Epilogue
SOL
THE NEXT CHRISTMAS
The kettle whistles, and I turn it off before it screams. The kitchen smells like coffee and toast and the faint trace of whatever candle Ben lit before leaving for the gym when it was still dark outside.
He’ll be back any minute—he always says he’ll “just do a quick run,” and then comes home three hours later, sweaty and starving.
I should tell him to stop paying for a membership he only uses when he’s in town, probably once a week, but honestly, I like watching him come through the door like that.
Happy. Breathless. Proud of himself for doing the thing.
I pour hot water over the tea bag and glance at the small white stick sitting next to my mug. The two faint pink lines are still there.
I’m not sure what I expected—that they’d fade if I looked away long enough? That it would disappear like a daydream?
Then again, this whole past year has felt like one.
A blur of Sunday mornings in bed, lazy walks through the city, his eyes finding mine in the middle of a crowd.
Of dinners turned into long conversations, and long conversations that turned into laughter, and laughter that somehow turned into love.
It’s been the kind of year I used to think belonged to other people—the ones who got it right the first time.
But somehow, it’s mine now. Ours.
“Sunshine?” The front door clicks open and Ben’s voice echoes down the hall, soft and familiar. “You up already?”
“Kitchen,” I call back, trying to sound normal. Our apartment is still half-finished in that charming, chaotic way that says two people live here and both have strong opinions.
There’s an unfinished painting leaning against the hallway wall—something I started one weekend and never quite decided what it needed.
His work shoes sit by the door, next to my laptop bag.
The dining table is covered in sketches for my next project, and next to them, his open computer, notes scrawled in the margins of a printed deck.
It’s the first place I’ve ever lived that feels like both of us—warm and alive, a little messy, but full of motion.
Every corner hums with evidence of the life we’re building: our shared mornings, our constant half-plans, the quiet certainty that we’re staying.
Ben rounds the corner a few seconds later, still flushed from the cold, cheeks pink, hair damp under his beanie. He’s holding a paper bag in one hand. “I brought croissants.”
“Of course you did.”
“They were calling my name.” He sets the bag on the counter, leans in to kiss my forehead, then freezes. “What’s wrong?”
I must look like I’ve seen a ghost. My hand automatically goes to the counter, where the test sits, half-hidden behind the mug.
He follows my gaze, and his brow furrows. He reaches out, hesitates for half a second, then picks it up.
My heart hammers so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I want to say something—make a joke, fill the silence—but nothing comes out. I don’t know if I’m ready, if we’re ready, and yet under all the nerves, there’s this tiny flicker of wonder. The kind that makes my chest ache.
There’s a long silence.
“Is this—” He stops, blinking. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” I manage.
Ben looks from the test to me and back again, like he’s trying to make sense of something he never dared to imagine. His mouth opens, then closes. And then, to my complete surprise, he starts to laugh.
And just like that, something inside me unravels. The breath I didn’t know I was holding breaks free, and for the first time since I saw those two pink lines, I actually let myself feel it—relief, disbelief, joy.
“Of course,” he says finally, running a hand through his hair and dropping his winter hat on the counter. “Of course we’d be those people.”
“What people?”
“The ones who spend a week together in paradise, spend a year trying to be responsible adults, and then—boom—life decides to give us a plot twist.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, too. “A big one.”
He crosses the space between us and cups my face in his hands. His thumbs brush my cheeks, gentle, reverent. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay. I think.” I pause. “Terrified. But… okay.”
His forehead drops against mine, and I can feel the tremor of his breath. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I know.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes bright. “I guess we’re really doing this?”
“Apparently.”
He grins, and takes out a red and white hat from his coat pocket.
I blink. “Is that—”
He’s still laughing, but I see it now—the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, the way his whole face softens as he looks at me.
Before I can say anything, he pulls me into his arms. I feel his chest shake against mine, his breath catching somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
He kisses the top of my head, my temple, my mouth, my cheeks—everywhere, like he can’t pick one place to start.
“Merry Christmas, Sunshine.”
I laugh, half in disbelief, half because of the way he’s holding it up like it’s some sacred relic.
“You kept that thing?”
He steps closer, perching it gently on my head before I can protest. “Of course I did.”
I roll my eyes, but my throat goes tight anyway. Ben is smiling, that soft, crooked smile that started everything. He presses another kiss to my hat-covered forehead, then to my lips, murmuring something against my skin that sounds a lot like I love you.
When I finally exhale, it’s slow, steady.
A year ago, I was stuck. Exhausted. Counting my life in deliverables and deadlines. Now, standing in this kitchen with the man who somehow made everything quiet enough for me to hear myself again, I feel weightless.
This isn’t the future I imagined. It’s better—messy, terrifying, beautiful.
And with Ben, I don’t want to plan every next step.
I just want to see where this one takes us.
THE END