Epilogue
Rory
two months later
The Devil’s Bean smells like espresso, toasted coconut milk, and freshy, buttery croissants.
It’s a light rush—not dead, not slammed—the kind of morning where people linger instead of grab and go. Spring snow dusts the windows, sunlight refracts off the counter, and my favorite chipped mug sits behind the register like it belongs there. Like I do.
I’m steaming milk when the first note hits the speakers.
A low, gravelly hum. Warm. Familiar.
I freeze.
Ray LaMontagne croons through the shop, You are the best thing…
and my shoulders tighten instinctively. That song is sacred.
Private. Mine. It’s the song I only play when I’m closing alone or cleaning the espresso machine after midnight, when the lights are low and my heart feels too full for a Tuesday.
I scowl at the tablet mounted by the register. “Who messed with my playlist?”
A couple at the corner table snickers. Someone at the bar shrugs. No one confesses.
Then I feel it.
That prickle at the back of my neck. That awareness I’ve learned not to name.
Dax.
He’s leaning against the counter like he always does, broad shoulders filling out his jacket, hair still damp from snow. He’s pretending very hard to be normal. Which means he’s up to something.
“What?” he says, innocence poorly disguised. “You don’t like good music?”
“That song is not for public consumption,” I tell him, sliding a latte across the counter. “It’s an emotional liability.”
He grins. Slow. Dangerous. “Noted.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did you touch my playlist?”
He raises both hands. “Wouldn’t dare.”
Liar.
I turn back to the espresso machine, trying to ignore the way my heart kicks every time the chorus swells. I’m pouring coconut milk when he clears his throat.
“I’ll take a coffee.”
“You already have one.”
“I know.”
I glance over. “You planning to bathe in caffeine today?”
“Possibly.” He sets another cup on the counter. “Black.”
I make it. Slide it to him.
He doesn’t take it.
Instead, he turns the cup so the sleeve faces me.
Written in thick black Sharpie is one word.
Red.
I blink.
My mouth opens. Closes.
I look up at him. He’s watching me closely now. No grin. No joke. Just that steady, intent focus he gets on calls when something matters.
“Cute,” I say weakly. “You’re practicing your handwriting.”
He nods toward the espresso machine. “Another.”
My pulse ticks up. “Dax—”
“Please.”
I swallow and make another coffee. This time my hand shakes just a little when I set it down.
He rotates the cup.
I’ve
The song swells behind us. We’ve come a long way, baby…
My chest tightens.
A customer gasps quietly. Someone whispers, “Oh.”
I stare at the cup, then at Dax. “What are you doing?”
“Ordering coffee,” he says easily. “Thought that was allowed.”
“You’re being weird.”
“Been accused of worse.”
Another cup. My fingers feel clumsy now. I almost slosh coffee over the rim.
He turns it.
Loved
My breath catches hard enough that I have to lean against the counter.
“Oh my God,” someone murmurs.
I shake my head. “Dax, stop.”
He doesn’t.
Another cup.
You
The shop has gone silent. Even the espresso machine seems to know better than to hiss right now.
My heart is pounding so loud I swear the speakers will pick it up.
I whisper, “Dax.”
He steps closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough that I feel the heat of him. The certainty.
“Another,” he says.
I grab a cup without looking. Pour. Slide it across.
Forever
“One more,” he orders.
He takes the empty cup from my hands.
But he doesn’t write anything this time.
He just reaches into his jacket pocket and gently drops something inside.
Then he pushes the cup toward me.
I stare down.
Nestled at the bottom, catching the light like it was meant to live there, is a ring.
For a split second, the world tilts.
Then my hand flies to my mouth and I make a sound that is half laugh, half sob.
Someone gasps. Loud.
I drop the carton of coconut milk I’ve been holding. It hits the floor and explodes, white splashing everywhere. I don’t even care.
The song crescendos. You are the best thing…
Dax’s voice cuts through everything. Low. Steady.
“I got tired of waiting for the right moment,” he says. “Turns out it was every morning at this counter.”
I look up at him through tears. He’s not kneeling. He doesn’t need to. His eyes are shining, jaw tight like he’s holding himself together with sheer will.
“Rory Sullivan,” he says. “Will you marry me?”
I nod so hard my neck aches. “Yes. Oh my God, yes.”
Applause erupts. Someone cheers. Someone else starts crying—pretty sure it’s not me this time.
Dax is across the counter in a heartbeat. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, coconut milk be damned, and kisses me hard—mouth hot, sure, claiming. My hands fist in his jacket as the shop spins.
Right on cue, the front door bursts open.
The entire firehouse pours in.
Helmets. Grins. Thunderous applause.
“About time!” Someone yells.
Ash starts clapping wildly off-beat. Someone whoops. Someone whistles.
I laugh into Dax’s mouth, tears still spilling, and think distantly that I will be finding coconut milk in the grout for weeks.
I don’t care.
He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to mine. “You okay, Red?”
I laugh. Sob. Nod. “I’m perfect.”
He smiles like he just won everything.
And standing there, in my wrecked coffee shop, ring warm on my finger, surrounded by noise and love and found family, I know that this is the best thing.