EPILOGUE – EMI
“You’re doing it again,” Connor says.
I blink. “Doing what?”
“Staring at me.”
“I’m allowed to stare at my husband.”
His mouth curves as he shifts carefully in the restaurant booth.
Our daughter sleeps strapped to his chest in a heather gray carrier, one tiny cheek pressed against his shirt and one little fist tucked beneath her chin.
She’s six weeks old, impossibly small, and already the absolute ruler of our house.
Connor looks enormous with her against him. Massive shoulders, thick arms, strong jaw softened by the gentlest expression I’ve ever seen on a man. Every time he looks down at her, something in me melts into a useless puddle.
“You keep getting that look,” he says.
“What look?” I ask.
“Lost.”
I lean my chin on my hand and sigh. “It’s hard not to swoon when you have our baby girl strapped to your chest.”
His eyes warm, and he glances down at Louisa as if he still can’t quite believe she’s real. “She likes it here.”
“She likes you.”
“She has good taste.”
“She also likes ceiling fans and the crinkle paper in her diaper bag, so keep your ego under control.”
The server arrives, saving him from answering.
This is still our place, the same restaurant around the corner from the bookstore where we had dinner after the first day he inserted himself into my life.
The booths are still red vinyl. The coffee still smells deliciously strong. The fries are still the best in town.
I order an omelet, potatoes, and coffee. Connor orders pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast, and a side of fruit he only adds because I raise my eyebrows at him.
When the server leaves, I shake my head. “Some things never change.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“I have a family to protect now. Takes fuel.”
I laugh, but the words settle warmly inside me. A family. We have one. One year ago, Connor was the overprotective stranger in my bookstore pretending to browse while watching the door. Now he’s my husband, the father of my daughter, and the only person who truly understands me to my core.
We got married in a courthouse ceremony that was supposed to be simple and somehow turned into my dad crying harder than I did, three bookstore regulars showing up with flowers, and Connor looking at me as if the judge was taking too long to get to the part where he could kiss me.
I wore a knee-length white dress. Connor wore a dark suit.
He put a ring on my finger with gentle hands and ruined me completely with the way his voice roughened through the vows.
We live in a house on a quiet street ten minutes from the bookstore.
It’s nothing fancy. Two bedrooms, a small nursery, a kitchen with old cabinets, and a backyard Connor insists he’s going to fence properly once Louisa lets us sleep for more than three hours at a time.
It’s exactly the right size for us. It feels ours in every way.
The bookstore is still mine, but it’s no longer the center of my entire identity.
That surprised me most. I thought loosening my grip would feel like losing part of myself.
Instead, it feels like becoming more whole.
I hired part-time help. I take more days off.
I let Connor install cameras, upgrade the locks, and reorganize the storage closet with military precision, which I still pretend to begrudge.
My dad has become the kind of grandfather who carries printed photos in his wallet despite having a phone full of them.
He stops by the house with groceries we didn’t ask for, holds Louisa while narrating baseball scores to her, and tells anyone who will listen that she has my eyes and Connor’s serious frown.
Our food arrives, and Connor eats one-handed. Louisa sleeps, completely unaware that her father would probably carry the booth home if she seemed attached to it.
“What else do you want to do on our day off?” Connor asks once the plates are half-empty.
I take a sip of coffee and start mentally sorting the list. “We need diapers, coffee filters, and more detergent. We also have to pick up the framed print for the nursery.”
“Already did it.”
“Of course you did.” I smile at him over my mug. “Then groceries, maybe. Something easy for dinner.”
“We could also get started on baby number two.”
I choke on my coffee.
Connor looks entirely too calm. “Too soon?”
“Our daughter is six weeks old.”
“I didn’t say we had to finish the project today.”
I laugh. “That is the least romantic way anyone has ever referred to impregnating his wife.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “I can make it romantic.”
Heat moves through me, instant and familiar. That part hasn’t changed either. One look from him, one slight drop in his voice, and my body remembers every way he knows how to take me apart.
“Connor.”
“Emi.”
“We are not having another baby immediately.”
“Define immediately.”
“Not today.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Next month?”
“Still no.”
He considers this while cutting into his pancakes. “Three more.”
“Months?”
“Kids.”
I stare at him. “You want four children?”
“At least.”
“At least?” I repeat, laughing. “You understand I’m the one who has to carry them, right?”
His expression turns serious at once. “I understand. And I’ll take care of you every second.”
I know he means it. I know it because he already did. Through morning sickness, swollen ankles, every appointment, every fear, every craving, every night I woke up panicked because motherhood suddenly felt too big for my body to hold. Connor was there, always there, loving me through all of it.
I look at him with our sleeping daughter against his chest, and the future opens in front of me. More babies. More chaos. More mornings in this booth. More flowers for no reason. More of Connor’s hand finding mine whenever he senses I need it.
“Maybe two more,” I say.
His eyes sharpen. “That’s a negotiation.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“I can work with possibility.”
“I know you can.” I reach across the table and rest my hand over his. “You built an entire life on possibility after knowing me for one day.”
Connor turns his hand under mine and laces our fingers together. “No. I built it on certainty.”
I should probably tease him for that. Instead, I let myself sit there with my husband, our baby, and the wild, beautiful shape of everything still ahead of us.