Epilogue

Zoe

T he crisp chill of a cold December night falls around us like Christmas glitter in the air. Magic and the moon behind curtains of clouds blown in the wind.

My gloveless hands are warm around the tiny human tucked into my chest. Through the loud cacophony, the little one catches his father's voice, a shock of electricity running through his tiny body in a wiggly request to put him on his feet.

Carefully, I do, watching for his wobbly legs so his face doesn't tumble into the grass. With clumsy baby steps, he runs towards his dad, who stays on his haunches, one arm stretched for him, the other holding his twin brother.

I can't believe I once cursed those little things.

At the last step, his foot catches on some lumpy patch of grass and he face-plants like a little penguin. Unbothered, he hoists himself with his tiny arms and goes on his way to his dad and brother. Somewhere in the vicinity, their uncle cackles. Camila sends an elbow to his ribs, effectively silencing him, but she's just as amused, and enamored, with her offspring.

They walk on, together, to meet their family.

But I can't move.

Strong arms cocoon me from behind, parallel lines to my collarbones, and soft lips touch my hair in a silent hello. Then his chin rests on top of my head, the final step of a dance I know all too well.

Like coming home.

And just like that, the world goes on as it ceases to exist to us.

"You're sweaty." I twist my nose and melt into Miles, nonetheless.

"I know." He presses closer still against my back so that not one hair can fit between our bodies, his low chuckle rumbling in his core, shooting straight to my heart.

Four years and I still can't quite understand all the chemical reactions only he can incite in me.

Miles unzips my burgundy puffer jacket to frame my small bump in his hands. Warmth penetrates through the layers of clothing—and he feels it too.

The kicks go wild against Miles's hands—I swear our little bug has memorized his father's fingerprints to greet him effusively every time. "He's happy for his daddy, too."

The veins in which my son's blood runs pulse as Miles's hands flex. No matter how much my husband loves his job, his achievements, I know he's dying to get me home. Naked in our bed, holding us for hours as he tells our baby all his favorite stories and our fairy-tale history.

Just the three of us.

"I was thinking we should go home," he whispers in my ear as he starts walking us in the direction of our family. "Now. "

Waving on the sidelines, his parents are dressed in formal clothing: jerseys and scarves in red colors with their son's name, and beaming smiles that barely contain the contagious trifecta powered by Miles—happiness, pride, and unbridled love.

Old Grandpa looks down at us from his box. In the distance, I see the watery curve of his smile and I ache to stretch my hand to hold his. But his son is there. He does it himself.

Fifteen years of history will never be erased, but we're tucking the pen in our fingers and rewriting the ending.

After a small fortune of therapy, against myself and my self-sabotaging stubbornness, I decided to try. For my Grandpa, for my relationship, for my baby. But especially for me. Because I deserve a life without the burden of resentment and what-ifs.

My mom watches everything—us, them, and all the chapters we've written together. When she smiles at me, I know.

We'll be fine.

We'll argue and fight, and as long we're willing to fight, we'll be fine.

"You should celebrate," I say to my husband. "Hold your trophy, enjoy your victory."

I don't think he has looked at the cup twice. Granted, it's a carbon copy of the one his (our) team, Boston FC—officially twice-in-a-row national champions—won last season, but I still think he deserves to rejoice in the fruits of his hard work.

"That's exactly what I'm trying to do."

Helpless, I stare at him as he enumerates all the reasons why we should leave now .

Miles Blackstein.

My husband. The father of my child. My Number Nine. My forever.

"Blackstein?" I stop his rambling in its tracks.

"Yes, love?"

"Shut up." He obeys promptly, clamping his mouth shut and glaring at me with a frown. "Oh my God, Miles! That meant shut up and kiss me, not shut up and stay still and quie—"

He robs me of further argument, grabbing my waist to pull my body to his again. Like magnet and steel, they latch, they lock—not one centimeter between us. The mint in his warm breath kisses my lips first as he hovers, promising and denying.

"Yes, love."

He smiles—there they are, those damn dimples. They have always been my damnation.

And he complies.

Finally, he complies. He kisses me with all the adoration and ardent promise I can taste in every single one of his kisses.

Cameras surround us and the whole world is watching. I don't spare them a thought.

Inside our bubble, it's just us. Forever us.