Epilogue #2
She stands at the landing for a second, catching her own reflection in the framed family photo that hangs above the coat rack.
Last year, she remembers, she would have flinched, would have checked her lipstick, would have wondered if she was overdressed or underdressed for what the night had in store.
This year, she looks herself in the eye, winks, and gives a quick roll of the shoulders to settle the straps of the dress where they belong.
She lets herself smirk. The only thing she’s uncertain about is how long the night will last, and how many times she’ll have to be peeled out of this fabric before the end of it.
She floats into the kitchen, a little theatrical just for herself.
The scent of bourbon and orange zest hits her first, chased by the sharper undertone of ginger—Jason’s house cocktail, already in progress.
She rounds the corner and finds him at the counter, sleeves pushed up, wrist steady as he pours.
There’s a row of tiny plates—olives, almonds, prosciutto folded like origami, those crackers she loves but always pretends to hate.
The kitchen looks the way it does at every holiday, only more deliberate.
Jason doesn’t turn when she enters; he knows she’s there, has probably tracked her footfalls since the first creak of the stairs. He lines up the glasses with surgeon’s precision, then finally glances over his shoulder.
“Wow,” he says, and there’s nothing performative about it. It’s the “wow” he saves for truly rare events: shooting stars, playoff victories, or the first sight of her in a new dress.
She grins, leans against the island, gives him a twirl. The hem of the skirt flares, catches the light, settles around her thighs like a dare. “Too much?”
“Not even close.” He dries his hands on a towel, wipes the edge of the glass for good measure, and comes around the counter.
The look on his face is something like hunger, something like reverence, but not the kind that makes her want to run.
This version just roots her in place, makes her feel both prized and entirely her own.
He steps close, slides a hand behind her neck, and kisses her—not a show for anyone else, but a press of lips that says: I see you. She hums against his mouth, opens her eyes to see him already smiling at her, forehead pressed to hers.
“You ready?” he asks.
She pulls back, feigning confusion. “For what?”
He laughs. “For whatever happens next.”
She shrugs, lets her hands rest at his waist. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready in my life.”
He lets the moment linger, then returns to the counter, sets out three glasses—neat, like always, no garnish for her, a twist for him, ice for Leo.
The doorbell rings, not a tentative buzz but a single, declarative chime.
Jason looks at her. “You want to get it?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
She crosses the hall, unlocks the front door, and opens it wide.
Leo stands on the mat, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans, hair mussed in that deliberate way that means he probably spent half an hour making it look like he spent zero.
He wears a navy blue shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open, and his expression is almost bashful—a look she knows by now is a trick of the light, not an actual feeling.
“Nice dress,” he says, eyes tracking from hem to hair with clinical focus.
“Nice shirt,” she volleys back, and he laughs, a dry sound that matches the cold air still clinging to him.
He steps in, and for a second, she expects the awkward shuffle of bodies from a year ago—someone not knowing where to stand, waiting for permission, the hush before the big speech.
But this time, they just hug, simple and full-contact, his arms around her shoulders, hers around his back.
They linger for two, three beats, long enough for his breath to fog against her neck, then part with a mutual squeeze.
“Glad you could make it,” she says.
He grins, wide and clean. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
She leads him to the kitchen, where Jason is already pouring out the third drink.
They stand around the island, a triangle with no sharp edges, and the small talk is easy: “How was traffic?” “What’s in the sauce?
” “Who picked out the wine?” No one tries to fill the silences; no one acts like the air is going to shatter if they don’t keep it buoyed up.
Jason hands out the glasses, raises his own. “To tradition,” he says.
Brielle and Leo both lift theirs, a practiced clink, the sound sharper than it has any right to be.
“To tradition,” they echo.
She sips. The bourbon lands smoky first, then sweet, then heat that spreads down her sternum and loosens everything inside.
They snack, and the conversation skips from topic to topic—Leo’s latest odd job, Jason’s soccer coaching disaster, the fact that Brielle’s kid managed to lose two lunchboxes in one week.
She notices, at some point, that the wine glass on the counter has moved—not out of sight, just off to the side, as if someone wanted to make sure it was still there but didn’t need to keep it at center stage.
She glances at Jason. He meets her eyes, and in that microsecond, they both remember the first time: how careful they were, how many times they stopped to check in, how the rules were spelled out in advance. Now, it’s all shorthand. He arches a brow: You good? She nods, slow and sure.
She looks at Leo, who catches her gaze, holds it, then grins. “What?”
She just shakes her head. “You look like you’re waiting to be called on in class.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Just trying not to start anything early.”
“Who says you have to wait?” she asks, leaning her hip into the counter.
He looks at Jason, and the two men share a silent communication—something that would have made her bristle with jealousy or caution, once. Now, she just likes watching it happen.
Jason speaks first. “You want to get this part started?”
Brielle feels her mouth go dry, but not from nerves. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She moves first—not a calculated step, but a lean that brings her into Leo’s orbit.
He smells like cedar and aftershave, with a trace of the ginger syrup Jason was using.
She kisses him, slow and careful, a press of lips, then a swipe of tongue that’s equal parts tease and challenge.
She hears Jason exhale, not a sigh, more like the start of a laugh.
She pulls back, cheeks flushed, and lets her hand rest on Leo’s chest. She turns to Jason, inviting him in with nothing but a look. He closes the distance, his hand at the small of her back, steady and warm.
The three of them form, but this time, the edges are softer, more fluid.
No one is trying to be in charge.
No one is waiting for permission.
They just are.
She can’t remember a single time in her life when she’s felt this much herself. Not performing, not testing the limits, just existing in a body that’s both wanted and wanting.
She leans into it. She leans into them.
She doesn’t know what happens next, and for the first time ever.
She’s just here.
She’s home, again.
?
There is a moment—maybe it’s hours later, maybe just a stretch of minutes stacked together—where Brielle finds herself on her knees in the living room, the red dress hiked up to her waist and her lipstick smeared across two chins, hers and Leo’s, and she realizes she’s not nervous, not even a little bit.
The only thing in her body is a rush of warmth so complete it feels like a living thing, a current running up her spine and making her fingertips tingle.
She rides it like a wave, lets it crash over her, doesn’t try to mute it or slow it down or tuck it away for later. This is later. This is it.
They have moved from the kitchen to the couch without anyone announcing the shift.
The tiny plates of food are half-eaten, the glasses abandoned in the sink.
She doesn’t remember who made the first move—if it was Leo’s mouth at her ear, or Jason’s hand at the small of her back, or just the collective knowledge that tonight is for all of them, and that they all know how to get there now.
She likes this version of herself: mouthy, greedy, hands always grabbing for more.
She likes the version of Jason who lets his hands wander in full view, who doesn’t wait for her to say yes because he already knows what yes looks like on her face.
She likes the way Leo doesn’t compete, doesn’t try to outdo or outperform, just fits himself to the moment, as if the night is a puzzle they solve together in increments, edge pieces first.
There are moments of laughter—real, unforced, the kind that bubbles out in the middle of everything and never kills the mood.
When Leo fumbles the zipper on her dress, he mutters, “Who designed this?” and Jason answers, “A genius,” and Brielle’s laugh is so sharp she nearly falls off his lap.
They don’t stop to worry about it. They let the humor live next to the heat.
Leo is first to kneel between her thighs, the stubble of his jaw rough against the inside of her leg.
Jason watches, hand at her throat, thumb just under the hinge of her jaw, his other hand laced with hers, squeezing every time Leo’s tongue finds the spot.
She likes being watched. She likes being the axis.
She likes that both of them want her, but even more, that she wants them, wants to take and take and never feel guilty for it.
“Fuck,” Jason mutters. Brielle turns, grabs Jason’s hand, pulls it to her breast, hard, and the look on his face is pure reverence. He holds her, presses his thumb against her nipple until she gasps, and the gasp is all the permission Leo needs to go harder, deeper, slower.
She lets herself be loud. She doesn’t care what the neighbors hear.