“I can’t believe we did this here,” I whispered.
“I can,” he said simply. “We came back. We built something better.” Then he pulled me close. “This is better than air conditioning.”
We danced with Mom. We danced with each other. We laughed, cried, and held on through every song.
After the cake, after we tossed our boutonnieres to the crowd, Dare slipped his hand in mine and tugged me away from the party. We ended up back at the same bench, now covered in gifts. Dare moved them aside and pulled me onto his lap.
“You believed in us before I did,” he said. “You always saw something worth building.”
“And you finally let me.”
He leaned in and kissed me, slow and unhurried, like the best things always are. The scent of his cologne drove me wild. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
“Here’s to scraped knees,” I whispered.
“To second chances,” he murmured back.
And then we just… sat there, my head on his shoulder, his hand in mine, his thumb absently brushing over my wedding band. Two men in tuxedos, tipsy and married, sitting on the edge of the soccer field where everything began.
And ended.
And began again.
EPILOGUE
TRU
Sometimes you have to start from the very beginning to see how far you’ve come.
It was wild,watching someone grow up into your favorite person, and then watching that person help someone else do the same.
The backyard smelled like cedar mulch and sunscreen. Dare’s shirt was flung somewhere behind him, and a smudge of blue paint streaked his cheek. I didn’t tell him. I liked the way it made him look—like the kind of dad who built things with his hands and carried Band-Aids in his wallet. Which, to be fair, he did.
Remy stood a few feet away, squinting up at the half-finished skateboard ramp with his arms crossed and his dark curls plastered to his forehead.
“But, Daddy,” he said, glancing between us, “I don’t even know how to skate. How come I need a ramp?”
Dare didn’t miss a beat. “It’s not about skating.”
Remy tilted his head. “Then what’s it for?”
“It’s about the memories you’ll make beneath the ramp,” Dare said. “That’s what’s important.”
Our kid blinked. “Like… hiding?”
“Exactly,” I chimed in. “Hiding. Thinking. Making secret forts. Kissing your best friend if you’re brave enough.”
“I don’t have a best friend,” he said flatly, but not before a look of pure disgust crossed his face at the idea of kissing anyone. Especially a friend.
“Yet,” Dare said, smiling.
Remy tilted his head again like he was calculating the odds, then bolted for the garden hose. Dare groaned. “Not the tomatoes, dude! Those are for salsa!”
I leaned back on my elbows and laughed, watching him chase our son through the spray. Sunlight caught the dark band on my finger. It had been years—years since college, since that graduation kiss, since the Comic-Con panel where we finally said out loud what the world already knew.
And somehow, even after all that, it still felt like the start of something.
We adopted our boy three years ago. His older brother had been coming to the rec center for months, showing up early for the after-school program Dare started. He wouldn’t talk much at first. Wouldn’t sit still either. A wild little orbit of energy, always hungry, always watching. His mom stopped coming. Then one day, his caseworker showed up, and Dare—being Dare—asked the right questions.
