Epilogue – Lark
One year later
Standing at the edge of the front lawn, nursing the drink Bailey insisted on for "celebratory nerves" (even though I'm totally chill), the inn doesn’t feel like a fragile work of art any longer.
The structure rises behind me, steady and whole, every line restored with intention instead of desperation.
The wraparound porch has been sanded smooth and repainted, with the original trim brought back to life in a way that feels like honoring rather than replacing.
The windows reflect the late afternoon light, clean and bright, the glass catching the movement of people gathering on the lawn and along the walk.
It doesn’t look like something that's about to fall apart. It looks like something that fought its way not to.
Voices drift across the yard in overlapping threads—laughter, conversation, the hum of a town that has fully inserted itself into something I once thought I had to build alone.
String lights stretch overhead, already glowing faintly as the sun dips lower, the warm bulbs softening everything into something that feels less like an event and more like a moment.
My moment. Ours. I take a slow breath, letting it settle all the way through me.
“This is the part where you pretend you’re not about to cry.”
Hadley’s voice slides in from my left, perfectly timed and completely unhelpful.
I glance at her, arching a brow. “I’m not going to cry.”
“Mm,” she hums, sipping from her drink like she’s deeply unconvinced. “That’s what people say right before they absolutely do.”
I ignore her…mostly. She grins, looping her arm through mine anyway, her energy exactly the same and completely different all at once. There’s still that bright, quick spark to her, but there’s something steadier underneath it now, something that wasn’t there before everything happened.
Or maybe I just know how to see it now.
“You did this,” she says, softer this time.
I look back at the inn, taking it in the way I’ve done a hundred times over the last few weeks, checking for flaws, for things I might’ve missed, for anything that still needs adjusting. But today… Today , I don’t see what’s unfinished. I see what stands.
“I didn’t do it alone,” I say.
Hadley bumps her shoulder into mine lightly. “You kind of did.”
I shake my head. “No.”
My gaze drifts across the lawn, finding the familiar faces that have filled this space without ever asking permission to matter.
Claire is directing someone to the food table, as if she’s been running events here her entire life.
Bailey, already halfway through a conversation with a group of guests who look like they walked in for a quiet evening and got swept into something bigger.
Lila and Ivy stand near the porch steps, Rook prancing around their feet, Ivy’s hand resting absentmindedly on the railing as she smiles at something Rowan says, the ease between them soft and settled.
And then—him.
Holt stands just off to the side, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans, the other holding a bottle he hasn’t taken a sip from in at least five minutes.
He’s not in uniform, not in anything that marks him as anything other than what he is here—part of this, part of me, part of something that doesn’t need explanation anymore.
He catches my gaze like he feels it. His mouth curves slightly, not a full smile, not for anyone else, just enough for me to see it from across the distance.
Something in my chest shifts.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Hadley says.
“What thing?”
She gestures vaguely in Holt’s direction. “That look.”
I don’t bother asking what she means because I already know.
I slip my arm free from hers. “I’ll be back.”
She smirks. “Oh, I know you will.”
I ignore that too.
Crossing the lawn feels different from the way it did months ago. Back then, every step felt like a decision. A calculation. A careful balancing of what I was risking against what I was gaining. Now, it just feels like walking toward something that’s already mine.
Holt doesn’t move when I approach. He just watches me come closer, his gaze steady in a way that has become its own kind of anchor.
“You’re supposed to be hosting,” he says when I stop in front of him.
“I am.”
“This looks a lot like abandoning your guests.”
“They’ll survive.”
His mouth curves a little more at that.
“They always do.”
For a second, we just stand there, the noise of the party drifting around us, the world continuing in motion while something quieter settles between us.
I glance toward the carriage house, or where it used to be. The new structure stands in its place now—not identical, not trying to be, but similar. The lines are cleaner, the materials newer, but the purpose remains the same.
Holt follows my gaze.
“You still thinking about it?” he asks.
“Sometimes.”
“Yeah.”
I look back at him. “Do you?”
His expression shifts slightly, something more thoughtful settling in.
“Less than I thought I would,” he admits. “More than I expected.”
“It’s not the same,” I say.
“No.”
“But it’s where we met.”
His gaze holds mine. “It’s our moment.”
I take a step closer without thinking about it, closing the space between us until I can feel the warmth of him again, the familiarity of it grounding in a way that doesn’t feel new anymore.
It feels like something I’ve chosen enough times to trust.
“You never tried to take this from me,” I say quietly.
His brow furrows slightly. “Wasn’t mine to take.”
“Most people wouldn’t have seen it that way.”
“I’m not most people.”
No, he’s not. That’s the point.
I let out a slow breath, the kind that feels like letting go of something I didn’t realize I was still holding.
“I used to think staying in one place meant giving something up,” I say, remembering all the fights with my now nonexistent mother and how they tried to control my every move.
My phone buzzes faintly from where it rests on the table beside the porch rail. I almost ignore it. Almost. But something makes me glance down.
Unknown Number.
Holt notices the shift in my expression immediately. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly, though I’m not entirely sure yet.
I open the message, then freeze.
It’s the marshal.
CBC Marshal: I got confirmation this morning. Michael accepted a plea deal. Accessory charges stuck. Conspiracy too. His firm terminated him after the investigation became public.
The words blur slightly for a second. A strange, quiet kind of release I wasn’t expecting anymore.
Holt’s hand settles automatically at my lower back. “What is it?”
I look up at him.
“It’s over,” I say softly.
His expression shifts immediately, reading something in mine before I even explain.
“The investigation?”
I nod once. The wind shifts softly around us, carrying the distant sound of laughter from the lawn.
“He lost everything,” I say quietly, staring back down at the message. “His job. His reputation. Everything he spent years trying to control.”
Holt stays quiet. He knows me well enough now to understand this isn’t satisfaction. Not really. Just closure.
“He really thought if he scared me enough, I’d go back,” I whisper.
“You didn’t.”
No, I didn’t.
That realization settles differently now than it would have a year ago. I lock the screen and set the phone back down without answering. No part of me needs the last word anymore.
His gaze sharpens just slightly. “And now what do you think staying means?”
I look around at the life that has grown here in ways I didn’t plan, but somehow feel more right than anything I could have.
“Now I think it means choosing what’s worth keeping.”
His hand finds mine, fingers threading through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“And what’s that?” he asks.
I meet his gaze fully.
“You,” I say.
Something in his expression shifts, the steadiness there deepening into something quieter, something that feels like it’s been building under the surface for a long time.
“Good,” he says.
I huff a soft laugh. “That’s it?”
He steps closer, close enough that the rest of the world fades just slightly at the edges.
“For now.”
There’s something in the way he says it that catches my attention.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
He glances toward the porch, toward the people, toward the life unfolding around us, then back to me.
“Means I had a whole speech planned,” he admits. “But it didn’t feel like the right moment for it.”
I blink. “A speech?”
“Yeah.”
I narrow my eyes slightly. “Should I be concerned?”
“Probably.”
I try to read him.
“That’s not reassuring.”
He smiles then, a real one this time, the kind that reaches all the way through him in a way that still catches me off guard even now.
“It’s not supposed to be.”
I open my mouth to press him further, but Hadley’s voice cuts across the lawn before I can.
“Lark! You’re needed for the official ‘this place is open, and everyone can eat now’ moment!”
I glance back over my shoulder, catching her exaggerated wave from across the yard, then I look back at Holt.
He nods once. “Go.”
“You’re not getting out of that conversation,” I tell him.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Later, after the speeches are done, after the food has been eaten and the music has softened into something slower, quieter, more intimate, I find him again. Or maybe he finds me.
We end up at the far edge of the property, where the lights fade into softer shadows and the party's noise becomes distant and warm. The night air is cool, carrying the scent of salt and earth and something blooming nearby.
It feels like the beginning of something.
“Better moment?” I ask.
He glances at me, something softer settling into his expression.
“Yeah,” he says.
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the shift in him before he says anything.
“This place,” he says, his voice quieter now, steadier. “It’s not just something you built.”
I tilt my head slightly, watching him.
“It’s something you stayed for,” he continues. “Even when it got hard. Even when it would’ve been easier to walk away.”
I swallow. That matters more than anything else he could say.
“I’m still here,” I say softly.
“I know.”
His hand finds mine again, the contact grounding in a way that feels familiar now instead of new.
“I just want to make sure you know,” he adds, “I’m not going anywhere either.”
I step closer, closing the last bit of space between us, my hand tightening in his.
“Good,” I say.
Holt doesn’t move this time. Doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t let the moment pass. Instead, he exhales slowly as if he’s steadying himself, then he lets go of my hand. Just for a moment. Long enough to reach into his back pocket.
My breath catches before I even understand why.
“Okay,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself. “Maybe now.”
“Holt…”
He looks up at me, then drops to one knee. Everything in me goes completely still. The world doesn’t disappear—if anything, it electrifies—but the noise fades, the party, the music, the voices all slipping into something distant and irrelevant.
It’s just him.
Just this.
“I told you I had a speech,” he says, a hint of that familiar dry humor threading through his voice, but it doesn’t hide the seriousness underneath it. Not even close. My heart is pounding so hard I’m not sure I can hear anything else.
“You did.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And I’m probably going to mess it up.”
“You’re not—”
“I am,” he cuts in gently. “But you’re going to let me try anyway.”
My throat tightens.
“Okay.”
His gaze holds mine. Steady. Certain.
“I don’t need this place to mean something because it’s where we met,” he says. “It means something because you’re here. Because you fought. Because you chose this life… and somehow, you chose me with it.”
My vision blurs slightly.
“I’ve spent most of my life trying to hold things together,” he continues. “Fix them. Protect them. Make sure nothing falls apart.”
A small breath leaves him.
“But you…”
His voice softens.
“You made me realize I don’t have to do that alone.”
The words hit sharper than anything else I’ve ever experienced.
“I don’t want a version of this life without you in it,” he says. “Not the hard parts. Not the good parts. Not any of it.”
He opens the small box in his hand. The ring catches the low light, simple and strong and exactly right.
“So I’m done waiting for the right moment,” he adds quietly. “Because every moment with you already is.”
Warmth blooms low and deep inside me, so sudden and overwhelming it leaves me struggling to breathe around it.
“Marry me, Lark.”
Not a question, but a statement from a man who knows every single beat of my heart. Knows every thought in my head. Knows every doubt and fear. Knows every ounce of love I have for him.
Everything feels clear. Every choice. Every step that led here. Every reason I stayed.
I let out a shaky breath, a laugh slipping through it before I can stop it, my hand coming up to cover my mouth for half a second.
I drop my hand, meeting his gaze fully, my heart still racing.
“Yes,” I say, then steady my shaky voice.
“Yes,” I repeat.
And this time, when I pull him up and kiss him, it doesn’t feel like choosing the right path for the first time.
It feels like choosing forever.
THE END