Epilogue 2 Owen
The calendar on the wall is still there.
Same stupid glossy photo.
Same overachieving little squares.
But this year?
I don’t hate it.
Not even a little.
I’m standing in front of it with a grin on my face like a damn fool.
Because today, Valentine’s Day doesn’t feel like a cosmic joke.
Doesn’t smell like desperation and bad decisions.
It smells like her.
Fresh coffee. Warm skin. A hint of cinnamon. That apple pie-wildfire scent that hit me like a punch to the gut the second she stepped into my life and never let go.
Megan.
My mate.
My miracle.
My forever Valentine.
She’s still at the house—our house—probably pretending not to notice I snuck out before sunrise.
Said I had “station business” to handle, which is only half a lie. I mean, technically I am in the office.
I just also happen to have a bag full of her favorite dark chocolate truffles, a bouquet of midnight roses from Esmerelda’s hothouse garden, and the most ridiculous sparkly card I could find that says "To My Howlin' Hot Honey."
Yeah. I know. Who even am I?
Last week I was growling at teenagers for hanging paper hearts on the bulletin board.
This week I’m planning a surprise dinner, praying she hasn’t already figured it out with that spooky sixth sense of hers, and wondering if I’ll ever get used to waking up with her wrapped around me like I’m her favorite blanket.
Probably not.
But I never want it to stop.
I glance back at the calendar and shake my head. It’s mocking me again—but not the way it used to. Now it’s teasing me for how far I’ve fallen. For how fast. For how hard.
But I don’t care.
Let it laugh.
Because I’ve got a mate. A partner. A storm in human form who sees the monster and loves him anyway. Who put in a transfer, moved into my town, my home, my bed—and never looked back.
That holiday I used to hate?
Now it’s ours.
And when I walk through that door and hand her all the dumb, sweet things I swore I’d never buy, I know exactly what I’ll see.
That smile.
The one that wrecks me.
The one that heals every scar I’ve ever tried to hide.
Megan DiNapoli soon-to-be Randall—Agent, Anchor, Only Star in My Sky—is my forever Valentine.
And me?
I’m the lucky son of a bitch who gets to love her for the rest of his life.
So, yeah, Arrhythmia might not be the average Texas town, but we got something here no one else has—we’ve got monster-sized heart.
And no, they might not be normal, but that’s fine by us.
See, we like it that way.
The End. For Now.