Epilogue
Cassie
One year later
The cabin smells like cardboard and printer ink, overlaid with the scent of coffee that Silas brewed an hour ago and the cinnamon-apple rolls I picked up from Joy's this morning. Outside, the mountain air is cool and crisp, carrying hints of woodsmoke from the first fires of the season. Boxes of my new book, Marshmallow Mayhem, are stacked in precarious towers across the floor, waiting to be hauled down for tomorrow’s Fall Festival.
"You need to write shorter books. These boxes are going to weigh a ton,” Silas mutters, slicing through packing tape with precision. His hair is longer now, brushing his collar, and he’s grown a beard that I’ve learned to love.
I laugh. “It’s a good thing I married a big, strong mountain man who can carry my books for me.”
He lifts the box with a grunt and carries it over to stack by the door with the others. “Between now and next year’s festival, let’s invest in a pack mule.”
“That would make an interesting pet,” I say with a grin.
Silas keeps working, and my heart does that flutter thing it still does every time I look at him. A year together, and he still makes my pulse race.
I lean back against the wall, resting a hand low on my stomach. The nerves are fizzing through me, mixing with excitement and fear and joy all tangled together. “I’m not sure we’ll have time to care for a new pet, though. We’re going to be pretty busy soon.”
He turns, those sharp eyes immediately finding mine. His brow furrows, reading something in my expression. "Cass?"
I take a breath. "We're having a baby."
The box he’s holding thuds to the floor, forgotten.
"You're—?" His voice cracks, goes rough and unsteady in a way I’ve never heard before. He crosses the room in three strides. "You’re sure?"
I nod, tears spilling hot and fast, happy tears I’ve been holding back all morning while I waited for the right moment. "I’m sure. Took three tests. Saw the doctor yesterday when I said I was going to the store."
His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away the tears even as his own eyes go suspiciously bright. "Cassiopeia Sinclair," he breathes. "You just made me the happiest man alive."
Then he’s kissing me—deep and thorough and full of everything he feels but doesn’t always know how to say. When he pulls back, he drops to his knees in front of me, his hands settling on my hips, his forehead pressing against my stomach.
"Hey there," he murmurs, and he’s talking to the baby. To our baby. "I’m your dad. I’m going to teach you how to build fires and track deer and find constellations on clear October nights.
And your mom—" His voice catches. "Your mom is going to teach you how to tell stories and see magic in ordinary things and be brave even when you’re scared. "
I thread my fingers through his hair, my own tears falling freely now. "We’re not finding out the sex until the baby gets here, by the way."
He looks up at me, eyebrows raised. "We’re not?”
My smile turns mischievous. "You know I love a good mystery."
He stands, pulling me into his arms, and we just stand there for a long moment, holding each other, the box towers leaning dangerously around us, festival prep completely forgotten.
Outside, leaves scuttle across the porch in the wind, bright golds and reds that match the warmth blooming in my chest.
"I love you."
"I love you too, Cass." His arm tightens around me. "Always will."
And standing there on the porch of the cabin where I fell in love, with autumn spilling across the mountains, a baby on the way, and a future stretching out before us, I realize something:
For the first time in my life, I’m not just writing the story.
I’m living it.
And life is the best mystery of all.