EPILOGUE
Selene
Sunlight spilled through the wide kitchen windows, warming the countertops and painting golden streaks across the floor. The porch swing outside creaked, keeping time with the breeze that drifted through the screens.
A vase of wildflowers—half wilted but still lovely—sat in the center of the table, their petals curling just slightly at the edges. Austin had picked them a week ago on our walk to the farmers’ market. He had called them whimsical as hell and insisted we needed to take them home.
A faint jazz record spun in the background—something slow and brassy with a whisper of old romance in its bones. We still kind of disliked it, but jazz never failed to remind me of that fateful night Austin and I stumbled on each other and changed everything.
Over all of it, I heard Austin’s low, steady voice. “Pinch the edge, not too hard. Just enough to seal it.”
Winnie giggled. “I am pinching it. This pie is going to be iconic.”
He chuckled. “Can’t argue with that, bug.”
I padded in quietly, barefoot and still warm from my shower, wearing one of Austin’s old T-shirts that hit halfway down my thighs. I clutched a chipped mug of hazelnut coffee in both hands, the rim still warm against my lips.
They didn’t notice me at first.
Winnie stood on a stool at the island, her hair in two messy braids—the complicated Dutch ones that Austin had perfected—and flour dusting her cheeks.
Austin hovered beside her, guiding her dough-covered fingers with the same calm gentleness he used to fix a cabinet hinge or straighten a picture frame.
His inked forearm flexed as he reached across the counter, the edge of his shirt damp from dishwater, and his hair still tousled from sleep.
I leaned against the doorframe and watched them, my heart so full it felt like it might swell out of my chest and float away entirely.
This was it—the extraordinary ordinary.
Quiet mornings with soft music and too many dishes in the sink. Pie crust under fingernails and giggles over too much cinnamon. Winnie narrated everything like she was hosting her own baking show.
I never thought normal could feel like this. Like freedom. Like coming home.
Austin still kissed me like it was the first time.
My favorite moments were when he looked at me across the dinner table like I was made of some impossible dream.
I’d spent so long convincing myself I wasn’t the kind of person who got a forever.
But he was different. With every slow breath and gentle word.
With every night he stayed and every morning he reached for me first.
“Mom.” Winnie spotted me over her shoulder. “Is this not the greatest thing you’ve ever seen?” She threw her arms out, nearly knocking over a mixing bowl.
“Whoa.” Austin laughed, catching it just in time. “Chaos gremlin, reel it in.”
I crossed the kitchen and kissed Winnie’s floury cheek before winding my arms around Austin’s waist from behind. He leaned into me, smiling as I pressed my lips to the back of his shoulder.
“Morning,” I murmured.
He turned just enough to kiss me. It was soft, quick, and familiar—like punctuation on a thought we’d been finishing together for months.
“Hey,” he said, voice still scratchy from sleep. “We’re making blueberry pie. Win thinks we’re going to win the whole contest this year.”
“I’m rigging it,” Winnie stage-whispered. “We’re baking in the magic.”
I smirked. “Obviously.”
Austin’s hand slid to rest against my lower back, warm and steady. “You good?”
I nodded, sipping my coffee and soaking in the light, the laughter, the easy way it all fit together now. “Great.”
I was more than good. I was home.
By late morning, the pie was cooling on the counter, the kitchen was only slightly less of a disaster, and Winnie had shifted gears completely.
She raced through the hallway in her socks, trying to decide which sparkly headband went best with her outfit for the party. I could hear her in her room narrating to her stuffed animals like she was the star of a red-carpet event.
“She’s got main character energy today,” Austin said, stepping beside me as I finished wiping down the counter. His hand settled on my lower back. “Also, I think I’m still finding glitter in my hair from her unicorn costume last week.”
“Good luck.” I laughed. “That stuff never goes away.”
“I hope this stage lasts forever,” he said quietly, but with a smile that told me it wasn’t the kind that wore you out—it was the kind that rooted you. “It’s the best.”
My chest pinched. Winnie was starting first grade next week.
She was equal parts excited and anxious, but mostly just thrilled that she got to stay in the neighborhood she knew after we moved. Her friends were close, the school was just a few blocks away, and she liked that we’d kept her routine as steady as possible.
What she didn’t say out loud—but I could see it in the way she held Austin’s hand a little tighter lately—was that it made all the difference having him there.
He meant it when he said he’d take care of the before-and-after-school stuff.
He was the one who packed her lunch just the way she liked it, with the extra pickles in a little cup.
He made her brush her teeth when she was stalling.
He braided her hair—after many, many online tutorials—and she beamed the whole time.
He was steady. Present. Everything I once thought I couldn’t count on.
Austin worked full-time for Wes now—officially on the books. He came home most days with sawdust in his hair and stories about the latest drama happening between guys on the crew. He loved it. Not just the work, but the purpose behind it.
Last month, with leftover materials from a custom sunroom project, he’d built Winnie a tiny playhouse in the backyard. Painted it lavender with a yellow door and little flower boxes under the windows.
She called it the Sparkle Fort and declared it a fairy-friendly zone.
Sometimes when I was working late on a restoration piece, I’d glance out the window and catch Austin sitting on the back porch steps, listening patiently while she explained her fairy kingdom’s bylaws or read him a chapter from one of her dog-eared books.
It was such a small life. So ordinary in the very best way.
But the way he loved us—fully, fiercely, without ever once flinching—made it feel big.
I set down the dish towel and leaned back into him. “She’s going to crush first grade.”
“Ha!” he cackled. “She’s going to run that school by Halloween.”
I winked in his direction. “She gets that from me.”
He laughed. “Obviously.”
I reached for the mixing bowl Austin had abandoned in favor of playing sous-chef to Winnie and started stirring what was left of the whipped cream.
“You know,” I said, eyeing the slightly lopsided crust on our pie, “I don’t want to insult your skills or anything, but this crust looks like it was rolled out by a pirate with a hook hand.”
Winnie gasped from her stool. “The captain would never! He’s very precise with his hook!”
Austin tried to look wounded. “I’ll have you know I followed the recipe exactly.”
“Uh-huh.” I tapped the spoon against the bowl and smirked.
“I was distracted,” he said. “Someone came in here in my favorite shirt and ruined my concentration.”
I shot him a slow, exaggerated look. “Is that so?”
Before he could reply, Winnie let out a dramatic groan and covered her eyes. “You guys are being mushy again.”
Austin grinned and flicked a bit of flour at her. “Just wait till you’re older. Being mushy is the best part.”
Winnie wrinkled her nose but didn’t argue. She was too busy sneaking a fingerful of filling from the pie tin.
Outside, a breeze swept through the open windows, fluttering the corner of the flyer and rustling the wildflowers in the vase.
The porch swing creaked gently.
It had been the first thing Austin built for me when we moved in—a surprise I found one evening after a long day of work, complete with two mismatched throw pillows and a handwritten note on the back: For slow mornings, long talks, and everything in between.
I smiled as I looked at it now, swaying just enough to remind me how much we’d grown here already. How much further we would go.
Austin’s arm slipped around my waist. “What are you smiling at?”
I leaned into him. “Just . . . everything.”
The screen door creaked open behind me just as I slid the finished pie onto the cooling rack.
“I think I see Brody’s truck,” Austin called from the porch. “Winnie! Go make sure your kingdom is ready!”
“Already did!” she shouted back, scampering past in a blur of bare feet and braids flying. “The fairy throne is sparkly and OFF LIMITS.”
I grinned and turned back toward the sink, rinsing the last of the crumbs from my hands. Outside, the warm summer air drifted in through the open windows, carrying with it the sound of distant laughter, birdsong, and the buzz of cicadas tucked in the tall grass.
Music played low on the record player—something old and easy, a song that made you want to swing your feet and drink something cold.
The kitchen smelled like sugar and lemon zest. The porch swing groaned contentedly as it rocked back and forth, a lazy rhythm to the hum of our little corner of the world.
A knock came at the front door, followed by a familiar voice.
“Don’t make me use my key,” Brody said with a laugh.
“You don’t have a key,” Austin replied, opening the door.
Brody gave him a playful shove. “Not yet.”
I wiped my hands and stepped out to greet them.
Kit was behind Brody, holding a casserole dish and wearing cherry-red lipstick that matched her earrings. Wes followed, his gait still slightly uneven, but more confident now. My sister Clara walked beside him, laughing at something he whispered to her—his expression softer than I’d ever seen it.
Elodie came next, holding a giant bowl of fruit and waving her elbow in the air as she passed me. “Don’t ask. Levi made me carry the healthy stuff. I’m hoping it’s a phase.”
Levi trailed behind, even taller than I remembered, with Cal at his side, both of them already eyeing the ice-cold lemonade at the table.
As Elodie stepped inside, I leaned in and murmured, “I still can’t believe Clara is here.”
She bumped her shoulder against mine and smiled. “Me neither. But it’s kind of nice, isn’t it?”
I glanced back at the porch where Clara now stood, nudging Wes’s arm and laughing as he pretended to glare at her.
“Yeah,” I said. “It really is.”
The house buzzed with movement—doors opening and closing, bare feet on the wood floors, chairs scooting across the deck. There were easy hugs and second helpings and the clink of glasses raised in toast.
The windows were wide open, letting in the warmth of the summer dusk, and the breeze caught the edge of the linen curtain, lifting it just enough to feel like the whole house was breathing.
We had made it.
Not perfectly. Not easily. But fully.
And with everyone here, the house didn’t feel new anymore.
It felt lived in. It felt like home.
The last of the dishes clinked into the sink.
Outside, the fireflies had taken over, blinking in a lazy rhythm beyond the porch rail.
The chatter of friends had faded, the music long stopped.
Now it was just the two of us, moving quietly through the kitchen like it was a ritual we’d practiced for years.
Austin’s hand brushed across the small of my back as I reached for a dish towel.
“You did good,” I murmured.
“So did you,” he said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
His touch lingered, his hand slipping beneath the hem of my shirt. His thumb dragged against my bare hip bone like he couldn’t help himself.
That warmth—that easy, electric thrum that always came alive between us—it bloomed again. Familiar. Safe. Irresistible.
This.
Not the walls. Not the porch swing or the smell of the grill outside.
This was home.
I turned and caught the look in his eyes. That slow-burn, storm-on-the-horizon kind of gaze he always gave me when the world quieted and we were just us.
Something passed between us—hot and steady.
Our mouths met in a kiss that was slow and certain, built from memory and longing and promise.
I could taste the day on his lips—laughter and lemonade and cinnamon sugar.
His hands settled on my hips. Mine curled around the back of his neck.
Later wasn’t soon enough.
The house was dark and still.
Winnie had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through a movie. Austin carried her upstairs with a gentleness that made my heart ache, and I watched them disappear down the hallway, the soft hush of her bedroom door clicking closed behind him.
By the time he returned, I was already under the covers, curled on my side, wearing one of his old tees and nothing else.
He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted.
“You just going to stand there all night?” I teased, voice low.
He hummed and moved closer. “I’m just thinking about all the ways I want to ruin you.”
Heat flushed beneath my skin. I sat up slowly, the sheet sliding off my legs. “Then show me.”
That was all it took. He crossed the room like a man starved.
His mouth crashed into mine, hot and hungry, hands already beneath my shirt. The kiss deepened, his tongue stroking against mine, pulling a whimper from my throat as he guided me back onto the pillows.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled against my neck. “Every damn day, Selene. I wake up hard just thinking about your legs around me.”
My breath hitched.
He peeled off my shirt like it was sacred, like unwrapping a gift he’d waited years to open. His hands roamed—palms and fingertips and knuckles grazing skin that had only ever felt this alive beneath his touch.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “This body? Mine. This mouth?” He kissed me, deeper now. “Mine too.”
His words weren’t filthy. They were worship.
When he slid down between my thighs, I moaned. He didn’t rush—he savored, devoured, like he was learning me all over again, even though he already knew every inch of me by heart.
His name broke from my lips again and again—plea and praise and promise.
When he finally sank into me, I gasped. He groaned, low and deep, like he was home.
Our bodies moved together, slow and desperate, chasing something ancient and tender and hungry. He kissed every part of me, whispering filth against my skin until I came undone beneath him, trembling and gasping his name.
After, we lay tangled in the sheets, limbs knotted, his hand tracing lazy circles over my hip.
He looked at me like there was no other life before this one. In his arms, with our whole messy, beautiful life unfolding around us, I realized—sometimes the best kind of magic isn’t the kind you chase.
It’s the kind that’s waiting to catch us when we fall.