Epilogue
EMILY
Iwake to the familiar feeling of being watched. Warm sunlight bathes the bedroom, and before I even open my eyes, I know Alex is there, propped on one elbow, studying my face.
"You're doing it again," I murmur, blinking sleep away.
"Doing what?" His voice is morning-rough, that deep rumble that makes my stomach flutter.
"Watching me sleep. It's creepy." I smile to soften the words.
"Been doing it for a year. You haven't complained yet."
I stretch, feeling Croissant's weight across our feet. My apartment looks different now—Alex's running shoes by the door, his clothes hanging next to mine, his reading chair beside my couch.
It has been ours for six months now. He claimed my place was cozier than his and said he liked the idea of having a pet to 'guard' our home. Croissant has warmed up to him, but they still have staring contests every now and then.
Something catches my eye on the nightstand. An envelope with my name written in his precise handwriting.
"Alex, what's this? This month's bills?"
Alex just snorts. "Open it."
I sit up, sliding my finger under the seal. The card is simple—no hearts or cupids, just a black-and-white photograph of two coffee cups on a balcony rail. Inside is a single blush pink rose and a short note that says:
Emily,
You make mornings worth waking up for … even if you still refuse to run with me unless it's with the promise of pastries.
This year has been the best of my life.
You're everything I didn't know I needed. Happy Valentine's Day. I love you so damn much.
Yours, Alex
Tears well up before I can stop them.
I laugh, wiping my eyes. "This is so different from the card I gave you last year."
His mouth quirks in that almost-smile. "Yours was more ... direct."
"I basically propositioned you with detailed instructions."
"Best card I ever got."
We laugh, reminiscing about croissants and running, about Roberta who still gives us knowing looks in the hallway, and her pomeranian, who hated Alex before but now hates me too by association.
The restaurant Alex chose this year isn't Valentino's—it's a new place that's become ours over the past few months. The dinner plates are cleared, and I notice a small dance floor where a few couples sway to soft music.
Alex stands and extends his hand. "Dance with me."
I blink in surprise. "You dance?"
"No. But I'll try for you."
On the floor, he's endearingly awkward at first, stiff-limbed and too focused. I guide his hand to my waist, press closer, and gradually, he relaxes. We're barely dancing, just swaying in a small circle, my head against his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
The music wraps around us, and suddenly the weight of this moment, this year together, fills my chest with something too big to contain.
"I love you," I whisper.
"I love you too, Em, so fucking much it should be terrifying. Or maybe just plain illegal.”
"Best Valentine's Day ever."
"Better than last year?"
"Hmm. On second thought, jury's still out on that one."
His arms tighten around me. "We have a lot more Valentine's Days ahead of us."
"Promise?"
In the dim light, with music swirling around us, Alex's face splits into a smile.
“That’s a promise."