Epilogue

EPILOGUE

SASHA 5 YEARS LATER

I t’s early, and the city is still quiet. I can hear the soft hum of traffic outside the window, the occasional bark of a dog, but inside our little apartment, it’s peaceful. The air smells like coffee and books—Evie’s doing, of course. She’s always got something brewing, whether it’s a new blend or a new stack of poetry anthologies spread across the kitchen table.

Our beautiful grey cat, Bruce, stretches himself out and then resettles himself on the window ledge.

I’m lying in bed, watching her move through the room, dressed in one of my old shirts, her hair still a little wild from sleep. It’s funny how after all these years, just seeing her like this—comfortable, relaxed, completely herself—can make my heart race.

It’s been five years since I almost lost her. Five years since I walked into that bookstore, terrified that it might be the last time I’d see her. And now, here we are, sharing mornings like this. It’s still a little surreal.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking up from her coffee cup, her voice teasing.

“Can you blame me?” I stretch lazily, the sheets cool against my skin. “You’re hard to look away from.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “Flattery won’t get you more coffee.”

I laugh, slipping out of bed and padding across the room to stand beside her. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her close, and she leans back into me with a soft sigh. It’s these little moments, the quiet intimacy of everyday life, that I never take for granted. I spent so long running, hiding from my past, that I never imagined I could have something like this—something that feels so stable, so real.

“Did you finish that poem?” she asks, turning her head slightly to glance at me.

“I’m still working on it,” I admit, resting my chin on her shoulder. “It’s not...coming out the way I want it to.”

“You’ll get there,” she says softly. “You always do.”

I smile against her skin, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck. “What about you? Have you decided which book to feature for the next poetry night?”

“Not yet.” She taps her fingers against the counter, thoughtful. “I was thinking of doing something classic. Maybe Yeats or Auden.”

“Always a safe bet,” I murmur, tightening my hold on her.

Her breath hitches slightly, and I feel the warmth of her body against mine, the familiar pull of desire sparking between us. Even after all these years, that feeling—the magnetic draw toward her—never fades. It’s always there, simmering beneath the surface.

She turns in my arms, her eyes meeting mine, and there’s a spark of something in her gaze—something playful, something teasing. “You know, we could have coffee...or we could skip straight to dessert.”

I raise an eyebrow, my lips curling into a smirk. “And what kind of dessert are we talking about?”

Her hands slide up my arms, tracing the lines of my muscles, and she leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “The kind that doesn’t require leaving the apartment.”

God, she knows exactly what she’s doing. My body reacts instantly, heat pooling in my stomach, desire thrumming through me like a live wire. I tilt her head back slightly, brushing my lips against hers, but I don’t kiss her yet. I want to draw it out, savor the tension.

“You’re playing with fire,” I whisper, my voice low.

She grins, her fingers tangling in my hair. “I know.”

And just like that, the space between us vanishes. My mouth finds hers, the kiss slow at first, but it deepens quickly, heat building between us like it always does. Her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, and I can’t get enough of her. I never can. The taste of her lips, the way her body fits so perfectly against mine—it’s intoxicating.

She presses herself closer, and I lift her onto the counter, my hands sliding under the hem of her shirt, feeling the softness of her skin. She gasps into my mouth as my fingers trace up her sides, sending a shiver through her.

“You’re supposed to be getting ready for work,” I murmur against her lips, though I have no intention of stopping.

She lets out a breathy laugh, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “I think I can be a little late.”

I grin, pushing her shirt up over her head, and the sight of her—bare, vulnerable, and mine—makes my pulse race. She pulls me in again, our kisses growing more urgent, more desperate, as the need between us builds. Every touch, every breath, feels electric, and I can’t think of anything else but her—how much I want her, how much I love her.

We don’t make it to the bedroom.

I don’t know how we ended up here, in the hallway, somewhere between the bedroom and the living room, but none of that matters now. All that matters is her—the way she’s looking at me, the way her body is trembling under my touch, the way her lips part slightly, like she’s waiting for me to take the next step.

I lean in close enough that I can feel her breath on my lips, but I don’t kiss her yet. I want to make her wait, to draw this out, to savor the moment before everything else falls away. My fingers trail down her sides, tracing the curve of her hips, and I feel her shudder beneath me.

“Sasha,” she whispers, her voice low, needy. “Please…”

Her plea sends a surge of heat through me, and I finally close the distance between us, capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. It’s soft at first, almost gentle, but the hunger is there just beneath the surface, and it doesn’t take long for it to rise up, pushing us both over the edge.

Her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, and I press her harder against the wall, my body flush against hers. I can feel her heart pounding in time with mine, the heat between us growing more intense with every second. I deepen the kiss, my tongue slipping past her lips, tasting her, losing myself in the familiar rhythm of her mouth against mine.

We’re moving quickly now, desperate, like we can’t get close enough, fast enough. My hands slip under the hem of her shirt, sliding up her smooth skin, and she gasps as my fingers brush the underside of her breasts. I love the way she responds to me, the way her body arches into my touch, the way she’s always been so open with me, so willing to give herself over to this.

To us.

I break the kiss just long enough to tug her shirt over her head, tossing it aside carelessly. The cool air hits her skin, and she shivers, her nipples hardening under my gaze. I can’t help but smile at the sight of her—so beautiful, so utterly mine.

I drop to my knees in front of her, my hands sliding down her thighs, hooking under the waistband of her panties. I glance up at her, and she’s watching me, her eyes dark with desire, her lips parted as she tries to catch her breath.

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” I ask, my voice husky, teasing. “We’re not even halfway to the bedroom.”

She bites her bottom lip, her fingers tangling in my hair again. “I don’t care. Just don’t stop.”

That’s all the encouragement I need.

I tug her underwear down her legs, my lips following the path of my hands, kissing the soft skin of her thighs as I go. She moans softly, her fingers tightening in my hair, and I can feel the tension in her body, the way she’s trembling with anticipation.

I pause for a moment, looking up at her and taking in the sight of her standing there. There’s something about moments like this—when it’s just us, stripped down to nothing but our desire for each other—that makes everything else disappear. It’s just her and me, the rest of the world fading into the background.

I press my lips to the inside of her thigh, trailing soft kisses up toward the heat of her pussy, and her breath hitches, her body tensing in anticipation. I can feel her need, the way she’s aching for me, and it drives me wild. I want to make her feel everything—every touch, every kiss, every breath.

And then, without another word, I give her what she wants. What we both want.

Her moan echoes through the hallway as I touch her, my fingers exploring her with slow, deliberate movements. Her hips buck against me, her hands gripping my shoulders as she tries to hold on, but I’m not going to let her rush this. I want to take my time, to savor every moment, to make sure she knows just how much I want her.

“Sasha,” she breathes, her voice trembling with need. “Please...”

I don’t make her beg for long.

I move faster, my fingers slipping inside her and beginning to fuck her, my lips pressing against her clitoris, and the sound she makes—a soft, breathless moan—is enough to send a shiver down my spine. She’s so responsive, so completely open to me, and I love the way I can push her to the edge, how I can make her lose herself in this, in us.

She’s close now, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. I can feel her tensing around me, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and I know she’s on the verge of falling apart. I push her harder, faster, and when she finally lets go, her release is sudden and explosive, her body arching against me as she cries out my name.

I don’t stop, not until she’s completely undone, her body trembling in the aftermath. And even then, I hold her close, my lips brushing against her skin as she comes down, my hands steadying her as she leans against the wall for support.

“God, Sasha,” she whispers, her voice shaky. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I grin, pressing a soft kiss to her lips as I pull her down to the floor, wrapping her up in my arms. We lie there together, tangled in each other, our breathing slowly evening out, the world outside forgotten.

And in this moment, everything feels perfect.

Later, we’re lying on the floor, wrapped up in each other, our bodies tangled together in the aftermath of something raw, something powerful. The room is quiet, save for the sound of our breathing, and I feel the weight of her head resting on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.

“I’m never going to get tired of this,” I say quietly, my hand running through her hair.

She hums softly, a contented sound, and I can feel her smile against my skin. “Me neither.”

It’s moments like this that make me realize how far we’ve come. There was a time when I didn’t think we’d make it—when I thought I’d lose her because of my past, because of the things I was too scared to admit. But she stayed. She forgave me. And together, we built something real.

As the day goes on, the comfort of our routine sets in. We spend the morning in the bookstore, rearranging displays and chatting with customers. It’s always busy on Saturdays, and the familiar hum of activity keeps us grounded. The poetry nights have grown over the years, and the bookstore has become more than just a shop—it’s a community hub, a place where people come to connect, to share their stories, their art.

Evie thrives here. She’s in her element, guiding people to the right books, recommending poems that will change their life. I love watching her work, seeing how effortlessly she moves through this world she’s created. And she lets me be a part of it, in the quiet way she always has.

As the afternoon fades into evening, we’re back home. The sun is setting, casting a golden light through the windows, and we’re curled up on the couch, a bottle of wine between us. The day’s been full, but now, it’s just us.

We’re talking about the future. We do that sometimes—dream about what’s next, even though we’re both happy with where we are. Evie’s been toying with the idea of expanding the bookstore, maybe adding a café or hosting more events, and I’ve been thinking about starting a poetry workshop for local kids.

“What do you think?” she asks, swirling her wine in her glass. “Should we take the plunge? Go bigger with the bookstore?”

I smile at her, loving the way she gets when she’s excited about something. “I think whatever you decide will be the right choice.”

She nudges me with her foot. “That’s not an answer.”

I laugh, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Fine. I think it’s a great idea. The store’s already a hit, and you’ve got the talent to make it even bigger. Plus, it’ll give me an excuse to spend more time there.”

Her smile softens, and she looks at me for a long moment, something tender in her gaze. “I love you, you know that?”

My heart stutters a little, the warmth of her words settling over me like a blanket. “I love you too.”

It’s so simple, but it’s everything.

Later, we’re in bed, the night quiet around us, but I can’t sleep. I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, my mind running over the years we’ve shared and how much we’ve been through together. I turn to look at her, at the way her face is softened in sleep, her hand resting gently on my chest.

I think about the life we’ve built. It wasn’t easy, not at first. There were times when I wasn’t sure if we’d make it, if we’d be able to move past the things that kept us apart. But we did. We found our way back to each other, and now... Now we have this.

I reach out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, and she stirs, her eyes fluttering open.

“Can’t sleep?” she murmurs, her voice soft and sleepy.

“Just thinking,” I say quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“About what?”

“About how lucky I am.”

She smiles, her hand sliding up to cup my cheek. “We both are.”

I pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her, and she settles against me, her body warm and familiar. We lie there for a long time, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around us like a cocoon.

And as I hold her, I realize that I don’t need to think about the future. Because everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve ever needed, is right here.

Five years later, and we’re still writing our story. Every day, every moment, we add a new line, a new chapter. And I wouldn’t change a single word.

The quiet stillness of the night settles over us as I hold her close. Her breathing is soft and even, and for a moment, I just let myself feel it—the warmth of her body against mine, the weight of her arm draped across me. There’s something grounding about it, this simple act of being together. It reminds me of how far we’ve come, how much we’ve grown since those early days of uncertainty and fear.

I think back to the first time we kissed, to the heat of that moment, and the years of passion and intimacy that followed. Those nights when we couldn't keep our hands off each other, the way we explored each other’s bodies with a hunger that seemed to burn forever. But now, there’s a different kind of intensity between us—deeper, quieter, more enduring. We still crave each other, but it’s balanced by the ease of knowing we’re safe in each other’s arms.

Her hand moves slightly in her sleep, fingers brushing against my chest, and I can’t help but smile. Even in her dreams, she reaches for me.

Kenneth passed away two years ago, and sometimes, I still expect to see him walk through the door of the bookstore, his arms full of new books, his easy smile lighting up the room. He’d been a constant in both our lives, someone who knew the bookstore as intimately as Evie and always seemed to know what we needed before we did. His absence is a quiet ache, a missing piece of the space that can never really be filled. When I walk past the counter, I can almost hear his voice, teasing me about one thing or another, offering unsolicited but always spot-on advice about my latest poem.

After he died, the bookstore felt different for a while—quieter, as if the energy had dimmed. Evie took it hard, of course. He was more than just an employee to her; he was a friend, a confidant, someone who had been by her side during some of her hardest moments. We honored him the best way we knew how: by keeping the poetry nights alive, something he always said was the heart of the place. Now, we always have a moment of silence for Kenneth at the beginning of every big event, and his picture still hangs behind the counter, watching over everything like a silent guardian.

Glass took it hard, too, in his own way. He was never the type to show much emotion, but I could tell it affected him. The four of us were close, bonded by our shared love of words and art, and Kenneth had been the glue that held a lot of things together. After Kenneth’s passing, Glass threw himself into his work, performing more and pushing the boundaries of his poetry, almost as if he were trying to outrun the grief. It wasn’t until recently that he found a kind of peace with it, and I think that’s what led him to where he is now—performing on bigger stages, his voice reaching more people than ever before.

Watching Glass perform these days is something else entirely. There’s always been an intensity to him when he’s on stage, but now there’s a fire that wasn’t there before. It’s as if losing Kenneth pushed him to dig deeper, to find parts of himself he hadn’t tapped into yet. His poetry is sharper, more raw, and audiences respond to him in a way that’s electric. He’s become something of a local legend, and whenever we watch him perform, I can’t help but feel a swell of pride for my friend who’s finally stepping into the spotlight he deserves.

Evie and I still keep in touch with him, of course. He comes by the bookstore when he can, and we sit and reminisce about the old days, laughing about Kenneth’s terrible taste in coffee and his surprisingly good taste in poetry. But those visits are fewer and farther between now that Glass is performing more often. It’s strange to think of him on those bigger stages with audiences hanging on his every word, but he’s earned it. I know Kenneth would be proud, too, seeing how far Glass has come since those quiet nights at the bookstore.

In a way, both of them—Kenneth and Glass—are still part of what we do here. The bookstore isn’t just about the books or the poetry nights. It’s about the community we built, the people we’ve loved and lost, and the ones who’ve helped shape us along the way. Even though Kenneth is gone and Glass is out there performing for the world, their spirits are still here, woven into the fabric of everything we do. And for that, I’m endlessly grateful.

The next morning, I wake before her, the soft light of dawn spilling through the curtains. I sit up slowly, careful not to disturb her, and slip out of bed. I pause for a moment, watching her sleep, and my chest tightens with love. It’s overwhelming sometimes, how much I feel for her. How much I know she’s changed my life.

I head into the kitchen and start brewing coffee, the rich scent filling the apartment. It’s one of our favorite rituals—mornings spent sipping coffee, reading poetry, talking about everything and nothing. The kind of mornings I never thought I’d have with anyone, let alone with someone like Evie. Someone who saw through all my walls and chose to stay.

As the coffee drips, I wander over to the window and look out at the city. New Orleans is waking up, the streets slowly coming to life. I love this city—the energy, the people, the way it feels like home. But what I love most is that it’s where we found each other.

Evie joins me a few minutes later, her hair a little messy from sleep, one of my shirts hanging loosely off her shoulder. She smiles at me, that soft, lazy smile that always makes my heart skip a beat.

“Morning,” she says, her voice still husky from sleep.

“Morning,” I reply, handing her a cup of coffee.

She takes a sip, closing her eyes in appreciation. “Perfect as always.”

We settle onto the couch, the quiet of the morning stretching out between us. It’s comfortable, this silence, and I feel a sense of peace that I never thought I’d have. We don’t need to fill the space with words; we’ve reached a point where just being together is enough.

But after a while, Evie sets her cup down and looks at me, her expression thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking,” she says slowly, her eyes meeting mine.

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow, curious. “About what?”

“About the bookstore. About us. About what’s next.”

I nod, leaning back into the cushions. “Go on.”

“I’ve been wondering if maybe we should do more with the poetry nights, maybe even start publishing some of the work that comes out of them. We could turn the bookstore into a real hub for the community. What do you think?”

I consider her words, a smile tugging at my lips. “I think it’s a brilliant idea. You’ve built something amazing there, and I’d love to see it grow.”

Her face lights up with excitement, and she leans forward, her eyes sparkling. “You really think we could do it?”

“I know we can,” I say, reaching out to take her hand. “We’re a good team, remember?”

She smiles, squeezing my hand. “We really are, aren’t we?”

As the day goes on, we work on plans for the bookstore, jotting down ideas and brainstorming how we could turn our little shop into something even bigger. The excitement is palpable between us, and I love seeing her so passionate about this. She’s always been the heart of the bookstore, and now she wants to share that heart with even more people.

Later, after the plans have been made and the excitement has settled, we find ourselves curled up on the couch again, this time with a bottle of wine and soft music playing in the background. The sun has set, and the apartment is bathed in the warm glow of lamplight.

Evie’s head rests on my shoulder, and I run my fingers through her hair, feeling the familiar pull of desire building between us. It’s a different kind of desire now—more mature, more grounded in the life we’ve built together. But it’s no less intense.

I tilt her chin up, brushing a kiss against her lips. “You know,” I murmur, my voice low, “I’m still not tired of you.”

She smiles against my mouth, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “Good. Because I’m definitely not tired of you.”

I deepen the kiss, letting it linger, savoring the taste of her. Her hands move to my waist, tugging me closer, and the heat between us grows. It’s a slow burn, the kind that comes from knowing each other inside and out, from years of trust and love. Every touch feels like a promise, every kiss a reminder of how far we’ve come.

We don’t rush. There’s no need to. We have all the time in the world.

Later, we lie tangled together in the sheets, the night quiet around us. Evie is draped across me, her head resting on my chest, her breath slow and even. My hand moves in lazy circles on her back, and I feel a deep sense of contentment settle over me.

“I love you,” she whispers, her voice soft in the darkness.

“I love you too,” I reply, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She shifts slightly, looking up at me with those eyes that always manage to steal my breath. “Do you think we’ve made it?”

I smile, my heart swelling with affection. “Yeah, I think we have.”

We’ve built a life together—a life full of love, trust, and understanding. It wasn’t always easy, but it was always worth it. And now, as I hold her close, I know that we’ll keep writing our story, one day at a time.

Because this? This is what I’ve always been waiting for.

And I’m never letting it go.