Epilogue 1
HER QUESTION
Robyn
Four Months Later
I’ve really tried. But the back of the cake still leans, caving in onto itself at the top where it’s thinnest. It’s not a total disaster. I’m quite confident it’s not enough to collapse, but one side definitely dips a little lower than the other.
I stare at it, arms folded. Maybe I can make the rows of fondant seats curving imperfectly around the center shape themselves into precision.
“Is that an arena?” Nate asks behind me, voice threaded with amusement.
“You weren’t supposed to see it yet!”
When I turn around, he’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, keys circling around his index finger.
“What’s the occasion?” He throws the keys on the little bowl on the kitchen counter. Because apparently, he’s tired of me losing them every five minutes.
“It’s a lecture hall,” I insist.
“A lect—why are you sculpting a lecture hall cake on your own? It must have taken you hours?”
“You see it now, though? The shape.”
“Sure. It’s a … lecture hall-adjacent,” he corrects, pushing off the counter and stepping closer. He rests his palm, fingers splayed on my waist. “But I’m impressed. The tiering is exceptional.”
I huff, but I lean into him anyway, letting my shoulder brush his chest. “You’re impossible to please.”
“Not true,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to the cake again, then back to me, softer now. “This is—” He exhales. “I’m catching up here. Why?”
“Because of you.”
The teasing fades from his face, the corners of his mouth easing as his eyes warm, reddish hues in his eyes carrying a softness that wasn’t there before. “You made this for my first class.”
“Of course I did.”
He glances back at the cake, pacing around the table to examine every angle.
It’s easy for his brain to fire up with every imperfection in its structure, his brows drawing together faintly while his lips part, the look on his face shifting into something deeper, almost awed.
That wide, high-cheeked smile breaks through—the one that softens everything about him, the one that I promised I’d make it a point to see more of.
He keeps looking at it. Then at me and back again, trying to hold both things in at once.
“Cut it,” I say, nudging the knife toward him. “Before it caves in anymore.”
He laughs under his breath, but he takes the knife. There’s a bit of hesitation before he takes a picture of the cake. Then he slides the knife carefully through the fondant seats, through the center, steady even as the dough crumbles under the pressure.
When he lifts the slice, something catches inside—paper, folded small, tucked in the hollow center of the cake.
His brow furrows. “What’s that?”
“Just—look,” I say, stepping closer into him until my front is pressed to his back, my chin resting just below his shoulder. Suddenly very aware of my pulse, and I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I hold onto the sides of his plaid button-down.
He sets the knife down, fingers already unfolding the note, slower now. I’m too nervous to go around him and watch his face as he reads it, so I hide my expression between his shoulder blades.
“We’re endgame. Live with me.”
The room goes quiet around us. My cheeks warm with embarrassment the longer he stays silent. Maybe I’m rushing it … again.
I go over every reason why he might want to keep separate apartments for another five months. The longer he’s quiet, the further down the road I go.
I finally dare to look up and catch him setting the note down with care, smoothing it on the table with reverence too large for something so small.
The room feels warmer, thick with the faint scent of sugar and butter.
Then his hands are on me, firm and certain, digging into my hips as he lifts me with an ease that steals my breath, settling us both onto the chair beside the table, me anchored in his lap.
“Hey—” I start, but it dissolves when his hand comes up, brushing my curls back from my face. He grazes my cheek, as if reacquainting himself with something he doesn’t want to get wrong again.
His gaze lingers on my mouth before it meets my eyes.
Then back down to my lips. I lick them, tongue darting out through the fleshiest part.
There is nothing rushed or careless about Nate leaning into the barely there space between us.
He brushes his lips against mine, the strands of his beard prickling the corner of my mouth.
When he kisses me, it’s not the kind that steals breath—it gives it back, slow and deep, like he’s been holding it in for months and is only now letting himself exhale. He slides his hand to the back of my neck, holding me to him, while the other presses at my waist, drawing me closer.
I feel the warmth and the solidity of him in every signal firing. The way his mouth moves against mine, relearning something he never really forgot. When we finally pull back, it’s only just enough to breathe.
“Is that a yes?” I whisper, my fingers curled into his shirt.
His forehead rests against mine, his breath still uneven, lips brushing mine when he speaks. “I’ve wanted to live with you for so long.”
My chest tightens, tender, full and overwhelming all at once. I shift slightly in his lap, threading my fingers into his long hair. “Worth the wait?” I ask, searching his face.
He huffs a breath that almost turns into a laugh, nuzzling my nose, then tightens his hand at my waist and pulls me more firmly against him.
“More than,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw before tilting my face back toward his.
“Sweetheart.”
The word lands differently this time—nothing like habit, entirely like choice.
He finds my mouth again, deeper now, less careful because something between us has finally given way to what we were always supposed to be. His grip shifts, one hand sliding along my spine, pressing me closer as I feel the change in him, the heat building where restraint used to sit.
We’ve both been cautious all these months, checking that everything held. So the next time we came together wasn’t about the collapse but the rebuild. That night lingers somewhere in the space between our bodies, a memory of heat born out of anger.
Tonight, his hands under my shirt, ghosting over my stomach, we close the distance we didn’t cross all this time.
We break apart so my shirt comes off, then so his can too.
I leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his neck and suck on the hollow of his throat while I rock against his hardness.
When he stands, I wrap my legs around his waist, never breaking away from his kiss until he lays me on my bed, his warm body sprawled over mine.
Shaking in anticipation, I bury my fingers in his chest hair, massaging his nipple, and exploring the contrast between the cold ring and warmth of his skin. Nate groans on top of me, pushing the ridge of his cock into my center even through multiple layers of clothing.
“Get me naked,” I beg.
“First, tell me you want me like I want you,” he begs.
I cup his face and peck his lips. “I love you. I want you.”
“I see it, sweetheart,” he whispers against my neck as he drags my leggings and panties down, squeezing my skin between his fingers. “Everything you do to make sure I understand.”
I land my lips on top of his head, on his temple, any inch of skin I can get, while he finally pulls the clothing off my feet and throws it across the room. Eager and trembling, I reach for his jeans to get him naked. “You understand?”
“Yes,” he chokes out, naked on top of me, his thick cock weeping with arousal between my slick folds. “I’m your choice. Even when you’re working, even when you have to go and do research weeks at time.”
I snake my arm between us to grab around the head of his dick, thumb gathering his precum and stroking the crown.
“And I see everything you do to keep me sane, the ways you care for me.” I dip his head between my pussy lips and coat it with my own desire.
I need him inside, but I don’t need it more than I need to get this right.
“The way you love me makes me choose you every day.”
My hand slips from his cock when he slides in one smooth thrust, all the way to the hilt until his balls brush my ass.
We both moan, and he takes a second to meet my eyes. “Do you want me to pull out and wear a condom?”
“No,” I breathe out. “Make love to me, baby.”
He groans, then pulls his hips back until only the crown remains inside before pushing into me again.
I moan, the sound breaking into a soft sigh.
It only takes three thrusts before I can’t tell who’s whimpering and who’s gasping—everything dissolving into a tangle of tongue, teeth, and skin brushing skin.
His rhythm falters as he gets close, stilling when I take longer to follow.
He shifts, finding the space between our bodies, his fingers brush over me, then he flicks my clit, drawing a sharper breath from my chest. I tilt my hips, meeting him from underneath, moving with him, and with each stroke, his palm presses against my pubic bone, and he angles his cock just right to hit that rough spot inside of me.
The sensation builds, steady and consuming, until it’s all I can focus on.
He slides one hand up to cradle my head while the other stays between us. His mouth is just out of reach, so I turn my face, pressing a kiss to his wrist, then another—taking whatever contact I can, trying to show him what I feel in every way my body knows how.
“I’m not going to last, sweetheart.”
I nod. “I’m almost there. Keep flicking my clit, fuck me as deep as you’ll go.”
He does, thrusting with just enough force that I come around him two strokes later, crying his name in soft, breathy sounds.
Then he plops on top of me, the cool press of his nipple ring against my overheated skin.
He drags his cock back and forth, shallow at first, just the widest part of him between my pussy lips.
It’s slow at first, needing more from him, I drag my thigh up until I hook my knee over his hip, pushing him inside me all the way in.
He sucks on my neck, pulling back and forth against the right spot inside of me.
He pinches my clit between his fingers and I come around him, his name on my lips.
His thrusts keep going long and deep through my orgasm.
Until he finishes with a low broken sound against my shoulder, pulsing his pleasure as he goes deep again, spilling rope after rope of his climax into me.
Breathless still, he kisses his way up my chest and neck until he plunges his tongue in my mouth.
“That was amazing,” he whispers.
I chuckle. “That’s how it’s going to be. Always amazing.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he coos. “Endgame?”
“And beyond.”
My fears haven’t disappeared. Each of them is tangled somewhere in the depth of my love for Nate, in the way I find myself tracking how often he gives me that smile of his.
But I’m not racing ahead anymore. I won’t forget to nurture the now because I’m afraid of losing it.
I stay in it—in him, in us—savoring the foundation we spent so long learning how to build.