Epilogue 1
Willow
one year after the wedding.
The cabin smells like cinnamon and the lemon cleaner I used on the counters this morning.
I’m standing at the kitchen window with one hand braced on the small of my back and the other resting on the heavy curve of my stomach.
Eight months along and I feel every bit of it.
My feet are swollen, my balance is questionable at best, and I haven’t seen my ankles in weeks.
None of that matters when the baby shifts under my palm like he’s trying to remind me he’s in there.
Hudson comes in from the porch and stops the second he sees me. His eyes drop to my stomach, then to the way I’m holding myself, and that familiar protective look settles over his face.
“You’re supposed to be sitting down,” he says, already crossing the room.
“I was just looking outside. The swing looks nice with the new cushions.”
“The swing will still look nice if you’re sitting on it instead of standing here making your back hurt.” He moves behind me and puts both hands on my hips, steadying me like I might tip over. His chest is solid and warm against my shoulders. “Come on. Sit.”
I let him guide me to the big armchair we moved closer to the window last month so I could still see the trees. He waits until I’m settled before he crouches in front of me and rests both hands on my belly. The baby kicks hard enough that Hudson feels it and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“He’s active today.”
“He’s active every day. Especially at three in the morning when I’m trying to sleep.”
Hudson leans in and presses a kiss to the spot where the baby just moved. “He’s just making sure I know he’s ready to meet us. Aren’t you, buddy?”
The easy way he talks to our son still catches me off guard sometimes.
This man who once hunted monsters for a living now spends his mornings discussing baby names and whether we should put the crib under the window or closer to the door.
He already has opinions about everything.
The car seat. The stroller. The exact temperature the nursery needs to stay.
He treats my pregnancy like the most important mission he’s ever been given.
I reach down and run my fingers through his short blond hair. It’s a little longer than it was a year ago. Soft at the ends. He leans into the touch the way he always does.
“I was thinking about the bakery this morning,” I tell him. “About the night you walked in and said my real name like you’d been waiting to claim it.”
He looks up at me. “Yeah?”
“I was so scared. Of the people hunting me. Of the scars. Of letting anyone get close. And now look at me.” I glance down at my stomach and the simple gold band on my finger. “Married. Pregnant. Living in a house with both our names on it. I don’t even recognize that girl sometimes.”
“I do.” His voice is quiet and certain. “She’s the same woman who stood in this kitchen and showed me every scar she thought would make me walk away. She’s just not alone anymore.”
The baby kicks again, harder this time. Hudson stays right where he is, both hands spread over my stomach like he’s already protecting what’s his. I cover his hands with mine and let the quiet settle around us.
Outside, the porch swing moves gently in the breeze.
Inside, the cabin feels full in a way it never did when it was just a safe house.
There’s a bassinet already set up in the corner of our bedroom.
Tiny clothes folded in the dresser. A life that has nothing to do with running or hiding or looking over my shoulder.
I am heavily pregnant and slow and sometimes cranky from the heartburn and the restless nights. I am also happier than I have ever been in my life.
Hudson stays crouched in front of me until the baby settles. Then he stands, leans down, and kisses me soft and slow. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine.
"I love you," he says. "Both of you."
"I love you too."
He helps me up carefully and keeps an arm around my waist as we walk toward the couch.
I lean into him and feel the solid certainty of the life we've built.
No more temporary names. No more borrowed time.
Just this—my husband, our son, and the quiet knowledge that I stopped running the day I chose him and never looked back.
The cabin doesn't feel like a safe house anymore. It feels like home. And in a few weeks, when our son arrives, it will feel like abundance—like the kind of full that comes from choosing to stay, from building something real with someone who chose me first.