makes my chest tight. “What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head slightly. “Just… you handled that perfectly. Last year, you would’ve announced our exact wedding date if we’d had one, desperate to prove to everyone you were staying.”
I shrug, but warmth spreads through me at what she’s noticed. “I don’t need to prove anything anymore. Not to this town. Not even to myself.”
She takes my hand, our fingers interlacing like they were designed specifically for this. “No, you don’t.”
Around us, the festival pulses with energy—kids shrieking at the petting zoo, teenagers giggling near the face painting booth, the mayor rehearsing his speech by the gazebo. But right now, all that noise fades as I look at her.
A year ago, I stood in this exact spot, watching her from across the square, trying to build courage to approach. Every step toward her felt like wading through concrete, every word between us weighted with five years of damage.
Now she leans into me, warm and solid and mine, as we observe the festival crowd together. The Lab pup who attempted escape earlier snoozes at our feet. When Sophie shifts her hand, sunlight catches her ring and scatters prismatic light across our table.
“Henderson family’s heading back,” she murmurs, indicating with her chin.
I squeeze her hand once before releasing it to greet them about puppy adoption.
I need to walk them through the application process, explain our home visit requirements, discuss what it means to bring a high-energy breed into their family.
But what I’m really thinking, what fills every corner of my mind:
I’m home. Right here. With her. And I’m never leaving again.
Harper’s flame-red hair cuts through the crowd like a beacon, and I spot her heading our direction with purpose.
She walks fast and sure, moving around families and kids with cotton candy.
She’s woven wild roses into her hair that actually looks pretty good.
A year ago, seeing Harper approach would’ve tensed every muscle in my body.
She made it crystal clear that if I hurt Sophie again, she’d ensure I regretted ever returning to Bellrose.
Today, I’m genuinely glad to see her, even with that clipboard she’s holding like it contains state secrets.
“Found you!” Harper announces like we’ve been concealing ourselves instead of manning a booth in the dead center of the square. “We have a critical wedding emergency to address.”
Sophie sighs beside me, but I can hear the affection underneath. “Harper, we’re in the middle of—”
“Rescuing homeless animals, yes, very noble,” Harper interrupts, flipping through papers on her clipboard very seriously. “But the bakery needs a decision by next week—lemon cake or chocolate. This is time-sensitive, Sophie.”
I suppress a grin as Sophie shoots me a look. We both know exactly what’s happening. Harper’s appointed herself our wedding planner despite the fact we keep reminding her we haven’t even set a date yet. She’s been leaving bridal magazines all over our house.
“We can’t choose a cake when we don’t have a venue or date,” Sophie points out with flawless logic.
Harper waves her hand like that doesn’t matter. “Venues are flexible. Elite bakers get booked months in advance.” She looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Zayn, back me up here. You’re the one who plans everything.”
It still catches me off guard when she treats me like an ally. A year ago, Harper would’ve consulted a houseplant before asking my opinion.
“I’m staying out of the cake debate,” I say, raising both hands in surrender. “That’s above my pay grade.”
“Coward,” Harper accuses, but there’s no real heat behind it. She squeezes in beside us and crouches to pet the Lab pup dozing at our feet. “Well, hello there, gorgeous. Aren’t you just the most handsome boy? Yes, you are.”
I watch her baby-talk to the dog, her tough exterior dissolving instantly.
That’s Harper in a nutshell—all hard on the outside, total softie on the inside.
That’s how we eventually found our equilibrium.
She hated me because she loves Sophie fiercely, but once she witnessed I was genuinely committed to staying, she became one of my strongest supporter.
“What happened to your urgent wedding crisis?” Sophie teases, nudging Harper’s leg with her foot.
“Puppies trump cake,” Harper declares, straightening up. “But seriously, I need you two to make some decisions. Sara’s already designing calligraphy for invitations.”