I slide the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly, like it was always meant to be there. She stares at it a moment, then at me, eyes shining.
“I love you,” she whispers. “So much.”
I kiss her—slow, deep, tasting salt and sunrise and the future we’re finally brave enough to claim. Her fingers thread into my hair, holding me close like she’s afraid I’ll vanish. I won’t. Not ever again.
When we break apart we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, smiling like fools.
“Forever starts now,” I say against her lips.
“Forever started the day you caught me,” she answers.
We walk back slowly, hands linked, ring catching every new ray of sun. The cottage waits at the top of the path—our cottage now, no longer just hers or just a rental. The porch has been rebuilt, fresh paint gleaming white against gray shingles. The roof doesn’t leak anymore. The windows are new, letting in light instead of drafts. Inside, the walls are the soft blue she chose, the kitchen counters scrubbed clean, the fireplace ready for the first fire of fall.
We step inside. She kicks off her boots, I follow. The house smells like coffee and cedar and us.
She turns to me in the entryway, eyes bright. “Show me again.”
I don’t ask what she means. I just pull her close and kiss her—deeper this time, hungrier. Her hands slide under my jacket, pushing it off. Mine find the hem of her sweater, lift it over her head. We leave a trail of clothes across the living room—flannel, leggings, my shirt, her bra—until we reach the bedroom.
The bed is still unmade from last night. Sunlight pours through the window, warming the quilt. I lay her down gently, follow her, brace my weight on my forearms so I can look at her—really look.
“You’re mine,” I murmur, kissing the hollow of her throat.
“Always,” she breathes.
We move slow—deliberate, reverent. Every touch feels like a vow renewed. I kiss down her body—collarbone, breasts, stomach—until she’s arching, fingers tangled in my hair. When I settle between her thighs she welcomes me with a soft gasp, legs wrapping around my hips. I slide inside her slowly—deep, steady—watching her face the whole time. Her eyes flutter closed, lips parting on my name.
We rock together—gentle at first, then deeper, faster—hands linked above her head, breaths mingling, hearts pounding in perfect rhythm. She comes with a quiet cry, trembling around me, pulling me over the edge with her. I bury my face in her neck, groan her name, shudder through the release.
We stay tangled after—sweaty, sated, breathing each other in. Sunlight creeps farther across the bed, warming our skin.
She traces the line of my scar with her fingertip. “We made it.”
“We did.”
Months pass in the quiet, steady way good things do.
I start teaching self-defense classes at the community center—Tuesday and Thursday evenings, open to anyone who wantsto learn how to feel safer in their own skin. Isla helps organize them, makes flyers, greets people at the door with that warm smile that makes everyone feel welcome. The first night only three women show up—nervous, quiet. By the fourth week the room is full. I teach them how to break a grip, how to strike, how to run when they need to run. I teach them they’re allowed to fight back.
Isla watches from the side sometimes, arms crossed, eyes shining with pride. Afterward she helps me put away mats, locks up, walks home with me hand in hand.
Travis never made bail. The trial was quick—guilty on all counts. He’s serving time in a facility two states away. The restraining order is permanent. Isla still checks her phone sometimes—old habit—but the fear in her eyes has faded to something softer, something manageable. She sleeps through the night now. So do I.
The cottage is fully ours. We painted the spare room pale yellow because she says it feels like hope. We bought a dog—a big, goofy mutt named Scout who barks at seagulls and sleeps across our feet. The porch swing creaks when we sit on it at dusk, coffee mugs in hand, watching the sun sink into the Pacific.
Some evenings we walk the beach again—barefoot now, summer sand warm under our toes. We hold hands, fingers laced, ring glinting in the last light. The waves roll in steady and sure, erasing our footprints just like they always have.
But we leave new ones tomorrow.
And the day after.
And every day after that.
I look at her now—hair blowing across her cheek, ring catching the sunrise—and feel something settle deep in my chest.
Peace.
Not the absence of pain. Not the absence of memory. Just the quiet certainty that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
