Epilogue II
Unexpected Timing - Mandy
The plastic stick is small, white, and currently the most terrifying piece of graphic design I've ever held.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bathtub in the loft, the porcelain cold through my leggings, staring at the parallel pink lines.
Two lines. Not one. Not a mistake. A very permanent, very tangible revision to the layout of my entire life.
I'm a designer. I'm supposed to be able to visualize things before they happen.
I can kern a logo to the micrometer, balance a color palette for a brand launch, and predict exactly how a client will react to a Serif font.
But this? This is a variable I didn't account for in the style guide.
I look down at my hand, noticing the way my thumb rests just below the control window.
My nails are painted a soft, muted sage, a color Sterling said reminded him of a forest after rain.
Everything about my life has been filtered through his perspective lately.
I like who I am when he's looking at me.
I hear the low hum of the burr grinder in the kitchen.
The sound is steady, familiar. It's the sound of Sterling Hayes, a man who once looked at my one-slipper-and-cat-carrier situation on a burning sidewalk and decided I was worth the trouble.
It's the sound of the life we've built out of ash and high-stakes lies.
It's the sound of a man who takes care of the small things so I have the space to create the big things.
I stand up, my knees locking into place through sheer force of will.
I wrap the test in a wad of toilet paper, then change my mind and shove it into the pocket of my cardigan.
I need to see him. I need the person who has become my north star to tell me that the map just got a lot bigger.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, pale, wide-eyed, a stray lock of dark hair falling over my forehead.
I look different, though I know it's just my brain playing tricks.
Six months ago, I was a woman whose biggest fear was my mother's disapproval.
Now, I'm a woman who is about to build a human being with my best friend.
I pad out into the main living space, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
The loft smells like dark roast and woodsmoke, a scent that still catches me sideways, the worst morning of my life and the safest one folded into the same breath.
The exposed brick walls are lined with my framed prints now, interspersed with his vintage firefighter memorabilia.
It's a perfect blend of our worlds, a visual representation of how two people who were never supposed to be more than friends ended up becoming everything to each other.
Sterling is at the counter, his back to me.
He's wearing his department gray t-shirt, the one I've officially stolen about fifty times, and his hair is still damp from the shower.
The muscles in his back shift as he reaches for the ceramic jar of coffee beans.
He moves with a quiet, efficient grace that I never tire of watching.
He's a man of action, of logistics, of structural integrity.
He doesn't turn around yet, but he knows I'm there.
He always knows. He reaches for a mug, his movements precise and efficient, honed by years of military discipline and fire-line adrenaline.
It's the same broad-shouldered silhouette that used to make me retreat into sarcasm, but now it's just home.
“Coffee's nearly up, Sparkles,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in the quiet of the morning. “Heavy on the cream, no sugar. Exactly how you like it when you're pretending you're ready to start the day.”
I stop at the edge of the kitchen island.
I look at the coffee mug, a heavy, matte-black thing I bought him for his birthday.
I look at him. My throat feels like I've swallowed a handful of dry charcoal.
I was going to be witty. I was going to have a punchline ready.
I had imagined this moment a dozen times in the five minutes I spent staring at the test in the bathroom, but all the clever scripts have evaporated.
“Sterling,” I say, and my voice breaks on the second syllable.
He turns, his expression already shifting into that focused, protective mask he wears when he senses a structural collapse. The humor in his eyes dies away, replaced by an instant, sharp concern. He sets the mug down on the granite with a soft clack.
“Mandy? What is it? You're pale.” He's across the kitchen before I can even blink, his hands coming up to hover near my shoulders, checking for injury or distress by instinct. “Did you have a nightmare? Is it the apartment? The gas? Tell me.”
Instead of answering, I reach into my pocket and pull out the stick. My hand is shaking just enough that the plastic rattles against my palm. I hold it out like a peace offering, or a white flag, or a blueprint for a skyscraper we didn't know we were building.
“Sterling,” I whisper.
He looks down. He doesn't move for a long second, his gaze flickering from the plastic to my eyes and back again.
I watch the realization hit him in waves.
First, the clinical recognition, the paramedic seeing a positive result.
Then, the man seeing his wife-to-be holding their future.
The coffee pot hisses, a final burst of steam filling the silence, but neither of us notices.
“Two lines,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. It isn't a question. He's a paramedic; he reads data for a living. He knows exactly what he's looking at.
“Two lines,” I repeat, nodding frantically. A stray tear escapes and tracks down my cheek. “I checked it three times. I even read the instructions in Spanish just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating in English. It's definitely two. It's... it's very two, Sterling.”
He closes the distance between us in two strides.
For a heartbeat, I expect the stoic soldier, the man who compartmentalizes every crisis into a neat box.
I expect the 'Saint Sterling' who handles emergencies with a calm, detached grace.
But the man who reaches for me isn't detached.
His face breaks open, truly, completely open, and a sound that's half-laugh and half-sob escapes his chest.
He scoops me up, his hands fisting in the back of my cardigan, lifting me until my toes are dangling inches off the floor.
He buries his face in the crook of my neck, and I can feel the heat of him, the sheer, unadulterated joy radiating off him like a physical weight.
He isn't calculating risks. He isn't worrying about the wedding timeline or the bleed edges of our future.
He's just there, holding me like I'm the most precious thing he's ever pulled from a wreck.
“A baby,” he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot and ragged. His grip is tight, possessive in the best way. I can feel his heart thudding against my ribs, a wild, galloping rhythm that matches my own. “Mandy. A baby.”
“I know,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in the damp hair at his nape.
I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the reality sink in.
“We're officially moving from a temporary arrangement to a very permanent one.
I hope you're ready for the roommate rules to get a lot more complicated.
We're going to need rules for diapers, and sleep training, and... and everything.”
“You could never overstay, Sparkles,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at me.
His eyes are bright, swimming with a wetness he doesn't try to hide, the slight premature graying at his temples catching the morning light.
“I've been ready since the day I found you on that curb.
Maybe even before that. I think I've been waiting for you to change my life forever since we were kids.”
He kisses me then, and it's not the desperate, smoke-fueled kiss of a year ago.
It's something deeper, a promise made in the quiet of a Tuesday morning.
It's the taste of coffee and the smell of cedar and the absolute certainty that I am exactly where I'm supposed to be.
It's a kiss that says I've got you, just like he's had me through the fires and the lies and the fear.
He sets me down eventually, though he doesn't let go of my waist. He keeps one hand splayed across the small of my back, anchoring me to him as if he's afraid I might float away. We lean against the counter, the forgotten coffee cooling in the mugs.
“The wedding,” I say, my mind finally beginning to race with the logistics I usually love. “It's in four months. I'm going to be... I'm going to have a bump. My dress has a very specific waistline, Sterling. The tailoring is going to be a nightmare.”
He laughs, a rich, deep sound that fills the corners of the loft. “We'll move it up. Or we'll get a new dress. Or you can get married in one of my t-shirts. I don't care about the fabric, Mandy. I just want the name change. I want the 'Peterson-Hayes' or whatever we decided on.”
“Peterson-Hayes,” I agree, smiling through the last of my panicked tears. “We talk about the second bedroom, currently my studio, and how we're going to need a lot more than one llama-patterned sock to handle what's coming.”
“My parents are going to lose their minds,” I say, a hysterical little laugh bubbling up.
“My mother will have a spreadsheet for the nursery before I can even finish the sentence.
She'll probably call the interior designer who did her living room before I even hang up the phone.
And my father... Robert will probably try to insure the baby's first steps. He'll want a policy on the stroller.”
Sterling grins, that wide, honest smile that used to be a rare gift but is now my daily reality. “Let them. We'll just tell them it's all part of the performance. We're really committing to the bit now. Method acting at its finest.”