"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." His hands are still on my face, warm and steady. "Because I'm not letting you go."
We move upstairs and settle on the couch with my legs draped over his lap.
His thumb moves against my ankle. Back and forth, absent, like his hands need to be busy.
My eyes are getting heavy. The exhaustion is bone-deep but good—the kind that comes after using every ounce of courage you have and coming out the other side intact.
"Come on." Holt's voice is soft. "Bed."
I steal one of his t-shirts, brush my teeth, wash the dried tears off my face. When I climb into bed, he's already there. I curl around him, my head on his shoulder, his arm pulling me close.
"Today was insane."
"Yeah."
"But we made it."
"We did."
I yawn. The words come out quiet, easy. "I love you."
Holt's arms tighten around me, his lips brush my temple. "I love you too."
Sleep pulls at me. My body's already sinking into it, warm and safe and home. I'm not afraid of what tomorrow brings. Because whatever it is, I'm not facing it alone.
I'm home. I'm loved. I'm free.
And that's everything.
Epilogue
The music's loud enough to feel in my chest, and Holt's hand is warm at the small of my back as we navigate through the crowd. String lights crisscross overhead, turning the whole town square gold and soft, and I can smell barbecue and fried dough and beer everywhere. The sage dress swirls around my thighs with each step, light and easy.
"I can't believe it's been eight months," I say, leaning into Holt's side as someone jostles past with an armful of corn on the cob.
"Feels longer." His voice is low and close. "In a good way."
I tip my head back to grin at him. "You saying I'm exhausting to be around?"
"I'm saying every day with you feels full."
God, this man. "Smooth, Ward." I push up on my toes to kiss his jaw, tasting salt and the faint trace of his aftershave. "Real smooth."
His hand tightens at my waist, just for a second, and heat pools low in my stomach even though we're in the middle of the damn festival. Eight months and he still makes me feel like I'm burning from the inside out.
"Scout! Holt! There you are!" Maeve appears like she's been summoned, a beer in each hand and her wild curls pulled back with what looks like a bandana. "About time you two showed up."
I take one of the beers, cold condensation immediately slicking my palm. "We had to close up the shop first. Someone's gotta lock the register."
"How's business?" She takes a long pull from her own bottle, eyeing me with that knowing look she gets.
"Good. Really good." The pride's right there in my voice, no hiding it. "We've got more customers than we can handle, honestly. Had to start turning people away for next week."
And it's true. The shop's thriving, and I'm a huge part of that—the way I organized the scheduling system, how I charmed Mrs. Gunderson into actually paying on time, the fact that I learned to read Holt's shorthand and Finn's chaos and make both of them make sense on paper. I'm good at this. Me. Scout Adler who couldn't hold down a job for more than six months her entire adult life.
"Knew you would be." Maeve bumps my shoulder with hers. "You've got that scary competent thing going on."
