The crowd went absolutely feral. Someone in a Deadpool costume screamed, “SAY YES, DARE!” and a whole section started chanting it like a battle cry.
I didn’t realize I was crying until Tru came down from the stage, holding the real version of that same ring, a black tungsten band like his own, but with three small diamonds inlaid down the center.
He stopped in front of me, kind of awkward, a bit flushed, and completely perfect.
“Dare Carter,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “will you be my forever co-creator?”
The crowd roared. A Princess Leia fainted. Someone yelled, “Ship confirmed!”
My voice failed, so I nodded, then pulled him into a kiss that made at least three cosplayers swoon and one guy shout, “TRUE LOVE IS CANON!”
Fuck, I needed to stop dragging my feet and marry this man already. We’d been playing fiancés for two years, and now, at twenty-four, the bit was getting stale.
Later, backstage, Tru pulled something crinkled from his pocket.
“I made this years ago,” he said. “Back when I didn’t know if we’d even end up in the same city, let alone the same life.”
He handed it to me. It was a drawing of our superhero versions, at least twenty years older, sitting on a porch swing, hands laced. No capes. No villains. Just peace. They were so similar to the ones I used to steal and pin to our dorm room walls, before I realized Tru was the talent behind the art.
At the bottom, he’d written:“Maybe this is the real origin story.”
I folded it carefully, like it was sacred. Because it was. I used to think love was something you had to hide. Now it was printed in full color on a banner hanging above a Comic Con stage.
Tears burned my eyes, and I wiped them away with a short laugh. “So this is how our story ends?”
Tru shook his head, smiling softly. “No. It’s just the last page of volume one.”
I laughed under my breath, pulling him close until his forehead bumped mine. Around us, the noise of the convention roared back to life. Fans shouted, music blared, and someone in a Pikachu suit tripped over a foam sword. But all I could see was him.
“This mean we’re getting a sequel?” I murmured.
“Oh, definitely,” he said. “Long series. Ongoing. Maybe even a crossover event.”
“Think the fans will stick around?”
He grinned, eyes bright and stupidly in love. “They’ve been rooting for us since the first issue.”
I kissed him again, soft, quick, the kind you save for when the world feels too big and perfect all at once.
Because it hit me right then, surrounded by capes and face paint and cardboard armor: we’d survived the awkward middle school years, the heartbreak, the long-distance stretch, every stupid dare life threw our way. And somehow, we’d turned it all into a story worth telling.
The crowd outside erupted again. Someone must’ve spottedus through the curtain. But Tru only laughed, tucking the drawing safely into my jacket pocket.
“Ready to head home, superhero?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, lacing our fingers together. “Let’s go write the next chapter.”
CHAPTER 48
TRUEN CARTER
People talk about love like it’s lightning — sudden, unstoppable, dangerous. But real love’s more like building a fire. You tend it, you feed it, and if you’re lucky, it keeps you warm for the rest of your life.
We touredevery venue on the East Coast.
Barns with fairy lights. Rooftops with skyline views. Art museums with glass walls and tasteful silence. Even a glass atrium with a koi pond and climate control engineered by NASA.
None of it felt right. Everything was too formal, too cold, too curated. Too far from where we began. Dare said one looked like “the kind of place rich people go to get divorced”.
