Epilogue One Year Later - Cam
Chapter forty
Sunlight spills across the bed, pale and lazy, catching on the small, ordinary things that make a place a home.
Our home.
I stretch, joints loose, body rested in a way that still surprises me sometimes.
I pad out of the bedroom barefoot.
She’s perched at the counter, one knee tucked up, pajama shorts and one of my old sweatshirts hanging off her shoulder. Hair in a messy bun that’s doing its best. A legal pad open in front of her, already half-full of lyrics. Coffee beside her, steam curling up into the air above it.
She looks up when she hears me.
Smiles.
Bright. Warm. The kind that hits me square in the chest and never really leaves.
“Morning, husband.”
That word used to scare the heck out of me.
Contracts. Expectations. Something I could screw up.
Now it steadies me. Like a hand on my back before a snap.
“Morning, superstar,” I say, leaning down to kiss her temple.
She smells like vanilla and coffee and sleep. Familiar and mine.
I linger a second longer than necessary. She hums, distracted, already half back in her head with the song.
I watch her breathe.
Easy. Even.
A quiet pride settles in my chest, heavy and good.
She hasn’t fainted in months.
Her doctor used the word stabilized. Her team said healed.
I use a simpler one.
Safe.
She taps her pencil against the page, frowns at a line, then crosses it out with dramatic flair. I smile to myself.
This is the stuff no one puts on a highlight reel.
Sunlight. Coffee. A woman in my sweatshirt writing songs that don’t hurt her to sing.
Life, ordinary and precious.
She slides a mug toward me without looking up.
Black coffee. One teaspoon of honey already melted in.
Exactly how I like it.
I take it and lean against the counter, close enough that our hips brush. Easy. Unthinking.
“Walk-through today?” she asks, pencil still moving.
“Playoffs tomorrow.”
She grins, finally glancing up. It’s playful. Proud.
“You ready to win it for me?”
I huff a soft laugh and take a sip. Perfect.
“For you?” I say. “Always.”
She nudges my knee with hers, pleased in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable. Then she gestures to the notebook.
“And my tour team sent updated plans,” she adds. “They think I can add three more stadium dates.”
I lift a brow. “You okay with that?”
She nods. No hesitation. No tightness around the eyes.
“Yeah. Fan surveys came back. Apparently I seem ‘happy’ and ‘supported.’”
She makes air quotes, teasing.
A year ago, crowds swarmed her like they were trying to rescue something fragile. Like they sensed fear and wanted to fix it, or consume it, or both.
Now it’s different.
Now they respond to her joy instead of her vulnerability.
She’s not frightened anymore.
She’s shining.
I watch her scribble another line, humming softly to herself. The sound threads through the kitchen, light as breath.
“You excited?” I ask.
She nods again. “I like touring now,” she says simply. “It doesn’t feel like surviving anymore.”
I reach out and brush my thumb over her knee, grounding myself in the moment. She glances at me, smiles, then goes back to her lyrics.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Once.
I glance down and freeze.
Evelyn Sterling — ERS.
Lila notices immediately.
“Everything okay?” she asks, voice calm but attentive.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, thumb hovering as I open the message. “I think so.”
I read the message twice.
Then a third time, slower, like if I rush it the words might disappear.
Congratulations on the playoffs. And on your first anniversary.
P.S. If any teammates need future support, you know where to send them.
Lila leans over, peeking at my phone without crowding me.
“Evelyn?” she asks.
I nod and press a kiss to her knuckles.
A quiet thank-you. For believing me when it wasn’t convenient. For staying when it would’ve been easier not to.
A lot of my sponsors bailed at the beginning.
After the lawsuit collapsed, it took time. Silence. Weeks where nothing happened and I learned how to live with that.
Then the calls came back.
Invitations followed. My name stopped being whispered like a liability.
I got my reputation back.
More than that—
I got myself back.
“And Reid hasn’t posted anything about you in months,” I add, glancing up at her.
She blinks.
“Not since you talked to him,” she says carefully. Then she squints at me. “I still think you probably threatened him within an inch of his life.”
A corner of my mouth lifts.
“You could call it a conversation,” I say. “I would call it clarifying.”
She snorts, shaking her head.
I don’t tell her about the way Reid’s face drained of color when I showed up. Calm. Polite. Unmoving. Six-foot-three of quiet certainty making it clear that the smear campaign would end immediately.
Lila turns back to her notebook, humming softly. The sun catches the simple gold band on her finger.
She chose it herself. Delicate. Unflashy. Worn every day without fail.
I watch her for a second too long.
She feels it.
“What?” she asks, glancing up, cheeks flushing just a little.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Which isn’t true.
The truth is, I remember the first night she asked me to sleep nearby because she didn’t feel safe. I remember holding my breath every time she faltered in public. I remember thinking I couldn’t be what she needed.
And now she’s here. In my sweatshirt. Humming. At ease.
“I didn’t know life could feel like this,” I admit.
She sets her pencil down and stands, stepping into my space. Her arms wrap around me, easy and familiar.
“This is my favorite part,” she whispers. “Being home with you.”