Epilogue #2
The words carry me back to the first time I touched him with the intention to help. He distrusted what he couldn’t see, yet somehow allowed me near the places he guarded most carefully. Now he is the person who brings me back to myself.
I kiss him once, softly enough not to disturb anything Ava and Chloe spent the morning arranging.
Rocco deepens the kiss anyway. His hand slides into my hair, stopping when he encounters the crown. “This is structurally unsound.”
I laugh against his mouth. “It survived Harper, Ava, Chloe, and me. It can survive you.”
“I’m the greater threat.”
“To the crown?”
His gaze lowers to my mouth. “Among other things.”
Heat curls through me, carrying a promise we cannot fulfill at this moment. No, not yet.
Rocco’s thumb brushes my cheek. His expression changes, becoming serious in the quiet way that reaches deeper than any dramatic declaration could.
“You’re certain?” he asks.
He isn’t asking whether I want the wedding. He knows I do. Rocco is asking whether I’m grounded, whether the decision belongs entirely to me, and whether the woman who sometimes knows things beyond explanation still chooses him without needing fate to make the choice for her.
“Yes.”
“Because you saw it?”
“No.” I touch his face. “I didn’t need to.”
Something powerful moves through his eyes. He kisses the center of my palm, then helps me stand.
Our ceremony takes place beneath a timber arbor draped in ivory fabric and greenery. Bronze lanterns line the aisle, surrounded by pumpkins, apples, and flowers in shades of burgundy and burnt orange. The mountains rise behind Rocco, dark and permanent beneath the autumn sky.
I walk toward him alone. Not because I have no one to give me away, but because I belong wholly to myself.
Rocco waits at the end of the aisle with the look of a man who understands the difference.
Chloe stands beside Jack in the front row. Harper and Ethan sit near Ava and Jake, a small snow globe resting on the empty chair between the couples because Harper could not wait until the reception to distribute them.
Other familiar faces fill the rows, people who have turned this mountain town into something larger than a location on a map. They have become the community I didn’t know I was seeking when I followed an inexplicable pull to an autumn festival.
When I reach Rocco, he takes both my hands.
“You look like the forest made you,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens. “That may be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
“I had a year to prepare.”
The ceremony is simple. We promise honesty, respect, and a life built with enough freedom for both of us to remain ourselves.
Rocco promises to listen when I know something I cannot prove.
I promise not to use the planets as supporting evidence during disagreements unless the planetary influence is particularly obvious.
Our guests laugh. Rocco doesn’t.
“I want that condition defined more precisely,” he says.
The officiant tells him it is too late to amend the vows.
When he slides the ring onto my finger, his hand remains steady. Mine trembles when I place his ring, not from uncertainty but from the magnitude of being known and chosen in front of everyone we love.
Then Rocco kisses me. Nothing about it is restrained.
The guests disappear. The mountains disappear. Even the laughter fades beneath the rush of his breath and the possessive hand spreading across my back.
When he finally releases me, Jack says something about the reception still needing a bride and groom.
The day becomes a collection of moments I will carry forever.
Ava’s spice cake tastes of apples, brown sugar, and enough cinnamon to make Jake point out that the recipe no longer technically qualifies as restrained.
Harper’s snow globes appear at every place setting.
Chloe allows herself one glass of champagne after confirming the final vendor has been paid.
Rocco dances with me beneath strands of lights as the sun disappears behind the mountains. Near the end of the song, my fingers brush the small weight inside his jacket pocket.
“You brought it.”
His eyes narrow. “Brought what?”
“The rose quartz.”
“That could be anything.”
“It has a distinctive energy.”
“It has a distinctive shape.”
“Because you’ve carried it for a year.”
He reaches into the pocket and places the stone in my hand. Its surface has become smooth from his touch.
“It doesn’t control anything,” he says.
“Of course not.”
“It doesn’t prevent danger or improve my judgment.”
“I agree.”
“I carry it because you gave it to me.”
I curl my fingers around the stone. “That’s how objects acquire meaning, Rocco.”
He considers this. “I’m still not charging it beneath the full moon.”
“We’ll revisit the issue next month.”
He smiles and kisses me again.
We leave after darkness settles over the venue. Our guests send us away beneath a shower of dried leaves and gold paper stars that cling to my hair, Rocco’s suit, and the floor of his truck.
The drive to our cabin takes fourteen minutes.
Our cabin.
The words still bring a quiet thrill even though we signed the papers three weeks ago.
The house sits on several wooded acres outside Cady Springs, close enough for me to reach the shop in fifteen minutes and far enough from neighboring properties to give Rocco the privacy he prefers. We chose it together.
I loved the wall of windows facing the mountains and the small room that will become my private studio. Rocco approved of the stone fireplace, reinforced doors, and clear view of the drive. The security system was installed before our furniture arrived.
Warm lights glow inside when we pull beneath the covered entry. Rocco carries me across the threshold despite pointing out that we have crossed it together at least twenty times.
“None of those counted,” he says.
“Why?”
“We weren’t married.”
“That sounds very sentimental.”
“Don’t mistake it for flexibility.”
The words take me back to a massage table beside a blocked emergency route and the first time I saw amusement break through his stern demeanor.
I wrap my arms around his neck. “I would never.”
He carries me into the bedroom. Candles wait to be lit along the dresser and wide stone hearth, their placement careful enough that I know he arranged them himself.
A new snow globe rests on the bedside table.
Inside it stands a miniature version of this cabin surrounded by autumn trees. Two tiny figures occupy the porch.
I turn the key beneath its base. Soft music fills the room.
“Harper said our real wedding gift was here.”
Rocco looks at the globe. “There are three figures.”
I lift it closer. He is right. The third is much smaller than the others, positioned between the couple on the porch.
“A dog?” I ask.
“No.”
“A child?”
Rocco examines it. “Harper is no longer permitted to predict our future through miniature sculpture.”
“She’ll be disappointed.”
“She’ll recover.”
He takes the globe from me and places it safely on the dresser. When he returns, his attention is fully on me. The laughter fades.
I feel the change between us, the deepening awareness that has only grown during the past year. We have learned each other through hurried mornings, long separations, disagreements, quiet evenings, and nights when desire becomes a language more honest than speech.
Rocco removes the crown from my hair and places it beside the snow globe.
“Still structurally sound,” I say.
“Barely.”
His fingers move through my hair, freeing the strands caught beneath the greenery. The gentleness of the task contrasts with the hunger in his eyes.
“We have nowhere else to be,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“No schedule, Rocco.”
“I turned off my phone.”
That surprises me enough to make me smile. “Voluntarily?”
“Grant has instructions not to contact me unless someone is dying.”
“How romantic.”
I slide my hands beneath his jacket and push it from his shoulders. The rose quartz remains in my palm. Rocco takes it from me and places it beside our rings on the bedside table. Then he returns to stand between my knees.
We begin with breath.
The practice once made him impatient because stillness required a different kind of control from the vigilance he understood. Now he relaxes into it with me. His gaze holds mine as our breathing falls into rhythm, each slow inhalation building awareness rather than releasing it.
His hands rest on my thighs through the embroidered fabric. Neither of us rushes.
I feel the warmth of his palms, the rise and fall of his chest, and the desire gathering between us. He lets me feel every stage of his restraint, not as distance, but as attention held so completely that nothing exists beyond the two of us.
When I reach for the buttons of his shirt, he catches my hand.
“Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
His eyes darken. “All of you.”
I understand.
I stop anticipating what comes next and allow myself to experience what is happening now. His thumb moving across my wrist. The pressure of his knees against mine. The pulse beating low in my body as he draws a slow breath and I follow. Only then does he release my hand.
I open his shirt one button at a time. He unfastens the hidden closures along the back of my dress with the patience of a man dismantling something intricate. The bodice loosens, and cool air moves across my skin before his hands replace it.
Rocco lowers his mouth to the center of my chest. The kiss is soft. The next is not.