Epilogue
Daisy
By Christmas Eve, I have learned that living with Forrest Wolfcraft without officially living with Forrest Wolfcraft requires legal clarification, emotional stamina, and at least one drawer assigned to me.
Technically, I still have my apartment.
Technically, I still pay rent there, which is both responsible and financially insulting.
Technically, I have not moved in with Forrest.
I merely spend five nights a week at his place, keep my toothbrush in his bathroom, my cardigans in his closet, my books on his coffee table, my mug in his cabinet, my hair ties in places no forensic team could fully explain, and my face wash beside his sink because his skincare routine used to be water and audacity.
So, again.
Technically.
His apartment has changed too.
There is a tiny Christmas tree in the corner because I told him his place needed evidence of seasonal participation and he told me he had a wreath on the door. I informed him that a wreath was an accessory, not a personality.
Now the tree glows in the living room window, tucked between his bookshelf and Puck’s bed. There are ornaments shaped like books, tiny skates, a coffee cup, and one dramatic little squirrel Bea found and gifted to us with a note that said: for historical accuracy.
Forrest pretended not to understand why I laughed for three minutes.
Puck is wearing a red sweater that says TEAM SNACKS across his very proud chest.
Forrest said dogs do not need sweaters.
Puck disagreed by immediately sitting in front of the mirror and admiring himself.
I trust the dog.
“Your son is vain,” I say from the couch, where I am wrapping presents with the precision of someone who has never once wrapped a gift without making it look like the paper fought back.
Forrest stands in the kitchen, wearing dark jeans, a black sweater, and the expression of a man trying to look normal with absolutely no confidence in the outcome.
“Our son,” he says.
I pause with the tape between my teeth.
That still gets me.
Every time.
Our dog. Our mornings. Our weird little routines. Our Open Ice calls. Our Boston pilot calendar. Our argument about whether snack funding belongs under nutrition, operations, or emotional infrastructure.
Our.
It is a dangerous word.
A cozy word.
A word wearing socks and carrying a future it has not yet shown me.
I pull the tape from my mouth. “Fine. Our son is vain.”
Puck wags his tail.
Forrest looks at him. “He gets it from you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You own four lip balms.”
“That is preparedness. My mouth has seen winter. It has a trauma response.”
“And a mug that says you’re the plot.”
“Bea gave me that mug because she respects narrative truth.”
Forrest makes a sound that is almost a laugh.
A month ago, I would have congratulated myself for earning that sound. Now I hoard it quietly, like an emotionally stable woman with a secret savings account of his almost-smiles.
He checks his watch, again.
I narrow my eyes. “Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’ve checked the time seven times, reorganized the takeout menus, and asked Puck if he was ready.”
Forrest looks at the dog.
Puck looks back with the calm confidence of an accomplice.
Interesting.
“Ready for what?” I ask.
“Christmas.”
“Christmas is tomorrow.”
“Christmas Eve counts.”
“You hate imprecise language,” I say, suspiciously.
“I’m evolving.”
I narrow my gaze and tap my foot. “That is suspicious. Men do not evolve this close to cabinetry without cause.”
Forrest wipes his hands on a dish towel even though his hands are dry.
Oh.
Oh, no.
There is a category of Forrest nervousness that usually means an important phone call, a hard truth, or something involving feelings he has decided to handle by becoming physically rigid near cabinetry.
This is that.
My body sits up before my brain can approve the motion.
“Wolfe.”
He looks at me then says, “Come here.”
“Absolutely not.”
His brows pull together. “What?”
“You sound like a man who has planned something, and I am emotionally underdressed.”
“You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”
“Exactly. Vulnerable. Soft fabric is where women make poor long-term decisions.”
His mouth almost curves. “Daisy.”
“No, don’t ‘Daisy’ me. Daisy-ing me is how you get away with things.”
“Day, baby.”
Worse.
Much worse.
I stand anyway, because apparently love has ruined my survival instincts and left me with nothing but fuzzy socks and curiosity.
Puck rises too, stretching dramatically before trotting to Forrest’s side. There’s a ribbon tied loosely around his collar, red velvet with a tiny brass key hanging from it.
I stare at the key.
Then at Forrest.
Then at Puck.
The room tilts a little.
“Is that . . . ?”
“For the apartment,” Forrest says.
My throat tightens.
“Oh.”
“It’s not a spare. Not the one under the ugly ceramic planter you think I don’t know about.”
I blink. “You know about that?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you let me think I’m sneaky?”
“You enjoy it.”
“That is thoughtful and concerning.”
He reaches down and unties the ribbon from Puck’s collar. Puck sits like he has been professionally trained for romance, which he has not. Yesterday, he tried to eat a bow from a gift bag.
Forrest holds the key out to me.
“This is yours.”
I take it carefully.
It is just a key. My eyes burn anyway.
“I already live here most of the time,” I say, because I am me, and I sometimes fight tenderness with technical accuracy.
“I know.”
“My face wash is in your bathroom.”
“I know.”
“My books are colonizing your apartment.”
“I know.”
“I think I have more underwear here than at my actual apartment.”
“I know.”
“You should not sound that informed.”
“I do laundry.”
“Very seductive. Very domestic. Extremely dangerous. You say laundry like a man who could ruin a woman’s credit score and improve her folding habits.”
He steps closer.
Puck leans against his leg, apparently committed to remaining inside the emotional blast radius.
“This isn’t me asking because it’s practical,” Forrest says. “It is practical. Your commute is better from here. Puck thinks your side of the bed is his emotional property. Half the mugs are already yours.”
“More than half.”
“Fine. Most.”
“Accuracy matters.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles where I hold the key.
“But that’s not why,” he says.
The jokes inside me go quiet.
Outside, snow taps lightly against the windows.
Boston glows beyond the glass, softened by Christmas lights and winter weather.
The tiny tree throws gold over Forrest’s face, over Puck’s red sweater, over the couch where we said I love you after I accepted the Open Ice job and ruined my own emotional moderation forever.
Forrest lowers himself to one knee.
My heart stops.
Then it restarts badly.
“Puck,” I whisper, because apparently in a crisis I address the dog.
Puck wags his tail once.
Unhelpful.
“Forrest.”
“I had a speech,” Forrest says.
“Of course you did.”
“It was bad.”
“I would have loved it.”
“You didn’t hear it.”
“I love many bad things. Your first romance-novel notes. Your old couch. Your refusal to admit cardigans improve a room.” My voice wobbles, which is humiliating because I am standing in socks and holding a house key while a dog in knitwear supervises my collapse.
“I loved you before I knew what to do with it. Before I was brave enough to say it without making it sound like a joke. I loved you when you bought Puck a blanket and called it logistics. I loved you when you asked me to eat like I mattered. I loved you when you looked at me in my mother’s house and made it feel like I could choose myself without losing everyone else. ”
He breathes out a laugh, but his eyes stay on mine.
“I love you,” he says.
The words still hit like the first time.
Maybe they always will.
“I love you when you take over my apartment and call it atmosphere. I love you when you argue with Puck like he has legal standing. I love you when you make donor spreadsheets at midnight and pretend it’s not because you care too much. I love you when you’re afraid and do the thing anyway.”
My vision blurs.
Very rude.
Very Christmas-y adjacent.
“You taught me that a future doesn’t have to be handed to you by people deciding you’re worthy,” he says. “You can build it. You can choose it. And you chose me.”
He pulls a small ring box from his pocket.
I make a sound.
Not words.
Words have left the building.
Puck noses my knee as if reminding me to remain upright for his father.
Forrest opens the box.
The ring is simple and beautiful and exactly unfair. Not huge. Not flashy. A delicate band with a stone that catches the Christmas lights and throws them back at me like it has been holding them for this specific moment.
“Daisy Thorn,” Forrest says, voice rough, “will you marry me?”
I stare at him.
At the ring.
At the key in my hand.
At Puck in his ridiculous sweater, sitting beside the man I love like the world’s most judgmental witness.
I wipe under one eye with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
“Before I answer, I need clarification.”
Forrest closes his eyes.
Puck sighs.
“Does this proposal include shared custody of Team Snacks?”
“Yes.”
“Equal closet negotiations?”
“Yes.”
“Protected bookshelf expansion?”
He opens one eye. “Reasonable expansion.”
“Define reasonable.”
“Daisy.”
“Fine. We’ll revisit it in the committee.”
“Any other questions?”
“Yes.” I look down at him, and my smile trembles. “Do I get to keep choosing?”
The answer comes immediately. “Always.”
That does it.
The last defense falls right there on his living room floor beside ribbon, wrapping paper, and our overdressed dog.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His eyes open.
“Yes?”
“Yes, Wolfe. I’ll marry you.”
Forrest stands fast enough that Puck barks, and then his arms are around me, my feet almost leave the floor, and I laugh into his neck while crying because apparently happiness has terrible manners.
He kisses me once.
Then again.
Then he pulls back, breathing like the proposal was more physically demanding than moving fourteen vineyard tables.
Then, he takes my hand. His fingers are not quite steady as he slides the ring onto mine. The ring settles into place, and for a second, neither of us speaks.
Puck barks again.
I look down. “He wants credit.”
Forrest lifts a brow. “For what?”
“Participation. Emotional support. Accessory work. Honestly, the dog carried a key. That’s more responsibility than some groomsmen can handle.”
“He wore a sweater.”
“And carried a key. That is best-man behavior.”
Puck’s tail wags.
Forrest looks from the dog to me. “He’s not planning the wedding.”
“He’ll be hurt.”
“He eats paper.”
“He can handle guest complaints.”
“No.”
I grin. “We’re already negotiating. This bodes well.”
Forrest pulls me closer, his hand warm at my back, his mouth brushing my temple.
“Merry Christmas, Day.”
I rest my cheek against his chest and look at the tiny tree, the half-wrapped presents, the takeout menus he reorganized out of panic, the books on his table, our Puck in his sweater, and the key still curled in my palm.
To home.
Our home.
I lift my face to his. “Merry Christmas, Wolfe.”
Then I kiss my fiancé in the middle of an apartment I have absolutely, technically, officially moved into.
Fake it Under the Mistletoe
There are three things people should know before letting me near an injured professional athlete.
One, I am very good at my job.
Two, my bedside manner has been described as "aggressively cheerful in a way that feels humanly questionable."
Three, I will absolutely threaten a grown man with resistance bands if he lies to me about his pain level.
Crew Wolfcraft lies about his pain level. Constantly.
He also has a hip that's one bad twist from ending his career, a charity weekend he'd rather die than attend, and the conversational range of a man being held hostage. I've been hired to keep him upright through Christmas. That's the job.
Then a reporter asks a question under the mistletoe, Crew opens his mouth, and my grandmother's ring—the one on my hand, the one being resized, the one I am absolutely not engaged with—becomes a headline.
I don't correct him.
In my defense: my Tía Marta has lined up a dentist, an architect, and a firefighter for me to meet before Christmas Eve.
Now there's a tamalada, four aunts with a group chat and no fear of God, a cat named Don Gato Corleone who has chosen him over me, and a man who was supposed to leave in January learning my grandmother's recipes like he's planning to stay.
I can rehab a hip in eight weeks.
I have no idea what to do about the rest.