Epilogue

Twelve years later,and he's still the most physical person she's ever met.

It feels natural to her now—the hand resting at the small of her back while they're maneuvering through a crowd, his fingertips tracing invisible patterns on her calves while watching TV on the couch. When her days at work are particularly long, she feels the absence keenly—an itch under her skin—and knows he's at home feeling it three times worse.

On those days, she usually comes home to more food than either of them can eat and a mess in the kitchen. Or, if he's feeling particularly anxious, the house will be spotless, but his stomach empty—the whole day gone by in a flurry of detergents and sprays. It's easier, he tells her, when there's something for his hands to do. To touch. The pen dragging over paper and the clicking of his keyboard isn't enough, no matter how many words are dancing in his head or how many writing deadlines he has to meet.

There are laugh lines around his eyes now. When she points them out, a strange expression softens his face. Sara has never known anyone to be happy about wrinkles, but he admires them in the mirror with a giddiness that leaves her baffled. "It will be wonderful," he says, gaze warm, "Growing old with you."

He still manages to steal her breath with just a handful of words. Of course, words have always been his to mold—a weapon and a shield, a lure and a deterrent. After centuries of having nothing but his voice, Sara can't say she's surprised at how well he's honed this skill. That she's still so affected by it, over a decade later, is another story.

She shivers in response to his whispers, burns when his voice dips low. He knows her weaknesses, her strengths, more than anyone; plays her body like an instrument with nothing but gentle, teasing touches and sing-song promises. Never does he leave her wanting.

It's not the perfect arrangement—nothing ever is—but they've made it work. Her photography career keeps them both busy traveling from place to place, but Seth hardly seems to mind. If anything, he's thrilled to show her the parts of the world he's familiar with, and eager to experience the new ones by her side. Sometimes they spend weeks living out of their suitcases. Home is wherever they're together; where they can lay their heads and whisper to each other in the dark.

Though, that's all about to change now.

Washing the dishes, she feels his arms slide around her waist from behind—his lips smiling into the bare skin of her shoulder in a way that makes her body hum. "Damn the dishes," he murmurs. "They'll still be there in the morning."

"Yeah, except even grosser."

He sighs, his hands sliding over the swell of her stomach. She gives him credit for not correcting her grammar even though she can tell the temptation's there. "This is an unfortunate truth." His palms rest over the taut skin, a patient pressure. "How are my favorite girls this evening?"

Sara shakes her head, an exasperated smile pulling at her lips. "What if you're wrong?"

He places a kiss along her jaw, his words a soft but firm murmur in her ear. "I'm not."

"But if you are?"

"Then I suspect you will never fail to remind me."

"Well, you got that part right, at least," she says with a laugh. "What makes you so sure, anyway?"

"When do you ever fail to remind me of the times I was wrong?" At her exasperated glare, he grins—kissing her nose. "Just a feeling, Love. Just a feeling."

"You're sure it's not just because you want a girl?"

He pulls her closer. She still has another two months to go before her due date, but her stomach is still big enough to get trapped between them. Seth seems to find it as amusing as she does annoying. "I assure you, I want nothing but the two of you safe and happy." He reaches up, fingertips brushing over her skin as he pushes a stray hair from her face. "The rest of it, who they are, doesn't matter. Because they are ours."

Sara smiles. She feels the same way. "Jen's still disappointed we aren't finding out."

"Jen has her own child to mind. She should have no problem waiting with the rest of us." He kisses her temple before releasing her, picking up a towel to dry the dishes as she finishes them. "Tell me, is Shaun still struggling with his reading?"

Sara shakes her head, handing him a plate. "Jen said he's been doing a lot better since you gave her the name of that series. Apparently he's going through them so quick, she thinks he'll probably finish them before we get the chance to visit for Christmas."

Seth hums. "I told her. He was simply bored with the reading material that asinine—"

She silences him with a look, and he grumbles the rest of his complaints about the American education system under his breath. That particular discussion has been beaten to death, especially since they've moved back to the states to be closer to Jen and Miles.

A tiny foot presses against the inside of her ribs, prompting her to shift. Her pregnancy was… not a mistake—she could never bring herself to call it that—but far from planned. A gift neither of them thought they wanted until two pink lines proved it had been given, anyway.

It had encouraged them to put down roots; to pick a place and stay there. It took a few months of back and forth before they settled on a home in Chicago. With three bedrooms and two bathrooms, it felt huge despite being small in comparison to the size of homes being sold in the suburbs outside the city. Now, with many of Oma's belongings (lovingly stored for all these years) filling the space, it feels just right.

While he finishes drying, Sara begins to turn off the lights in the other rooms, but when she gets to the hallway, she pauses. Her hand hovers over the switch, her eyes staring past the open door into the second bedroom. There's still no fresh paint on the walls, and it's lined with boxes that still need unpacking, but in the corner is a dollhouse. The same one her grandfather made and her grandmother kept. The same one she almost said goodbye to.

She's no wordsmith—her art is visual, not written—but she thinks there's something poetic about those miniature rooms and tiny shingles. A physical symbol of the hopes family has the power to pass down; the dreams they can inspire when nurtured with kindness…

A reminder of the legacy Oma gave her, of how her patience and love helped Sara bloom despite the lack of light at home. It's fitting that it find a home in the nursery.

Seth's hand touches her lower back, his lips a caress against her temple. "You look so serious, my dear."

She leans into him, head resting on his chest. "We're going to be good parents, right?"

His chest falls with the depth of his sigh. "Ah, now that is a worrying thought, isn't it?" He reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers. "I believe we'll try our very best. And, I think, that alone will make the difference," he murmurs, raising their hands and placing a kiss on her knuckles. He waits until she meets his eyes before adding, "We are not our fathers."

No, they're not. Sara will die before she chooses the bottle over her child, and Seth would turn the world over before he let them feel unwanted. Both of their fathers are gone now, his to Time and hers to liver disease, but somehow the shadows of their mistakes remain. Sara's determined that they learn from them—be better than them.

Seth gives her a peck on the cheek before flipping the light switch. "Now, let's save the parenthood panic for tomorrow, shall we? I'm knackered."

He's not—no doubt he'll spend another two hours reading before even trying to go to bed. It's just that he knows her well enough to understand that the fastest way for her to sleep is to convince her to get under the covers. He uses the same tactic whenever she's tired, but being stubborn about it.

Tonight, it's enough to convince her to follow him to their bedroom, but her mind is still buzzing and—for once—he's the one that falls asleep first. His arm drapes over her waist, his even breaths fanning across the nape of her neck. It's the slow rhythm of his chest at her back, the warmth of him, that soothes her anxious thoughts until they're silent.

Her eyes close. Sleep beckons. Sara dreams.

She is surrounded by the gentle rolling hills of her childhood, a sunrise spilling across the cornfields and painting the green leafy stalks in golden hues. Flashes of jeweled red dance around her, light glinting off their iridescent wings.

Ladybirds—thousands of them. Sara catches one on her fingertip, counts the spots, and smiles.

It's going to be another good year.

THE END