My Sparrow. My home.
Our forever.
Epilogue
Riley
The Noble Fir breathes with life today, the kind of life that knocks the wind out of me, then presses it right back in, but softer and sweeter than before. It’s as though all the tension that ever lived in this place, in me, in Breaker, in every battered soul seated at these scarred wooden tables, has evaporated, burned off by late-summer sun, pine-needle breeze, and the laughter of family gathered around shared tables, with drinks, with food, with love.
I take it in with all five senses and then with the one I’m still getting used to: hope. The Noble Fir’s tables are occupied with a sea of patched denim and leather, the air thick with the scent of barbecue, motor oil, and spilled beer. There’s a grill going out back — two, actually, with Tank and Mayhem locked in a good-natured duel over who can char the perfect bratwurst. Tank should know better than to get into a competition with Mayhem involving anything with fire, but the biker’s stubborn and set on his culinary skills. Every few minutes, a fresh round of shouts erupts as bets are placed and the beer flows freely, stubbornly immune to Rabid's warnings to “pace yourselves, you degenerates; we’re not all twenty anymore.”
I’m sitting at one of the long tables, one hand resting on my round, full belly.
The baby is kicking today, like he’s trying to headbutt his way out already — a fighter, just like his father.
Just like me, too.
That thought, and the fact that I know it’s true, makes me sit up straighter. A little.
Breaker steps behind me and kisses the top of my head before sliding onto the bench beside me. His hand covers mine. His gaze sweeps over the gathering, all the family surrounding us, and he smiles that rare, soft smile he only ever uses with me.
“Comfortable, Sparrow?” he asks, rubbing gentle circles on my belly.
“More than comfortable,” I whisper. “Happy.”
Breaker kisses me, and the gesture sparks a small uproar from the club — whistles, catcalls, even a few lewd suggestions that would have made my cheeks burn a year ago. Now, I just laugh and lean back into Breaker’s chest, letting the noise roll off me like water off a windshield. He flips the middle finger in their direction, which only amps up the heckling, but even that feels affectionate today.
This is my family.
Claire, Bianca, and Alessia sit across from us while sharing stories about their first pregnancies or those of people they know, each one more terrifying than the last. I swear Bianca’s involves a raccoon, but I’ve been distracted by Breaker beside me and the baby in my tummy and decided it’s best to just to not ask questions. And at every break in their stories, they all chime in with advice on how to decorate the baby room in the house Breaker and I share now.
Tank approaches in his usual silent, looming way. He sets a bottle of ginger ale in front of me with a gentleness that’s almost funny, given the size of his hands. “Morning sickness?” he grunts.
I shake my head. “Not today, but thanks.” I can tell he’s pleased anyway, because his lips twitch and he stands there fora full second longer than necessary before wandering off toward the grill.
He grunts and pretends he didn’t smile. But he did.
It’s perfect being here, surrounded by love and chaos, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Molly is at the bar, pouring drinks faster than anyone else could keep up with; her hands always moving, her face set in a look of intense concentration. But today — today she’s wearing lipstick. Not just any lipstick, either: it’s fire-engine red, shiny as a cherry, and so at odds with her usual “I’ll-cut-you” persona that I nearly choke on my ginger ale.
Breaker notices at the same time I do. “Huh.”
I blink. “Is Molly… dressed up?”
Alessia leans closer, her tone conspiratorial. “She bought it yesterday. Wouldn’t say why. She even asked me to pick out a color. Settled on ‘Red Rebellion,’ if you can believe it.”
Molly hears her. Of course she hears her. She freezes, narrows her eyes, and sets the tray down with a dramatic clatter. “It is absolutely none of your business.”
Bianca lifts a brow. “Molls, did you meet someone?”
“I will stab you with my lime knife,” Molly says flatly.
Claire folds her arms. “Oh, you definitely met someone.”
Molly sputters, grabs the tray, and marches away like a furious, sparkly hurricane. “I’m not talking about him. It’s new. Leave it alone. I swear to God, the next person who asks me is losing a finger.”
The table falls silent.
