Epilogue 2
Rhys
eight years after our wedding
I’m sitting on the porch steps of the cabin with a cup of coffee, watching the early light move across the trees, when the back door slams open and my oldest comes tearing around the corner of the house.
Jake is seven, all scraped knees and wild energy, and he’s already yelling something about a frog he found near the dock.
Behind him our daughter, Ellie, follows at a more careful pace.
She’s five, quieter than her brother, with her mother’s dark curls and the same stubborn set to her mouth when she concentrates.
Willow comes out last, barefoot, one of my old flannels thrown over a soft tank top, hair still messy from sleep.
She’s carrying two juice boxes and the kind of patient expression that only comes from years of wrangling small humans before breakfast. When she sees me watching, she smiles, soft and a little tired, and the same thing happens in my chest that has happened every single day since the night I put my ring on her finger.
She’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Jake skids to a stop in front of me and holds up a very unhappy frog. “Dad, look. Can we keep him?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Put him back where you found him. He’s got a family too.”
Ellie climbs into my lap without asking and leans her head against my chest like it’s the most natural seat in the world. I wrap an arm around her and press a kiss to the top of her curls. She smells like the lavender shampoo Willow insists on and the outdoors.
Willow hands out the juice boxes and then settles on the step beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. I shift Ellie so I can slide my free arm around my wife’s waist and pull her in. She comes easily, the way she always has.
“You’re up early,” she says.
“Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about the addition.”
We’ve been talking about expanding the cabin for months.
Another bedroom. A bigger kitchen. Space for the kids to grow without tripping over each other every time it rains.
Willow wants a real pantry. I want a mudroom so the constant trail of dirt and leaves stays outside.
Both of us want the kind of house that can hold everything we’ve built.
Jake returns from the dock empty-handed and immediately starts negotiating for pancakes.
Ellie stays quiet in my lap, content to watch the trees the way her mother does.
I look at the three of them—my wife, my son, my daughter—and feel the same fierce certainty I felt the night I came back bloodied and told Willow she was mine.
I meant it then.
I mean it more now.
Willow rests her hand on my thigh and gives it a small squeeze. I cover her hand with mine and lace our fingers together. Her gold band sits next to the simple diamond I gave her on this same porch. Both rings are scratched and worn from eight years of real life. I like them better that way.
“Pancakes it is,” she says, already standing. “But you’re flipping them. Last time I did it, Jake said they looked like frisbees.”
Jake grins and races inside. Ellie slides off my lap and follows her brother at a slower pace, already talking to him about the frog's family and whether frogs have last names. The door closes behind them and the porch goes quiet again for a few seconds.
I tug Willow back down beside me before she can follow them. She comes without protest and lets me kiss her the way I still do every chance I get—slow and deep and thorough enough that she makes a soft sound against my mouth. When I pull back, I keep my hand on the side of her neck.
"I love you," I tell her.
"I know." She smiles. "I love you too."
"Eight years and I still wake up reaching for you like it's the first night."
Her expression softens. "Good. I'd be worried if you stopped."
Inside, something crashes and Jake yells that it wasn't his fault. Willow laughs and stands, holding out her hand. I take it and let her pull me up. We walk inside together, her fingers still laced with mine, the sound of our kids arguing over pancake toppings already filling the cabin.
I close the door behind us and follow my family into the kitchen.
Forever still isn't long enough, but it's a damn good start.