Epilogue 1 Nathan
Another few weeks pass, and I swear I’m so fucking full I feel like I could burst.
Full of what, you ask?
Joy.
Peace.
Love.
Her.
And I won’t fuck it up.
Not this time.
Not now that I know—really fucking know—that what Adrianna and I have is real.
Every night, I fall asleep with her in my arms.
Every morning, she wakes with her hand searching for me before she’s even fully aware she’s awake.
We make love—soft or slow or hungry or sweet—or sometimes we just lie there in the dark, tangled together, talking about nothing and everything.
She tells me her fears, her hopes, the dreams she never spoke aloud to anyone.
And I tell her mine. All the dark corners. All the shit I used to guard like my life depended on it.
She’s my wife.
My heart.
My fucking miracle.
Which is why, when my label calls to tell me my new single hit number one—the first number one I’ve had in years—I don’t celebrate alone or on the phone with Trish.
I grab my keys.
Because there’s only one person I want to tell first.
I push open the door to Bosco’s Baked Goods and spot her instantly—my wife—on the customer side of the counter, radiant even in her flour-dusted apron, cheeks pink from the ovens.
And right there in front of her—again—is that same goddamn mosquito of a man. That fucking creepy teacher.
Justin.
He’s crowding her space, leaning in too close, talking like he has any right to her time or attention.
“Adrianna,” he says, voice dripping with condescension. “You can’t expect me to believe your marriage to that man is real. Come on. When are you going to come to your senses?”
Before she can answer, I do.
“Never.”
The word cracks across the bakery like thunder.
Justin jerks, paling. Adrianna’s eyes snap to mine—relief flooding her features, lighting her up from the inside out.
I don’t slow down as I walk toward her.
I just slide an arm around her curvy little hips and pull her flush to my chest.
She fits there—perfectly.
Like she was carved for me.
“I told you, Justin,” she says with a soft, smug grin that nearly knocks me out cold. “Nathan and I are doing just fine.”
I dip my head and kiss her—quick, claiming, enough to leave him with no goddamn doubt who she belongs with.
“Come on,” I murmur against her cheek. “I have something to show you.”
Her eyes widen, and she doesn’t spare that jerk another glance.
“Nathan? What’s going on?”
“Trust me.”
She wipes her hands on her apron, calls to Adele that she’ll be back later, and lets me lead her through the back door into the quiet of her private office space.
My heart is pounding.
For once, it’s not nerves.
Just joy.
Pure fucking joy.
I close the door to her office behind us.
Adrianna turns to me, brow raised, that soft smile tugging at her lips.
“What is it?” she asks. “You’ve been acting weird all morning.”
I exhale, scrubbing a hand through my hair. Cool. Play it cool.
I absolutely do not play it cool.
“I’ve been waiting on some news, and well, I got it.”
“And?”
“The Spark hit number one.”
Her gasp is instant. “Nathan—oh my God! That’s amazing!”
She launches at me, arms flung around my neck, nearly knocking me backward. I catch her easily—laughing, breathless, completely gone for this woman.
She pulls back just enough to cradle my face in her hands.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.
And that—that means more than platinum records, sold-out arenas, awards, all of it combined.
“It’s your song,” I say softly. “You made it happen.”
Her breath stutters.
“Nathan,” she murmurs, and it sounds like a prayer.
I lift her hand and press my lips to her palm.
Then her wrist.
Then, I kiss the soft inside of her arm.
Not rushed.
Not frantic.
Just reverent.
Her whole body melts into mine.
“Nathan,” she whispers again, but this time it’s loaded. Warm. Wanting.
I kiss her slow, then deeper, my hands sliding to her waist—hers tangling in my hair.
The world shrinks down to this tiny office, to the warmth of her body, to the certainty I feel in my bones.
She breaks the kiss with a shaky breath.
“I wanna take you home.” I rest my forehead against hers.
“No time, Nathan, please.”
“Alright, but keep those noises down, Sparky. Those are mine,” I growl and slide my zipper down as she tugs her tights down her legs.
I sit her on the edge of the desk.
Her breath hitches.
And that’s it.
That’s all it takes for me to zero in on what I do best—bring my wife pleasure.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her like she’s something priceless.
And with all the patience and reverence I can muster, I press my cock to her dripping slit and I push inside.
Christ, she’s tight. Wet. And so fucking hot.
I swallow her moans and start to move, and she clutches at me, wrapping her legs around my hips.
We fall into each other like we’ve been waiting lifetimes.
The emotional floodgates open—and we go through them together.
“I love you, Sparky. Love you so fucking much,” I grunt as her pussy tightens.
Then she’s falling apart, and I follow her straight over the edge, groaning as I spill myself deep inside her.
Later, she lies curled against me, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my skin like she’s memorizing every line. Her breath is soft and warm on my skin.
I kiss her temple.
“Number one. That’s amazing, Nathan.”
“You’re my real number one, Sparky. Always.”
She smiles—soft, sleepy, safe.
And right then I know, this is it.
This has always been it.
The life I was supposed to have.
The music I was meant to write.
The woman who was made for me.
My home.
My heart.
My wife.
My everything.