Epilogue

Ophelia

A month later . . .

My hands are smudged with dust from unpacking yet another box, but I don’t care. This is the good kind of mess, the kind that comes with starting over—starting together.

Haydn’s laugh carries from the kitchen, where he’s attempting to organize my mismatched collection of mugs alongside his sleek, designer set that probably cost more than my first camera. “Do we really need this many?” he shouts playfully.

“Yes,” I call back, grinning as I tuck another stack of books onto the shelves of his library. “Every mug has a purpose. Leave them alone.”

“Fine, but don’t blame me when we run out of cabinet space and have to buy a new house,” he replies, his voice full of mock defeat.

“That’s ridiculous, Wesford. It’s just a few mugs,” I lie, knowing full well I brought closer to thirty.

“Then I’ll just remodel the kitchen,” he teases.

The warmth in his tone wraps around me, making my chest ache in the best way. I’m finally ready for this—for him. It’s been a week since we officially got back together, and he didn’t want to wait to move me back into his house. This time for realz , as he said.

I open another box and pause. It’s labeled Photos, written in my neat cursive. Carefully, I lift the flaps, revealing stacks of frames and glossy prints wrapped in tissue paper. The first is a picture of the two of us from a few weeks ago—Haydn grinning at the camera, his arm draped over my shoulder, while I laugh mid-motion, caught off guard. I set it aside, my fingers trailing over the frame.

When I search for a space in his bookcase, my breath hitches. It’s the photograph. That photograph. The one from my gallery. Me, sitting cross-legged on the floor, camera in hand, exhaustion in my eyes. I knew someone bought it, but I had no idea who.

“Haydn?” I call, my voice trembling slightly.

“Yeah?” He appears in the doorway a moment later, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder, his hair slightly disheveled. His gaze falls to the photo in my hands, and a soft, almost sheepish smile spreads across his face.

“You bought this?” I ask, holding it up. “At the gallery?”

He steps closer, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the frame. “Of course I did,” he says simply, his voice low, intimate. “I couldn’t let anyone else have it. That’s my Pia. Strong, beautiful, determined. I wanted a piece of you with me, even when I didn’t know if we’d ever get back here.”

My throat tightens, and I blink back the sudden sting of tears.

Haydn wraps me in his arms, pulling me close, his lips brushing against the top of my head. “Hey,” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “None of that. This is supposed to be a happy day.”

I laugh softly through the tears, burying my face in his chest. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He chuckles, the sound a low, soothing rumble. “Yeah, but you love me for it.”

I lean back just enough to look at him, my fingers brushing the stubble along his jaw. “I do,” I whisper. “I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone.”

His expression softens, his forehead pressing lightly against mine. “Good,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Because I plan on spending the rest of my life proving I deserve you.”

Tears slip down my cheeks, but I don’t bother brushing them away. Instead, I kiss him—slow and deep, filled with everything I feel but can’t quite put into words. His hands cradle my face, his thumbs brushing the tears away as he kisses me back, steady and sure.

When we finally pull apart, his smile is soft, his eyes warm as they meet mine. “So,” he says, nodding toward the photo. “Where are we hanging this?”

I glance at the photograph, then back at him, my chest swelling with something that feels a lot like peace. “Right here,” I say. “In the heart of it all.”

And as we carefully place the frame on the shelf, side by side, I know this is exactly where I’m meant to be—building a life with him, one moment, one memory at a time. Together. Forever.

Haydn

One Year Later . . .

The terrace is exactly as I envisioned—warm, intimate, and glowing under the soft shimmer of fairy lights strung across the beams. The house is quiet, save for the faint hum of a song playing through the open doors. Pia’s favorite, of course. She doesn’t know yet, but tonight is for her. All of it.

The lake stretches out beyond the edge of the terrace, calm and endless, reflecting the moonlight like it’s trying to outshine the lights above us. It feels right. Like the kind of place where promises are made, where forever can begin.

I stand there, gripping the small velvet box in my pocket, and glance at the setup one last time. The table is set for two, candles flickering in the soft breeze, her favorite flowers—cherry blossoms—arranged in a loose bouquet. I made sure every detail was perfect. She deserves perfect.

The sound of her laugh carries from inside the house, and I turn just as she steps through the open doors. My Pia. She’s barefoot, her hair falling loose over her shoulders, wearing one of those simple sundresses she loves. The ones that make her look like a dream.

She stops when she sees the setup, her eyes widening. “Haydn, what is this?” she asks, her voice soft but curious.

I step toward her, holding out a hand. “Come here,” I say, my voice lower than usual, thick with everything I’m feeling.

She takes my hand, her gaze flitting between the table, the lights, and me. “This is beautiful,” she murmurs.

“Not as beautiful as you,” I reply, because it’s true, and tonight is about telling her every truth I’ve been holding on to.

I lead her to the edge of the terrace, where the view of the lake stretches wide, infinite. The lights wrap around us, their glow catching in her eyes as she turns to look at me. And just like that, I’m sure. More sure than I’ve ever been about anything in my life.

“Pia,” I begin, my hands finding hers, holding them gently but firmly. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About what we’ve been through, what we’ve built, and what’s still ahead of us. And I keep coming back to one thing.”

Her brows knit slightly, and she tilts her head, her lips curving in that small, curious smile I love so much. “What’s that?” she asks.

“You,” I say simply. “It’s always been you, Pia. From the moment you walked into my life, you’ve been the constant. Even when we were apart, you were the piece of my world I couldn’t let go of.”

Her lips part, but no words come. Her eyes glisten, reflecting the light, and I take that as my sign to keep going.

“I’ve spent my life chasing dreams,” I continue, my voice thick with emotion. “Hockey, success, the next big goal. But none of it ever felt complete until you. You make everything brighter, everything better. And I know I don’t need to chase anymore. I’ve already found what matters most.”

I release one of her hands and reach into my pocket, pulling out the small velvet box. Her breath catches, her eyes widening as I lower myself onto one knee. The world around us fades, and it’s just her, me, and this moment.

“Ophelia Foster,” I say, my voice trembling but steady with purpose. “You are my heart, my home, my forever. I promise to love you through every moment—good, bad, messy, and beautiful. Will you marry me?”

Her gaze locks on mine, and for a heartbeat, I can’t breathe. Then she nods, tears streaming down her cheeks, her laugh breaking through the quiet like the sweetest music.

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice cracking with emotion. “Yes, Haydn. A thousand times, yes.”

I slip the ring onto her finger, a perfect fit, and rise to my feet, pulling her into my arms. Her hands cup my face as she kisses me, slow and deep, like she’s sealing the promise we just made.

As we stand there, wrapped in each other under the glow of the lights, the lake shimmering behind us, I know this is it.

This is everything.

She is everything.

My forever and my all.