Epilogue
Tatum
The hike up to our favorite spot is brutal.
Jasmine complains for the last half-mile, her little legs giving out every few steps, so Abel carries her on his shoulders for the final stretch.
I pretend to grumble about it, about her taking all of his attention for herself, but the truth is, watching them together undoes me every single time.
His large hands are steadying her tiny body. Her fingers are tangled in his hair. The way she giggles when he pretends to lose his balance. It’s the perfect picture.
We find our spot in no time. The same clearing where he’d made his first move on me, five years and a lifetime ago. The wildflowers are in full bloom, purple and yellow and white, and the moment we spread the blanket, Jasmine took off like a shot.
Now she’s across the meadow, a small blur in her pink sundress, both fists stuffed with flowers she’s been collecting for the past twenty minutes. I can hear her singing to herself—something about butterflies and peanut butter sandwiches—the words carried away by the gentle mountain breeze.
I lean back on my hands, watching her. The sun is warm on my shoulders, and the remains of our lunch are spread out around us. Abel is beside me, carefully packing empty containers into the basket.
“She’s going to give us those flowers,” I say, nodding toward our daughter. “And we’re going to have to put them in water and pretend they’re not half-dead. Five bucks says she eats a few of the petals.”
Abel glances up, follows my gaze, and then he snorts at my bet. He doesn’t accept, because we both know our daughter well enough. His expression softens in that way; it only does when he looks at those he loves. “They’ll go on the kitchen windowsill.”
“Where they’ll die by morning.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He twists the lid back onto a container. “She picked them for us.”
I look at him, really taking him in. The gray has started threading through his hair at the temples, and there are new lines around his eyes from years of smiling more than he used to. He’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
“What?” He catches me staring, one eyebrow lifting.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, smiling. “Just thinking about how tired she’s going to be once we get back. Exhausted enough for a long nap.”
“Please tell me you are suggesting what I think you are.”
I grin, unable to help myself. “Uninterrupted reruns of our favorite show?”
He scoffs and leans closer like his next words are a secret. “How about you watch the show, and I find my own way to entertain myself?”
Across the meadow, Jasmine shrieks with delight—she’s found a moth that she’ll insist is a butterfly, or maybe just a particularly exciting dandelion.
It’s a mystery how she doesn’t have another sibling by now. That could change if today runs the way we’re both thinking.
“I like the way you think. Though I don’t want another repeat of last time.”
He laughs, knowing well enough that he’d gotten distracted enough in my drama to forget about finishing what he’d started. It was a good thing that I was engrossed, too.
His free hand comes up, cups my jaw. His thumb traces my cheekbone, feather-light. “I love you,” he says.
I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
When I open them, he’s still watching me, still present, still here in a way he wasn’t when we first met.
The cabin isn’t quiet anymore. It hasn’t been for years.
It’s filled with crayon drawings on the refrigerator, tiny shoes by the door, and the sound of Jasmine’s laughter echoing off the walls.
He ditched his quiet environment for us, and he’s never been happier.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
He leans in, and the kiss is soft at first. His lips are warm, taste like the lemonade we packed for Jasmine.
It deepens, just slightly, his hand sliding into my hair. For a moment, the meadow disappears. The picnic, the flowers, even our daughter’s singing—it all fades, and there’s only him. Only us.
“Mom!”
We break apart, laughing softly. Jasmine is running toward us, her pink sundress flying behind her, flowers clutched in both fists like treasures. Her dark curls bounce with every step.
Abel’s hand finds my knee and squeezes it once.
I look at him. At her. At the mountain that’s been our home for five incredible years.
“Ready?” he asks quietly.
I know what he means. Ready for the chaos. The beautiful, wonderful destruction of our quiet life.
I smile, and it feels like coming home.
“Always.”