Epilogue II #2
“Right,” I say, leaning my head against his shoulder. His t-shirt is soft and smells like the detergent I chose. “An eighteen-year performance. Minimum. Maybe longer if they don't move out at eighteen.”
He stays with me for a while, his hand resting flat against my stomach.
It's a quiet, grounding gesture. His palm is massive, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, and I can almost feel the protective energy humming from him.
He's a protector by trade and by heart. He's a man who has spent his life pulling people out of buildings that were coming down, and now he's standing guard over something that has barely started.
When he finally has to leave for his shift, the goodbye takes longer than usual.
He kisses my forehead, then my nose, then my mouth, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he's trying to memorize the texture of this moment.
He doesn't say anything about being careful, he knows I'm a professional worrier, but I see it in the way he looks at me before the elevator doors slide shut.
He's already building a perimeter in his mind, checking the smoke detectors, calculating the safest route through the next nine months.
I return to my drawing table, the space I've carved out in this massive, industrial warehouse.
It's my favorite spot in the world. The morning light is perfect now, bright and unforgiving, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air.
My paintbrush tattoo catches the light as I pick up my stylus.
I should be working on the branding project for the boutique in the West Loop.
The client is expecting a mood board by noon.
I should be worrying about deadlines and deliverables and the specific shade of gold leaf for their business cards.
Instead, I open a new canvas. The white space is intimidating, but today it feels like an invitation. I start to sketch, the lines flowing with a fluid ease I haven't felt in weeks. I'm not drawing logos or layouts. I'm drawing a future that isn't a lie.
I draw Sterling, but not the hero in the turnout gear, not the version the world sees.
I draw the version only I know. I sketch him in his department jacket, his broad hands looking impossibly large and gentle as he cradles a tiny, bundled shape.
I spend a long time on the expression in his eyes, the soft, fierce devotion I saw in the kitchen.
I draw a miniature fire helmet perched precariously on a tuft of baby fuzz, a tiny tribute to the man who saves lives and the new life we've made.
I trace the lines of his face, the smile lines I know by heart, the scar on his forearm from a call three years ago.
My hand moves with a memory that has nothing to do with technical skill and everything to do with love.
I think about that morning six months ago.
The sound of the alarm that shattered my world.
The rotten-egg smell of the gas. The sheer, paralyzing panic of standing on the sidewalk with one bare foot and a screaming cat in a plastic carrier.
It was the worst morning of my life. It was the moment everything I'd built, my carefully curated apartment, my sense of control, my tidy, safe existence, was reduced to charcoal and grit.
But I look at the sketch on my screen, and it was also the first page of the only story that ever mattered.
The fire didn't just take my apartment; it burned away the scripts I'd been following, the performances I'd been giving to earn a love that was supposed to be unconditional.
It cleared the ground for something real.
Bowie jumps onto the edge of the table, his two different colored eyes glowing in the sun.
He looks at my sketch, then at me, his moon-pie eyes wide and judging.
He hasn't changed; he's still the same arrogant, demanding creature who survived the fire with his ego intact.
He lets out a sharp, entitled yowl, reminding me that while the world might be changing, the breakfast schedule remains sacred and he has yet to receive his wet food.
“I know, Bowie,” I whisper, reaching out to scratch him behind the ears. His fur is soft and warm from the sun. “Everything's different now. You're going to have to share the attention soon. I hope you're ready for a tiny human pulling on those ears.”
He leans into the touch, a grumpy purr vibrating through his frame. He's a survivor, too. We all are. We're the ones who stayed when the smoke cleared, the ones who found a way to build something solid on top of the ruins. We're a family of survivors.
I look toward the kitchen, at the two coffee mugs sitting on the counter.
One is full and cold, Sterling's, forgotten in the rush of the news.
The other is mine. It's a small, domestic image, but it's the most beautiful thing I've ever designed.
There's no performance here. No fake dating.
No high-stakes charade to please people who aren't in this room.
There are no red pens, no contracts, no pillow barriers.
There's just us. There's the man who chose to be my shelter and the woman who finally learned how to stop running from a house that wasn't on fire.
We're an arrangement that worked because it was built out of years of friendship and weeks of honesty.
We're a temporary fix that became a permanent foundation.
I pick up my coffee and take a sip. It's cold and bitter, but I don't mind.
The bitterness reminds me that life isn't always polished and perfect, and that's okay.
I'm already thinking about the next sketch, the one where the baby is older, wearing a tiny backpack, heading out into a world that is messy and dangerous and absolutely worth the risk.
I think about the blue notebook, the one where we wrote the rules.
No judging cereal choices. The bathroom schedule is sacred.
I think about adding a new one: No matter what happens, we stay.
But I don't need to write it down. I don't need a script anymore.
I don't need to perform for Sterling, and he doesn't need to perform for me. We are the real thing.
I look at the door where he just left, imagining him at the station, probably telling Jake and the guys, or maybe keeping it close to his chest for a few more hours, savoring the secret.
I know that whatever comes next, the morning sickness, the midnight feedings, the chaotic blend of two careers and a new life, we'll handle it with the same steady calm he used to lead me out of a burning building.
I look at the sketch, and then out at the skyline. Life might catch fire again. The ground might shift. But I am never standing on that curb by myself again, and in about seven months there is going to be somebody else in this loft who has never had to.
THE END
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