Epilogue
John — Three Months Later
It’s a perfect California afternoon.
We’re coasting along the highway with the top down, wind in our hair, sun warming our skin, and the scent of salt and eucalyptus hanging in the air like summer itself.
The engine hums beneath us. One hand is on the wheel, the other resting over her thigh—possessive and casual, like I have every right to keep her within arm’s reach.
And I do. After everything we’ve built together, after all the years and everything we’ve made… she’s mine. Every last inch of her.
Her sundress flutters in the wind. It’s white, short, with thin straps that expose her soft, sunkissed shoulders. I catch her smiling to herself, chin tipped into the breeze. Her hair’s longer now, messier, and even more beautiful when it tangles in the wind. I could watch her forever.
She leans over and presses her lips to my shoulder. “You have sunscreen on, right?”
“Babe,” I smirk. “You covered me yourself this morning.”
“Mmm. That’s right.” She runs her hand over my chest. “And I think I missed a spot. I’ll have to fix that later.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, voice low, already half-hard just from the way her hand lingers.
We turn onto the private drive that leads to the house.
Home. The muscle car roars as we climb the hill, and when we crest the top, the estate sprawls out below like something from a dream.
Spanish tile, clean stucco lines, curved archways.
Palm trees line the drive. The ocean glints blue on the horizon.
“Still doesn’t feel real,” she murmurs.
“It’s real,” I say. “You made it real.”
“You made it real.”
She smiles, brushing her fingers over mine on the gear shift. “All it took was a little solar polymer and a whole lot of love.”
The tech captures and stores rooftop energy ten times more efficiently than standard panels. Now it’s on homes, schools, hospitals — even the Vatican put in an order.
She doesn’t respond, just leans in closer. I slide my hand farther up her thigh.
“You know what I was thinking about all day at that car show?” I ask as we pull into the garage.
She turns to me, amused. “The supercharged turbo engine on the Shelby Cobra?”
“Wrong.” I park the car and kill the engine. “I was thinking about you spread-eagle on the hood of that ‘69 GTO. Tiny bikini. Body all slicked up. Legs wide open for me.”
She laughs, cheeks flushing. “God. Of course you were.”
“I had to think about old carburetors just to keep my hard-on down.”
She climbs out of the car and stretches. I follow her inside through the garage entrance, trailing her like a man possessed.
We pass through the entryway into the cool, airy kitchen.
It smells like lemons and sun-dried wood.
Light streams in from the back doors, throwing golden squares across the stone floor.
She opens the fridge and grabs the filtered water from the tap system we had installed last year—no waste, no plastic bottles, all clean living.
It’s her doing. She wanted to cut down our footprint, and I’d bulldoze a mountain if it made her smile.
She grabs a wine glass for me, pours just enough to coat the bowl, and slides it across the kitchen island.
Then she hesitates.
“What’s that face?” I ask, watching her from across the counter.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes a long sip of her water, sets it down carefully, then comes around to where I’m standing. She winds her arms around my waist and presses her face to my chest.
I wrap her up, hands smoothing up her back, fingers threading through her hair. “Hey. What is it?”
She leans back just enough to look up at me, eyes sparkling.
“I need to tell you something.”
The air shifts. My chest tightens.
She doesn’t make me wait.
“I’m pregnant.”
Time stops.
The glass of wine is forgotten—I push it aside without a glance. She’s everything I see.
“You’re serious?” My voice comes out low, shaky.
She nods, smiling. “Dead serious.”
I don’t speak. I just kiss her. Hard.
I kiss her like I haven’t seen her in years, like I’ve been starving, like I need to kiss her to stay alive.
She melts into me. I grip her hips and lift her onto the counter, step between her thighs, bury my face in her neck.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I love you so fucking much.”
Her hands are in my hair, her legs wrapped around my waist.
“Did you want that wine?” she teases, breathless.
“Fuck the wine,” I say against her collarbone. “The only thing I want to drink tonight is you.”
She laughs—light, full, glowing—and I feel the echo of it in my chest. Our life together is already full, already so much more than I ever thought I’d get. But this?
This is everything.