Epilogue One #2
Connor carried me to our bedroom, his arms secure beneath my knees and around my back.
The newly built bed frame stood proudly against the wall, waiting for tomorrow's finishing touches, but the mattress was already positioned, covered in the cloud-soft sheets.
The city skyline twinkled beyond the windows, stars competing with skyscrapers for attention in the velvet darkness.
“Tomorrow," he promised against my lips, setting me down, "we'll finish up. Tonight..." His hands slid beneath my sweater, warm against my skin, telling me exactly what tonight was for.
Morning crept in with tentative fingers of light, painting our bedroom warm.
I woke slowly, my awareness returning in gentle waves of the warmth of Connor's body curved protectively around mine and the weight of his arm across my waist. Toffee had joined us sometime in the night, lying upside down at the foot of the bed.
I lay there savoring the quiet perfection of the moment. Our bedroom was still partly unfinished, boxes stacked in the corner, my dresser waiting to be positioned, pictures yet to be hung, but it already felt more like home than anywhere I'd ever lived.
Connor stirred behind me, his heavy arm tightening around my waist as he pressed a kiss to my shoulder. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. “You're thinking too loud for so early.”
I smiled, turning in his arms to face him. The morning light caught in his dark hair, and his dark eyes were still heavy-lidded, but alert enough to study my face with his usual intensity.
“Good thoughts,” I assured him, tracing the line of his collarbone. “About home.”
His hand slid up my body and over my breasts to cup my face. “You are home,” he rumbled, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.
It made my heart squeeze. It was that simple; I was his home, his center, his peace. And he had become mine, a love crafted from his protection and his unwavering belief in my worth even when I couldn't see it myself.
“We should get up,” I said reluctantly, even as I pressed closer to the warmth of his body. “We still have so much to do today.”
Connor's thumb brushed my lower lip, his eyes darkening as I drew it into my mouth on instinct, my tongue circling the tip. “Later,” he growled, rolling me beneath him with a fluid movement. “Much later.”
When we finally emerged from the bedroom, the sun was high in the sky, illuminating our new space in brilliant light.
I padded into the kitchen in one of Connor's t-shirts, the hem hitting mid-thigh as I navigated around still-unpacked boxes to reach the tea and the birth-control pills Connor had gotten me.
Connor followed, bare-chested and all huge muscles, his sweatpants riding low as he moved behind me, arms encircling my waist as I shuffled between my tea bags and pill pouch.
“What do you want to tackle first?” he asked, his chin resting on my head.
I leaned back against him, considering the space around us. So much was accomplished yesterday with Jax and Adrian's help, but there was still plenty to do. There was the bedroom to finish, my books to unpack and arrange, and the art and photos to hang on walls that had previously been blank.
“Books,” I decided, smiling as his arms tightened around me. “I want to fill the shelves.”
After tea, we settled into a comfortable rhythm, working side by side to bring order to the mess of boxes. Connor took care of everything remotely heavy, but otherwise, he let me direct the placement, watching with satisfaction as I transformed his once-sterile space into a warm home.
I lost myself in the simple joy of arranging my books, organizing them by genre and then by feeling, by the emotions they evoked. Comfort reads on the most accessible shelf, challenging works higher up, and children’s books arranged at the very bottom.
“You have a system,” Connor observed from where he was mounting a floating shelf on the wall. “Not one anyone else would understand, but a system.”
I laughed, running my fingers along the spine of my beloved sheep book. “Is that bad? The lack of conventional order?”
His smile was slight but genuine. “Nothing about you could ever be bad, sweet girl.” He secured the last screw, testing the shelf's stability with a firm tug before stepping back to admire his work.
“Many things about you form a pattern, like your breathing exercise.”
The observation tickled me, it was another reminder that Connor had seen me.
He'd taken the time to learn my patterns and understand the logic behind what others might dismiss as disorder.
Just as I'd learned to read the meaning behind his silences, the subtle shifts in his posture that telegraphed his moods to those attentive enough to notice.
We worked through the afternoon, breaking only for a late lunch Connor had insisted on preparing while I continued unpacking. By the time the sun began to set, the penthouse had undergone a beautiful transformation.
Books lined the shelves, their colorful spines bringing life to the walls.
The blush armchair I'd fallen in love with sat positioned perfectly to bathe in sunlight, with a throw blanket draped artfully over its arm.
Connor's sleek, modern furniture now shared space with my softer pieces and Toffee’s cat trees, creating a harmony I hadn't been sure was possible when I’d ordered all these things online.
“What do you think?” I asked, standing in the center of the living room as Connor emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of wine.
He surveyed the space, his expression thoughtful as he handed me one of the glasses. “I think it's perfect,” he murmured, clinking his glass against mine. “It's us.”
Us. Such a small word to contain so much meaning.
I sipped my wine, letting the rich flavor roll across my tongue as I considered the journey that had brought us here—from that first meeting at the book signing where I'd dropped my keys in front of him, to this moment, standing in our shared home surrounded by the tangible evidence of our intertwined lives.
“Come here,” Connor said suddenly, setting his glass down and holding his hand. “I want to show you something.”
Curious, I placed my own glass beside his and let him lead me through the penthouse to a door near his office, which I'd assumed was a closet. He held a key, unlocking it with a faint click.
“What is this?” I asked as he opened the door, revealing a room I hadn't seen before. "I thought this was storage."
Connor's hand settled on the small of my back, gently guiding me inside. “It was,” he confirmed. “Now it's something else.”
I stepped into the room, gasping when I took in what he'd created.
Bookshelves lined three walls, empty and waiting.
A large wooden desk sat near the window, offering a view of the city like the one from the living room.
A comfortable plush reading chair occupied one corner, a small table beside it holding a lamp shaped like a blooming flower.
It also had a flower-shaped cat perch. It was a study. My study.
“When did you do this?” I whispered, turning to face him. “How...?”
Connor leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable to anyone who didn't know him as well as I now did. I saw the vulnerability beneath the casual stance, the hope hidden in the careful neutrality of his gaze.
“I had it renovated while we were in Boston,” he admitted. “Jax helped with the logistics. Adrian picked out the cat tree—said it looked like something you and Toffee would curl up in for hours.” His eyes met mine, intent and serious. “Everyone needs their own space. Even in a home that's shared.”
Tears formed in my eyes as I turned in a slow circle, taking in every detail of the room he'd created for me. It was perfect; not overly bright or decorated, but thoughtfully designed to accommodate the person I was. The person he saw.
“I don't know what to say,” I admitted, crossing to him and placing my hands on his chest. “Thank you doesn't seem like enough.”
Connor's hand settled on my hip, drawing me closer. “You don't need to say anything,” he assured me, his thumb brushing at my traitorously wet lashes. “Your pretty face says it all.”
I stretched up on my toes, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that I hoped conveyed even a fraction of what I was feeling—the overwhelming gratitude, and the certainty that I had finally, finally found where I belonged.
That night, after we'd finished unpacking the last of the boxes and Connor had made dinner, he disappeared into the bedroom while I was putting away the leftovers. When I followed a few minutes later, I found him sitting on the edge of our bed, a flat box balanced on his palm .
“What's that?” I asked, moving to stand between his spread knees, my hands settling on his broad shoulders.
Connor looked up at me, his expression more open than I'd ever seen it. “Something I've wanted to give you,” he said, his voice low and intimate in the quiet room. “Something that belongs with the rest of today.”
He opened the box, revealing a delicate gold bracelet nested in velvet. It was simple but beautiful, a thin chain supporting a single charm, a tiny, perfect key. “Oh,” I breathed, my fingers hovering above it, almost afraid to touch something so lovely. “It's beautiful.”
“It's symbolic,” he explained, removing the bracelet from its box and gently clasping it around my wrist. The gold caught the light, warm against my skin. “A key for your new home. For our home.” He paused. “And a reminder that you’re mine.”
The gesture was so thoughtful, so perfectly aligned with the day we'd spent creating our shared space, that I felt tears threatening my eyes again. This man, who the world saw as dangerous and unyielding, had so much love for me that continuously took my breath away.
“I love it,” I whispered, watching the charm catch the light as I turned my wrist. And I love you.”