Epilogue
two years later
The last box lands on the hardwood with a thump that echoes through the empty house.
Our house.
I stand in the middle of the living room, hands on my hips, breathing in the scent of new walls and fresh paint and the faint trace of George’s cologne drifting in from somewhere down the hall.
I can’t believe it’s been over two years since everything started.
Two years since the letters, the hospital, meeting him…
My chest warms just thinking about it.
“You good in there?” George calls from the entryway.
“More than good,” I call back, smiling as I peel a piece of tape off my sleeve. “Everything is fantastic.”
He laughs. A low, warm sound that still hits me in the spine. “That’s because you haven’t seen the kitchen yet.”
“What’s in the kitchen?”
“No idea, but you should go check.”
I wipe my hands on my leggings and head toward the kitchen, stepping around the maze of boxes. Light pours in through the huge windows, hitting the countertops we agonized over choosing, making the space look like something out of a home magazine.
And then I see it.
A letter and a tiny blue box. Both were sitting at the center of the counter. My heart immediately tries to escape my body.
“George?” I call softly.
No answer.
I pick up the letter first.
My name is written in his handwriting. The same handwriting that once came in envelopes postmarked from another world. My fingers tremble as I open it. His voice floods the page.
Mia,
From the moment you opened that first letter of mine, you changed the direction of my life.
This home is the first place I’ve ever wanted to grow old. And it’s because you’re in it. I don’t want another day without calling you, my family.
My partner.
My always.
Now, open the box.
— George
My breath catches hard, and my vision goes blurry. I open the small white box with shaking fingers, and there it is.
A ring.
A simple, beautiful, gold band with a diamond that catches the morning light and scatters it across the counter.
I press a hand to my mouth, tears stinging in my eyes.
I can feel him behind me. He steps close—close enough for his chest to warm my back, close enough for his breath to brush my shoulder.
“Mia,” he murmurs.
I turn as he drops to one knee.
The air leaves my lungs entirely. He takes my free hand gently, his thumb brushing the inside of my wrist as if he’s memorizing the moment.
“Marry me,” he says softly. “Be my wife. Be my home. Let me spend the rest of my life loving you in every way I never thought I’d get the chance to.”
I’m crying.
Like actually crying.
I laugh through it, nodding too hard, trying to breathe and failing spectacularly.
“Yes,” I whisper. Then louder. “Yes.”
He exhales like I just saved his life. He stands, cups my face in both hands, and kisses me… slow, deep, and perfect. The kind of kiss that feels like an answer to every question we never asked. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“We’re really doing this,” I murmur.
“Oh, we’re doing more than this,” he says, voice dropping, eyes dark with that hunger he never bothers to hide anymore. “We need to properly christen the place.”
I blink up at him, breath catching. “George—”
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my leggings and pulls them until they slide down my hips. Heat floods through me instantly.
“George,” I whisper again, but it sounds more like a plea than a protest.
“Come here,” he murmurs, lifting me effortlessly by the waist and setting me on the counter, exactly where the letter had been minutes before. “I want the first memory in this kitchen to be you.”
We both laugh as he settles me on the counter.
His hands slide to my thighs, spreading them wide, opening me completely to his gaze. His mouth trails down my body, heating my skin everywhere it touches.
He kisses my inner thigh, slowly, hungrily, claiming me with his mouth. I gasp, fingers threading into his hair. His breath is warm, and the anticipation almost too much to hold inside my ribs.
“God, look at you,” he says, voice low and full with want as his thumb brushes my clit. I gasp. “My fiancée.”
My whole body lights up at the words, and at his touch.
When he finally settles between my legs, hands gripping my thighs hard enough to leave bruises, I watch his face as he lowers his mouth to me. When his tongue finds me, I cry out.
The way he's looking at me is like I'm his, like he owns every part of me.
“Fuck, yes, George—” My head tips back. My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling.
“Say it,” he murmurs against me, the vibration sending another jolt through me. “Let the whole house hear you. Let everyone know who you belong to.”
“Oh, God. Fuck— you… I belong to you—”
His tongue traces my clit in firm, long strokes, then dips inside me, while his thumb circles above. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I can't think, and I can't breathe.
My hips rock against his face, and he lets me. His hands grip my thighs to anchor me, pulling me harder against his mouth, as I chase the pleasure building inside me, and I'm completely wrecked by the intensity of it.
“George, fuck, I'm so close—”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “I know, sweetheart. Keep riding my face, just like that.”
He lowers his head again, and this time, I don’t stop. I keep rocking my hips, and I can feel his tongue everywhere at once. When his teeth graze my clit softly, it's the final push.
The orgasm hits, and it rushes through me in a sharp, overwhelming wave. My entire body arches off the kitchen counter, and my legs tremble around his head. His hands hold me steady while I fall apart for him, completely undone.
“That's my fiancée,” he murmurs, still working me through it, enjoying every last pulse of pleasure from my body.
When I finally come down, gasping and shattered, he rises slowly, kissing my stomach, my ribs, my breasts. He takes a nipple into his mouth, through the fabric, biting gently, and I whimper at the sensitivity.
“I love you,” I whisper, and the words feel inadequate for what I'm feeling.
“I love you too,” he says, and presses his forehead to mine. Both of us are breathless, leaning into each other like gravity works differently now. Like the world has shifted and reset around us.
I can feel his cock is hard against my thigh through his sweatpants. I can feel the heat and weight of him there, but he's not rushing. He's just holding me, letting me come back to myself, his hand stroking my hair gently.
“Fuck, you're perfect, I can’t believe you are mine,” he says as he lowers his pants, freeing himself and positioning himself at my entrance, teasing me.
I'm still trembling when he pushes inside slowly.
I gasp at the stretch of him filling me.
For a moment, he just stays there, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed against mine.
He kisses me, and I kiss him back with everything I have, my fingers digging into his shoulders, his neck, anchoring myself to him as he slides into me.
His tongue tastes like me, like us, and I'm completely lost in the sensation of him.
“Don't stop. Please don't stop,” I whimper as he sets his rhythm.
He grips my ass, pulling me closer to the edge of the counter, changing the angle so he's hitting even deeper.
The new position has me crying out, my head tilting back, but he follows me, kissing my throat, my jaw, my mouth again.
His tongue moves with mine in a rhythm that matches his thrusts, and it's overwhelming in the best way possible.
My legs tighten around his waist as the pressure builds inside me.
“Look at me,” he commands in the sweetest way, and I do. I look at him while he thrusts deeper. He reaches between us and his thumb finds my clit, pressing hard, rubbing in firm circles on it. “Fuck. You feel incredible.”
That’s when he hits that perfect spot deep inside that makes my vision blur.
“Fuck George, I—” He kisses me, deep and hungry, and that’s when the orgasm rushes through me. I break the kiss to scream his name, my entire body convulsing around him, my nails raking down his back. He groans, and his thrusts become erratic.
He kisses me again, deep and desperate, his hips slamming into me harder as he gets close.
I can feel him swelling inside me, can feel the tension in his body.
He buries himself deep inside me one last time, and I feel him pulsing, coming hard, his forehead dropping to mine as he shudders through his release.
For a moment, we just stay like that, both of us breathless and completely wrecked. His hands come up to cradle my face, and he kisses me softly, tenderly, a stark contrast to the filthy intensity of moments before.
“I love you, Mia. Thank you for saying yes to be my wife,” he whispers.
“Oh, George. I love you too,” I breathe, my fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, not ready to let go. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes soft and full of devotion, his thumb brushing away a bead of sweat from my temple.
“Welcome to our home, sweetheart,” he whispers.
My heart opens so wide it almost hurts.