Epilogue – Demi
Three Years Later
The fire pops softly, sending a small shower of sparks up the chimney, and I shift my weight against the counter, one hand resting absently on the curve of my belly.
Joseph moves behind me, his hand settling briefly at my waist as he reaches past me for the cutting board. He presses a kiss to my temple before stepping away, and I smile into the warmth of the cabin.
"You need to sit," he says, glancing at me over his shoulder as he sets the board on the counter. "You've been on your feet too long."
"I'm fine."
"Demi."
I turn to look at him, and his expression is patient but firm, the same look he gives me when I try to carry too much firewood or insist on shoveling the path myself.
"Okay, okay," I concede, moving toward the couch. "But only because you asked nicely."
He shakes his head, smiling, and I settle onto the couch with a sigh of relief I don't want to admit he was right about. My back has been aching all afternoon, and sitting feels better than I expected. I watch him move around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients.
"Do you remember the first time you cooked for me?" I ask, resting my head against the back of the couch.
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. "You mean the night you showed up uninvited and refused to leave?"
"I had a reservation."
He huffs a quiet laugh, and I see the corner of his mouth lift. "Yeah. I remember."
"You made chicken. With lemon butter."
"And you told me it was 'just chicken.'"
"You said it was just chicken. I said it was fancy."
"You were right."
I grin, pulling the blanket over my lap. "I usually am."
He doesn't argue, just shakes his head and goes back to chopping vegetables. The sound of the knife against the board is rhythmic and soothing, and I let myself just watch him for a moment.
"Happy Valentine's Day, by the way," I say, and he pauses, looking up at me with something soft in his expression.
"Yeah. You too."
"I still can't believe you almost slept on this terrible couch," I tease.
"I offered. You refused."
"Because you would've been miserable."
He sets the knife down and crosses to the couch, sitting beside me and pulling my legs into his lap. His hands are warm as they settle on my calves, and I sigh at the contact.
I feel the baby shift inside me, a small, insistent flutter that makes me press my free hand to my stomach.
Joseph notices immediately. "Again?"
"Yeah. Active today."
His hand moves to join mine, pressing gently against the curve of my belly, and we wait. After a moment, there's another flutter, and I see his expression soften.
"Strong," he murmurs.
"Takes after you."
"Let's hope not. I was a pain in the ass as a kid."
I laugh. "I'm sure you were perfectly well-behaved."
"Ask my mother sometime."
"I will."
He smiles, and his thumb strokes absently across my stomach. "Do you think we're ready?" he asks, and there's something vulnerable in the question, something that reminds me of the man who once pulled away from a kiss because he was too afraid to let himself want it.
"I think we're as ready as anyone is," I say honestly. "Which is to say, probably not. But we'll figure it out."
"What if I'm too strict? Too protective?"
"You won't be."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually." I squeeze his hand. "You're careful, Joseph. Not controlling. There's a difference. You'll teach them to be safe without making them afraid. You'll show them how to be strong without being hard."
He's quiet for a moment, processing that. "And you'll teach them to take up space," he says finally. "To be loud and stubborn and unapologetic."
"Damn right I will."
He laughs, and the sound fills the cabin in a way that still makes my chest ache.
We stay like that, his hand on my stomach, mine over his, and I let myself imagine it—Joseph carrying a bundled baby outside to show them the stars, his voice low and patient as he points out constellations.
Me standing in the doorway with a mug of tea, watching them, feeling the same warmth I feel now.
Eventually Joseph gets up to check on the food, stirring and tasting and adjusting the seasoning. When he's done, he moves behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders, kneading gently.
"You're tense," he murmurs.
"Long day."
"Come here."
He pulls me up gently, guiding me toward the couch, and I go willingly. We settle together, his arms around me, my back against his chest, and I feel the tension start to melt away. His hand moves to my stomach again, and I cover it with mine.
"I love you," I say quietly.
"I love you too."
Joseph's hand slides up my side slowly and I turn in his arms to face him. His eyes are dark, intent, and I see the desire there.
I kiss him, slow and deep, and his hands move over my body with a reverence that hasn't faded. If anything, it's deepened. He touches me like I'm precious, like every curve and soft edge is something to be cherished.
We move together, unhurried, and when he pulls me closer, I feel the certainty of being wanted.
"I'm glad I got stranded here," I say softly.
"So am I."
Thank you for reading!