Epilogue - Garrett
The smell of sourdough batter hits the griddle with a perfect sizzle, and I can't help but grin.
Three months of Sunday mornings like this, and I still get that same kick of satisfaction watching the pancakes bubble and rise.
It's the little things—the routine, the normalcy, the way Sloane hums while she works at the kitchen table behind me—that make this feel real.
Real in a way that our secret stolen moments never could.
I flip the first pancake with perfect timing, then glance over my shoulder.
Sloane sits cross-legged in one of my old hockey t-shirts, laptop balanced on her knees, completely absorbed in whatever she's reading.
Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, and there's this little crease between her eyebrows that appears when she's deep in concentration.
God, I love that crease.
"How's the program looking?" I ask, sliding the golden pancake onto the growing stack.
She looks up, and that brilliant smile that's mine now—completely mine, no hiding, no apologies—lights up her face. "Maya's group had twelve girls show up yesterday for the financial literacy workshop. Twelve, Garrett. We started with three."
The pride in her voice does something to my chest, makes it tight and warm and full. "That's incredible."
"The community center director called this morning.
They want to expand the program to include career mentorship.
Apparently, half the girls are asking about marketing and business development after hearing me talk about strategic planning.
" She laughs, shaking her head. "Who knew that explaining market analysis could be inspiring to teenagers? "
I pour more batter onto the griddle, letting the comfortable domestic rhythm settle around us.
This is what I never knew I was missing—not just Sloane, but this version of us.
The easy Sunday morning conversations about her work, the way she gets excited about connecting with those kids, how natural it feels to support her while she changes the world one strategic partnership at a time.
"I knew," I say quietly.
"Knew what?"
I turn to face her fully, spatula still in hand. "That you'd be incredible at this. That you'd take something everyone else saw as a consolation prize and turn it into exactly what you wanted to build."
The way she looks at me in that moment—soft and grateful and completely unguarded—reminds me why I was willing to walk away from everything rather than let anyone dim that fire.
She fought for this. Fought Easton, fought Vivian, fought for the right to have both her career and me.
And now she's sitting in our kitchen in my t-shirt, revolutionizing youth programming like it's the most natural thing in the world.
She's not my redemption story. She's not the prize I won for finally growing up.
She's my partner. My equal. The woman who sees my protective instincts for what they really are—love, not ownership—and lets me take care of her because she knows the difference.
"Come here," she says softly, setting the laptop aside.
I abandon the pancakes without hesitation, crossing to her in three quick strides. She reaches up as I lean down, her hands framing my face as I kiss her slow and deep. It tastes like coffee and contentment and the promise of a thousand more Sunday mornings exactly like this one.
When we break apart, she keeps her forehead pressed to mine. "I love you," she whispers. "I love this. I love that we don't have to hide anymore."
"Best decision I ever made," I murmur against her lips. "Going public."
She laughs. "Best decision we ever made."
We. Us. Together.
The words still give me that same rush they did three months ago when she stood in front of Kowalski and half the team brass and announced that she was keeping both her job and her relationship, and anyone who had a problem with that could take it up with her directly.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I'm about to ignore it when Sloane's starts ringing too. She frowns, reaching for it.
"It's Brynn," she says, glancing at me before answering and putting it on speaker. "Hey, what's—"
"Sloane, you're not going to believe the nightmare assignment I just got." Brynn's voice is sharp with fury, but there's something raw underneath it. "Two weeks shadowing Zac fucking Torres for an in-depth profile. Two weeks with the man who seems to enjoy destroying people."
I watch Sloane's face change, recognition and concern flickering across her features.
"Oh no," Sloane breathes. "Brynn—"
"I can't do this. Not with him. Not after—" Brynn's voice cracks, then hardens again. "God, I have to go. I need to figure out how to get through this without committing murder."
The line goes dead, leaving us in sudden silence.
Sloane sets the phone down slowly, her expression troubled. I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist.
"That sounded complicated," I murmur against her hair.
"Very," she says quietly, then turns in my arms to face me. "But that's their mess to sort out. Right now, I'm more interested in our pancakes."
The smile she gives me is soft and real, pushing away the shadow of our friends' drama. I kiss her forehead, then her nose, then her lips, tasting coffee and contentment.
"Our pancakes are probably burned," I tell her.
"Then make new ones," she says, pulling me down for another kiss. "We have all morning."
And we do. Here in our kitchen, with Sunday sunshine streaming through the windows and nothing to hide, we have all the time in the world.
"I love our life," I tell her, and mean it completely.
"Me too," she says, kissing me again. "Me too."
THE END
Thank you for spending your time with Sloane and Garrett. Writing their story was a joy, and I hope you loved reading it.