Jack is quiet for a moment, and I can see him thinking through the answer. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Dad will probably want us involved in whatever comes next, helping to rebuild. But...” He looks at me with something approaching wonder. “We have choices now. Real choices. We could stay and help remake Britain. We could disappear somewhere quiet and live whatever life we want. We could take up Selwyn’s offer and join that wonderful-sounding community of his.”
The freedom implicit in his words is dizzying. For the first time in my life, I can choose my own path. I can decide what kind of life I want to build. I can discover who I am when I’m not saving worlds or playing political games or desperately trying to survive a vicious court.
“What do you want?” I ask.
Jack’s smile is soft and full of love. “I want whatever makes you happy. I want to wake up next to you every morning without worrying that someone’s going to try to kill us. I want to have lazy Sunday mornings and arguments about interior design and all the boring, wonderful things that normal people take for granted.”
The picture he paints is so tempting, so perfectly ordinary, that it makes my chest tight. “I’d like that too,” I whisper.
“But Love, please don’t scare me like that again,” Jack says, his voice taking on a note of genuine worry. “When you collapsed, I thought...” He swallows hard. “I thought I might lose you right when we’d won everything.”
I smile, reaching up to cup his face with my free hand. “I don’t intend to seal any more worlds shut.”
“That’s a relief.”
Jack helps me sit up properly, arranging pillows behind my back with the sort of fussing care that speaks of genuine fear transformed into protective action. He offers me water first, holding the glass while I drink, then fetches a bowl of soup that smells absolutely divine.
I accept gratefully, realising I’m famished. The first spoonful floods my mouth with rich, complex flavours. Beef and herbs and vegetables, all perfectly balanced. Cooked with intention.
“You made this,” I say, not really a question. I can taste the care in every ingredient. The soup is imbued with emotion.
Jack nods, looking pleased with himself. “With love.”
The simple declaration, offered so casually, hits me with unexpected force. He hasn’t simply mastered fey cooking techniques. He made me soup. With love. As if loving meis the most natural thing in the world, as if caring for me when I’m weak is just something he does.
I eat every last spoonful and then set the bowl carefully on the bedside table, my hands trembling slightly. Not from magical exhaustion this time, but from the overwhelming realisation of how completely this man has changed my life. Not so long ago, I was alone, bitter and spiteful, convinced I would spend eternity in exile surrounded by people who saw me as a useful tool at best. Now I have someone who makes me soup when I’m sick, who carries me home through the rain, who looks at me like I hung the stars in the sky.
“Marry me,” he says suddenly, the words tumbling out like he can’t contain them anymore.
I raise an eyebrow, confused by the seeming non sequitur. “We are already married? Did you forget?”
“But I never got to propose, and you never said yes,” he explains, his voice taking on an earnest quality that makes my heart skip. His eyes are bright with something between hope and desperation. “Everything was arranged for us, decided by other people. I want to choose you properly. I want you to choose me.”
The distinction hits me like lightning. The difference between a political arrangement and a personal commitment. Between duty and choice. Between what we had to do and what we want to do.
I think about our wedding day, how terrified I was, how certain I was that he would eventually grow to hate me. I think about all the secrets I’ve revealed, all the ways he’s seen me at my worst and most broken. I think about how he held me when I confessed to poisoning his food, howhe punched a duke for touching me without permission, how he stood guard in the rain while I saved two worlds.
He’s seen every part of me. The power, the trauma, the petty vindictiveness, the desperate need for love that I’ve spent a lifetime trying to hide. And he’s still here. Still choosing me.
“Yes,” I say simply, but my voice cracks on the single syllable.
His face transforms, lighting up with such pure joy that it takes my breath away. “You’ll marry me?”
“That’s what I said.”
And then he kisses me.
This isn’t like our first kiss. This is something else entirely. Deeper. No longer the beginning of something, this is roots digging deep. Taking hold. Settling in for eternity.
His lips are soft against mine, warm and perfect and tasting faintly of the tea he must have been drinking while watching over me. I can feel his smile against my mouth, can taste the salt of tears I didn’t realise he was crying.
One of his hands comes up to cup my face, thumb stroking across my cheekbone with infinite gentleness. The other tangles in my hair, careful not to disturb the healing braid I suddenly realise is there, and holding me like I’m something precious he’s afraid to lose.
I kiss him back with everything I have, pouring a lifetime of loneliness and fear and desperate hope into the connection between us. I taste his love, his relief, his absolute certainty that this is what he wants. There’s no hesitation, no reservation, just pure devotion given freely.
When he pulls back slightly to breathe, I can see the tears tracking down his cheeks. Happy tears, the kind thatcome when something perfect happens after you’ve given up hope of perfect things.
“I love you,” he whispers against my lips, the words soft as prayer. “I love you so much it terrifies me sometimes. I love your brilliance and your power and your snark. I love how you make the hard choices when no one else can. I love that you saved Earth despite how much it cost you, despite it meaning you can never go home.”
