Epilogue
Atlas
Seven months later
Itake the elevator up to oncology balancing two coffees in one hand and a paper bag of pastries in the other, texting Damien with my free thumb.
Me: grace demanded donuts again btw
Damien: thats because youre weak and she knows you’ll get them
Me: she threatened me emotionally
Damien: valid, honestly
I grin despite myself as the elevator doors slide open.
Some things never change. The hallway is quieter today than usual. A few nurses wave as I walk past.
“Morning, Atlas.”
“Hey, Maria.”
“How’s Grace’s favorite hockey player?”
“Still devastatingly handsome.”
Maria rolls her eyes. “Tell him I said hello.”
I stop outside Grace’s room and hear laughter before I even open the door. Not just Grace’s, but Damien’s. The sound instantly warms my chest.
I push the door open.
Damien sits cross-legged at the foot of Grace’s hospital bed while my mom leans back in one of the chairs beside the window, laughing at something he just said.
Grace spots me first. “Atlas!” she yells dramatically. “You’re late.”
“Just by three minutes.”
“Unacceptable.”
I finally look at Damien, and Christ…I still love looking at him.
He looks healthier now. The weight came back slowly over the past few months, after therapy and approximately forty-seven forced breakfasts from me.
His curls are longer now, softer around his face.
His eyes don’t look hunted anymore. There’s still sadness in them sometimes.
Therapy hasn’t magically erased years of trauma overnight.
But Damien laughs easier now.
Sleeps better.
Eats real food.
And most importantly, he lets people love him without apologizing for it constantly.
The change feels miraculous.
Damien glances up at me and smiles softly.
“I thought you had your foundation meeting,” I say as I drop the donuts on the table.
Damien’s expression shifts into something shy and proud all at once.
The foundation still does that to him. After the investigation ended and Damien was publicly cleared by the NHL, he started the Heart Initiative almost impulsively—a nonprofit helping survivors of trafficking and forced sex work access therapy, housing, legal aid, and education programs.
At first he wanted to stay anonymous. That lasted about six days before he started publicly speaking at events.
Watching Damien stand at podiums and tell terrified survivors that their lives are still worth something has genuinely changed me as a person.
He saves people now, and I think part of him is finally realizing that he deserves saving, too.
“The meeting ended early,” Damien says. “And I owed Grace money.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why do you owe my little sister money?”
Grace raises both hands proudly. “Fantasy hockey.”
I stare at her.
Then at Damien.
Then back at Grace.
“Absolutely not.”
Damien looks deeply unrepentant. “She made good picks.”
“You taught a cancer patient gambling?”
“Former cancer patient,” Grace corrects smugly.
Right. That.
Grace finished chemo two days ago. Every time I think about it, I feel like crying a little. She still has scans and appointments and long-term monitoring ahead, but today she looks bright and alive and wonderfully annoying.
A knock hums through the door as a shy voice says, “Uh, Grace? You home?”
A beautiful smile blooms across her face as she says, “Come in, Ryan!”
That would be fourteen-year-old Ryan from pediatric cardiology, with braces and curly dark hair and an expression that says he’s absolutely terrified of me. Apparently, they met during treatment. Apparently, they’re “dating.” Apparently, this is ruining my life.
Ryan comes in, dragging an IV pole beside him. He kisses Grace on the top of her head before sitting on her bed.
I point accusingly between them. “Still too young.”
Grace groans dramatically. “Oh my God.”
Ryan visibly tries not to laugh.
“You are children.”
“You literally fake-dated Damien before falling in love with him,” Grace shoots back immediately. “I don’t think you should be giving relationship advice.”
My mom bursts out laughing beside the window.
Even Damien looks offended.
“First of all,” he says calmly, “our relationship was built on emotional complexity.”
“It was built on unresolved sexual tension,” Grace replies instantly.
Ryan chokes on his spit.
I stare at my sister in betrayal. “Who tells you stuff like that?”
“Damien, mostly.”
“Why would you tell her that?”
“I didn’t! She just assumed!”
“Guys, I literally only watch daytime television. I know what sexual tension is.” Grace rolls her eyes.
Damien grins at me over Grace’s bed.
God, I love him.
Even now, I still get hit with it randomly—at grocery stores. at practices, in the middle of the night when he sleepily reaches for me in bed.
Love used to feel terrifying because it meant vulnerability. Now it feels like peace.
The afternoon passes slowly and perfectly after that. We play board games badly.
Grace cheats openly.
Ryan tries to defend her like a loyal little knight.
Damien keeps sneaking Grace extra snacks despite our mom repeatedly saying no sugar before dinner.
Eventually she gives up and starts helping him.
Traitors.
At one point I catch Damien watching Grace laugh at something Ryan whispered to her.
The expression on his face goes soft in that specific way it only does around people he loves.
Not guarded.
Not afraid.
Just warm.
He notices me looking at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“You’re handsome.”
Grace immediately fake gags, and Ryan turns bright red.
Damien rolls his eyes, but blushes anyway. After all this time, I can still make him blush.
Later, when visiting hours start winding down and Grace finally gets tired enough to stop bullying everybody, Damien helps her rearrange the blankets around her legs while my mom talks quietly with one of the nurses near the door.
“You coming tomorrow?” Grace asks him sleepily.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“If you stop financially exploiting me.”
Grace gasps dramatically. “I made twenty dollars.”
“You robbed me blind.”
Ryan snorts loudly.
Grace points at him. “See? He gets it.”
Damien leans down and kisses the top of her head. “I’ll come tomorrow.”
Something tightens painfully in my chest. Damien never had softness like this growing up. No safe family. No gentle affection. And yet somehow he still learned how to love people carefully.
I genuinely think that’s the bravest thing about him.
Eventually Damien and I say goodbye and head toward the elevators together. The hallway is quiet now. Warm evening light spills through the hospital windows while Damien walks beside me, carrying the leftover pastries because Grace insisted “the nurses deserve them.”
We step into the elevator. The doors slide shut and Damien leans against my side with a tired sigh.
“Long day?”
“Board games are emotionally exhausting.”
I laugh softly and wrap my arm around his waist. The elevator dings quietly at the lobby.
We walk toward the parking garage together.
Three weeks. That’s all that stands between Damien and the next NHL season.
The league fully cleared him months ago after the federal investigation concluded.
Public opinion flipped so aggressively afterward that Damien became one of the most beloved players in hockey.
People wear shirts with his foundation logo now.
Kids ask for his autograph outside arenas.
Survivors write him letters and every once in a while, usually late at night, Damien still looks stunned by all of it.
Like he spent so long believing he existed to be used that he still doesn’t fully understand why people love him just for being himself.
We reach my car. “So I’ll meet you at home?”
Three months ago we bought a place together just outside the city, with a big backyard, too many windows, and a bedroom downstairs specifically designed for Grace whenever her treatment finally ends completely.
Damien decorated it himself—soft green walls with string lights, lots of bookshelves, and a very expensive art desk.
“So.”
My eyes narrow. “That tone usually means trouble.”
He steps closer. “I was thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
Damien ignores me. “I’ll meet you at home?”
“Okay? I just said that.”
“Unless,” he says carefully, “we have time for a quickie in the back of your car.”
I stare at him, then burst out laughing.
Damien grins.
Seven months ago he barely believed he deserved love, and now he’s openly propositioning me in a hospital parking garage.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
“You’re obsessed with me,” I counter.
“That’s true.” Damien steps fully into my space then, his hands sliding beneath my jacket.
I pull him into a kiss. He laughs quietly against my mouth before kissing me back—deep, warm, and completely unashamed.
We really do kiss like lovesick teenagers.
Hopelessly.
Ridiculously.
Like the world ended once and somehow gave us another chance.
When we finally pull apart, Damien rests his forehead against mine, smiling softly. “I love you,” he murmurs.
The words no longer sound frightened when he says them.
I gently brush my thumb across his cheek. “I love you, too.”
Then I kiss him again in the middle of the parking garage, while our future waits for us somewhere beyond the hospital walls.