Epilogue Lena
The blocks scattered across the living room floor in a trail of bright primary colors. Our daughter sat in the middle of them, one fist wrapped around a yellow cube, the other reaching for a red cylinder that had rolled just out of reach. She made a frustrated noise, her face scrunching up.
"That one?" I asked, nudging it closer with my finger.
She grabbed it and immediately tried to fit it into her mouth.
I laughed and gently redirected her hand, showing her how to stack the cylinder on top of the cube instead.
It wobbled, tipped, fell. The crash sent both pieces skittering across the hardwood.
She looked up at me with those dark eyes—Theo's eyes—and her face scrunched up like she might cry.
"It's okay, baby," I said, picking up both pieces. "Let's try again. See? Like this."
I stacked them slowly. She watched with the kind of serious attention only a one-year-old could manage, her whole body focused on the task. When I let go and the tower held, she clapped her hands together, delighted. The cylinder immediately toppled. She didn't seem to care.
The front door opened. I heard Theo's keys hit the dish in the entryway, his shoes on the hardwood, and then his footsteps coming toward us. My pulse kicked up the way it always did when he came home. Two years, and my body still answered to him without asking permission first.
He appeared in the doorway, loosening his tie, his jacket already off and draped over one arm.
His white dress shirt had a smudge of something dark on the sleeve—probably from the kitchen—and his hair looked like he'd been running his hands through it all day.
His gaze went to our daughter first, then to me.
A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, slow and warm.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
He dropped his jacket on the chair and crossed the room, lowering himself to the floor beside me.
His long legs folded under him, and he reached for the scattered blocks.
Our daughter abandoned everything immediately and launched herself at him, babbling something that wasn't quite words yet but sounded insistent.
He caught her against his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head, and pressed a kiss to her dark curls.
"Missed you too," he said into her hair.
I watched them, my chest doing that thing it did when I saw him with her. God, I'd never get used to it. Never get tired of the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
He glanced at me over her head. "How was your day?"
"Good. Long, but good. Maggie tried a new special at the restaurant. The lunch crowd loved it."
"Yeah?" He shifted our daughter to his lap, and she immediately reached for his tie, wrapping her tiny fingers around the silk and tugging hard enough that his head tilted forward. "What was it?"
"Braised short ribs with polenta and roasted root vegetables. She's been working on the recipe for weeks." I smiled. "She made me taste it three times before she'd send it out."
His mouth curved. "Sounds like her."
"Yours?" I asked, reaching over to rescue his tie from our daughter's grip. She protested, but I handed her a blue block instead and she took it, satisfied.
Theo loosened the tie the rest of the way and pulled it off. "The diner's been slammed all week. Good problem to have, but I'm running out of clean aprons."
"You love it," I said.
"I do." He unwound our daughter's grip from his collar and handed her another block. She took it and started banging it against the floor. "Had a guy come in today asking if I'd cater his wedding. Big event downtown, two hundred people."
My stomach flipped. The old fear tried to claw its way up. I shoved it down. "What did you tell him?"
"That he'd have to call someone else."
The relief that washed over me was immediate and embarrassing. Ugh. Like an idiot, I reached over and touched his knee. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yeah, I did." His hand came up, his palm warm against my jaw, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone. "I'm not doing that anymore, Lena. I told you."
I nodded. My throat went tight, and I couldn't say anything else without my voice breaking, so I just leaned into his touch. His hand slid to the back of my neck, his fingers curling into my hair, and he pulled me closer. Our daughter made a noise between us, but he didn't let go.
"Stay home tonight," I said. The words came out softer than I meant them to, almost pleading. "Just—stay."
His eyes searched mine, dark and steady. "I wasn't planning on going anywhere."
"I know, but—" I broke off, feeling stupid. Two years of him coming home every night, and I still couldn't shake the old fear that he'd disappear back into his work. "I just need you here."
"Lena." He said my name like a promise. His forehead pressed against mine, and his breath was warm on my lips. "I'm not going anywhere. You hear me?"
I nodded again, not trusting my voice. He kissed me then, slow and sure, the kind of kiss that said he had all the time in the world and he was spending it on me. Our daughter babbled louder, annoyed at being ignored, and we broke apart.
She'd pulled herself up on the couch and was standing there, wobbling. Theo moved fast, crossing to her in two strides. He scooped her up before she could fall and lifted her into the air. She squealed, delighted.
"Show-off," I said, standing and brushing off my jeans.
He grinned at me over her head. "She likes it."
"She's going to expect you to do that every time now."
"Good."
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He shifted our daughter to one hip and pulled it out, glancing at the screen.
I watched his expression, waiting for the flicker of interest, the pull toward whatever was happening at the diner.
It didn't come. He swiped the notification away without opening it and slid the phone back into his pocket.
"You can answer it," I said.
"It's not important."
"Theo—"
He looked at me, his eyes serious. "It's not important."
My chest squeezed. I crossed to him and slid my arms around his waist, tucking myself against his side. He wrapped his free arm around me, pulling me close, and we stood there in the middle of the living room. The three of us together.
He pressed a kiss to my temple. "Go upstairs," he said quietly, his voice rough. "I'll put her down."
My pulse kicked up again, harder this time. Heat flooded through me. I looked up at him, and whatever he saw in my face made his mouth curve. "Yeah?"
His hand tightened on my hip. "Yeah."
I went.
The bedroom door closed behind us twenty minutes later.
Our daughter had gone down easy, already half asleep before he'd laid her in the crib.
Theo leaned against the door, watching me, and I suddenly felt nervous.
Ridiculous, really. We'd been married twice and had a child together, and my hands were still shaking.
He crossed to me, his fingers finding the hem of my shirt and tugging it up. I lifted my arms, and he pulled it over my head. His hands went to my waist, sliding up my ribs, his palms warm and rough against my skin. I shivered.
"Cold?" he asked, his mouth quirking.
"No."
He knew exactly what he did to me. His thumbs brushed the underside of my breasts, and my breath caught.
I reached for the buttons on his dress shirt, fumbling with them until he covered my hands with his and helped.
The shirt fell away, and then my hands were on his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the solid muscle under my palms. God, he was a furnace.
He walked me backward to the bed, and I went, letting him guide me down onto the mattress.
The sheets were cool against my back. He followed, bracing himself on his forearms above me, and kissed me until I forgot to be nervous.
Until all I could think about was his weight pressing me into the bed and the way his hands moved over me like he was trying to memorize every inch.
I wrapped my arms around him and held on.
Afterward, we lay tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my spine. The light coming through the window had gone soft and golden, late afternoon bleeding into evening.
"I love you," I said into the quiet.
His hand stilled for a second, and then he shifted, tilting my chin up so I had to look at him. His eyes were dark and serious, and my chest squeezed so hard it hurt.
"I love you," he said. Not like he was answering. Like he was telling me something I needed to know. "More than I know how to say."
My throat went tight again. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and he kissed my forehead. His lips lingered there, warm and soft, and I closed my eyes and let myself have it. All of it.
We stayed like that until the light shifted and the room started to cool, and then he pulled me up with him.
"Come on," he said, reaching for his jeans. "I'll make dinner."
I blinked at him. "You don't have to."
"I want to."
We got dressed, him in jeans and a T-shirt, me in soft pants and one of his old shirts that I'd stolen months ago and never given back.
He didn't comment on it, just smiled when he saw it and tugged me out of the room by the hand.
We checked on our daughter—still asleep, one fist curled under her chin—and then headed downstairs.
The kitchen smelled like the bread I'd baked that morning.
Theo pulled ingredients from the fridge while I filled two glasses with water and carried them to the table.
I set them down in their usual spots, his on the left and mine on the right, then went back for our daughter.
She was awake when I got upstairs, blinking up at me from the crib with those serious dark eyes.
"Hey, baby," I said, lifting her out. She tucked her head against my shoulder, still drowsy and warm from sleep. "Hungry?"
She made a small noise that I took as agreement. I carried her downstairs and settled her into the high chair at the end of the table, buckling the strap around her waist. She blinked at the room, taking it in, and then grabbed the edge of the tray and banged it with her palm.
"Okay, okay," I said, laughing. "It's coming."
Theo worked at the stove, his back to me, and I watched him the way I always did. Still a little amazed that he was here. That this was real. That I got to keep it.
He turned, carrying two plates, and set them on the table.
One in front of me, one across from it. Pasta with garlic and olive oil, simple and perfect.
He went back for a small bowl for our daughter—mashed sweet potato and peas, her favorite—and placed it on her tray with a soft plastic spoon.
She dug in immediately, more ending up on her face than in her mouth.
And then Theo pulled out the chair across from me and sat down.
He didn't say anything. Didn't explain it or announce it or make a big deal out of it. He just sat, picked up his fork, and started eating. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he'd been doing it forever.
My chest went tight. I stared at him for a second too long, and he glanced up, catching me.
"What?" he asked.
I shook my head, my throat too tight to answer. "Nothing."
He didn't push. Just went back to his food, and I did the same.
The pasta was good—he'd always known how to make something out of almost nothing, how to take the simplest ingredients and turn them into something that tasted like home.
Our daughter babbled between us, smearing sweet potato across her cheeks, and I let the sound of her wash over me.
This. This was everything.
I set my fork down and reached across the table, my hand finding the spot near his plate.
The light from the window caught the gold band on my finger, smooth and plain, the one I'd taken off once and never thought I'd wear again.
The one he'd kept all those months, carrying it with him, waiting for me to be ready to take it back.
The engraving inside said Always.
He looked down at my hand, then back up at me. His eyes held mine, steady and sure. Something passed between us, wordless and certain, deeper than anything I could have said out loud.
I didn't have to tell him what it meant.
He already knew.
THE END