Epilogue
The sunlight was creeping through the curtains, painting gold across the sheets and warming the skin of my bare shoulder. I shifted slightly, body heavy with sleep but even heavier with the memory of his touch.
He was already awake.
I felt it before I opened my eyes—his chest pressed against my back, one hand low on my waist, his breath warm at the curve of my neck.
Still, I stayed still. There was something sacred about mornings like this.
When the house was quiet. When our daughter was still curled up in her own little world, and the only sound was Brooks's heartbeat against my spine.
His hand slid lower.
I didn't stop him.
My thighs parted instinctively, just enough to give him space. A soft sigh escaped my lips when his fingers brushed where I was already warm—lazy and slow, like he had nowhere to be and nothing else to do but make me feel good.
"Brooks," I whispered, voice still sleep-wrecked.
He didn't answer. He just kissed the top of my shoulder and kept going, the pads of his fingers stroking softly until my hips started to tilt back toward him, seeking more.
He pressed into me from behind, his other arm curling under my neck to hold me close. My body melted at the first push of him inside me, a gasp catching in my throat from the fullness of it.
I reached back, fingers brushing his thigh, grounding myself. His rhythm started gentle—more roll than thrust—each movement unhurried and devastating.
The sound of our breathing filled the room. Skin against skin. The occasional low moan slipping from his throat, barely audible but laced with something feral.
"Turn around," he rasped.
I did—slowly, clumsily. He pulled out just long enough for me to face him, my legs wrapping around his waist as he sunk back into me.
The shift in position stole my breath.
He was right there. Eyes on mine. Hands framing my face like I was something to be studied. Revered. Like he still couldn't believe I was his.
"Don't stop."
His mouth found mine again, lips warm and familiar. And then he was moving—slower than before, but deeper. I clung to him, arms around his shoulders, legs locked around his back. Every inch of me touching him. Every second building toward something I couldn't control.
The pressure built slowly. No rush. Just tension. His hips flexing, his fingers tightening in my hair. My name spilling from his lips like worship. And when it hit—when my body finally gave in and shattered around him—it was silent. Just a breathless cry and the feel of him holding me tighter.
He wasn't far behind
His jaw clenched, and his rhythm broke, stuttering as he buried his face in my neck and let go. The heat of it. The weight of his body. The sound he made—it sent chills down my spine.
And then it was just stillness.
Our bodies tangled. Skin damp. My heart still racing.
He didn't pull away. Just brushed his nose against my cheek and kissed me one more time, soft and slow.
"Good morning," he murmured.
I laughed quietly, still catching my breath. "That was your version of good morning?"
He grinned against my skin. "That was my version of not making you wake up Alina"
I hummed, content, legs still tangled around him. "You're getting thoughtful in your old age."
Brooks chuckled, eyes crinkling as he finally rolled onto his back and pulled me with him. I collapsed against his chest, my cheek pressed to his heart, his arms caging me in.
I closed my eyes again, letting myself breathe him in. The smell of cedar and cotton and skin. The safety of his arms. The softness of this house, this morning, this version of our life I never imagined I'd have—but never wanted to lose.
Because sometimes, loving him felt like this. Quiet. Sure. Complete.
His heartbeat had slowed, but his hand stayed on my back, tracing absent shapes across my spine like he couldn't stop touching me—even now. Especially now.
I kissed the center of his chest, right where the rhythm beat steady. He tightened his hold, just for a second, then loosened it with a sigh.
"You okay?" he asked, voice still low and scratchy from sleep... and everything else.
I nodded, cheek pressed to his chest. "Mmhm. Sore, though."
He smirked against my hair. "Good sore?"
I rolled my eyes. "Don't fish for compliments."
Brooks laughed and sat up, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn't just ruined me ten minutes ago. "Wanna shower?"
"Can you carry me"
He raised a brow. "You want me to?"
"I'm just joking," I said quickly, legs swinging off the bed. "You've done enough."
"Sure about that?"
I gave him a warning look over my shoulder, then stood to grab my shower cap from the nightstand. He came up behind me before I could even tie it, slipping his arms around my waist and pressing a kiss just below my ear.
"I love you," he murmured, voice softer now.
I paused, resting my hands on top of his. "I know."
He laughed quietly. "Don't wanna say it back?"
I turned in his arms, finally facing him. "I love you too."
And I meant it. Fully. There was no hesitation.
He kissed me again—just once. Barely a brush of lips. Then he stepped back, nodding toward the bathroom.
The contrast between us—the deep brown of my skin against the pale warmth of his—always struck me hardest in the mornings. When everything was quiet. When the only thing touching us was light.
He opened the shower door, turning on the water, and held his hand out to me.
I took it.
Inside, the water hit my shoulders first—hot, heavy, relaxing every muscle that still ached from him. I leaned into it, letting my eyes flutter shut.
Brooks moved behind me, not touching at first, just letting the water run over both of us. Then his hands slid around my waist, gentle and certain, pulling my back to his chest.
For a few seconds, we just stood there—water pouring down, his arms around me, my head tilted back against his shoulder.
He reached for the body wash and squeezed some into my net sponge, then started washing my back with slow, practiced circles.
I turned around to face him, hands sliding up his chest. He was flushed from the heat, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair was wet, pushed back, and his eyes were that soft morning brown I only ever saw before eight.
Hs leaned down, kissing me once—slow and warm, tasting like steam and mint from the toothpaste he'd used earlier. My fingers drifted to the nape of his neck, and for a moment we hovered there, teetering on the edge of something we absolutely didn't have time for.
He pulled back first. "Don't tempt me."
I laughed and finally reached for my washcloth from him while he washed his hair. The silence wasn't empty—it was comfortable. The kind that came from routine, from knowing exactly how someone moved around you.
When he was done, he tugged the shower door open and stepped out first, grabbing a towel and rubbing at his hair. I shut off the water and took the towel he held out for me.
He wrapped it around my shoulders like he always did. Like he couldn't help himself. Then he leaned down and kissed the side of my forehead.
"You go ahead and start your routine," he said quietly. "I'll get Alina up."
"You're doing her hair too?" I asked, drying my arms.
Brooks gave me the offended, dramatic look of a man who had spent two years perfecting a five-year-old's protective styles. "Of course."
I smiled. "My bad for asking I should've assumed."
I laughed as he tied his towel around his waist and headed for the closet to find something to slip on.
"Thank you, baby," I said before he walked out.
Then he slipped out, leaving me alone with the mirror and the quiet hum of the vent.
I took a breath, feeling that small, strange flutter in my chest again. Something delicate. Something I couldn't name yet.
It was a normal morning.
Ordinary, gentle, routine.
But somehow... I already felt different.
And I didn't know why.
Not yet.
By the time I came out of the bathroom, Brooks was halfway dressed—dark slacks, no shirt yet, just his watch on and his tie draped over his shoulder like it had been waiting on me too.
I padded across the room in my towel and pulled open my drawer, grabbing the first thing that made sense—a black long sleeve alo set.
Brooks glanced up from the mirror, where he was fixing his collar. "You headed to the salon?"
"Just for a little. I have to do payroll and check in with the staff. Might stop by the bank, too."
He nodded and came over, fixing the sleeve of my top like it bothered him more than it bothered me. "You want me to drop Alina off?"
I shook my head. "I got it. I'll already be out. I told her I'd make her breakfast today anyway."
He leaned down and kissed my cheek. "Monte's stopping by this morning. He's taking the truck to get serviced, and I think he left his sunglasses in the back seat."
I raised a brow. "That's very specific."
"He texted me at 6 a.m. about it."
I snorted. "He's so old."
"I'm trying to tell him to just enjoy being retired" Brooks said with a grin. "But I think he enjoys staying busy."
I rolled my eyes and stepped into the closet to grab a hoodie. "What are you working on today?"
He hesitated, then said casually, "We're trying to lock in the partnership with Harvard."
I froze for a beat, the hoodie halfway over my head. "I didn't know you were meeting with their board today"
He tilted his head. "We've been working on it for months. Timing just worked out perfectly."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I wanted to wait until it was for sure," he said simply. "We just finalized it yesterday."
I walked back over,, and wrapped my arms around his waist.
"That's amazing," I said against his chest. "Like... huge."
The Alina Initiative had started small—a few community grants, some seed funding from private donors. But now? It was national. It was respected and most importantly, it was his. Something he could pour into that wasn't politics. That wasn't about optics or polls or press.