“He says he figured I was crushing on you guys with how much I talked about you both on the podcast. Especially after I interviewed Troy. Apparently I was flirty.”
At the same time, my phone and Rhett’s both chimed, and I groaned and reached for mine, staring down at the message.
“Ah, we got a more threatening message,” I said, smirking at Aimee and showing it to them.
Ryker: You’d better not fucking hurt her. Or leave her. Ever.
Troy: Wouldn’t dream of it. We love her more than anything, and we intend to take care of her.
Troy: After that stalker situation, we know how much she needs us.
Ryker: What stalker situation?
“Shit. Aimee. You didn’t tell your brother?”
Aimee blushed, eyes wide. “I didn’t want him to worry!”
“Oh my god, Aimee. It’s okay for people to worry about you,” Rhett said.
I frowned at her, worried that she hadn’t really changed at all. She eyed us both, then sighed, reached for her phone, and clicked on Ryker’s name.
“What are you doing?” Rhett asked.
“The old Aimee avoided calling him. The new Aimee has to clean up old Aimee’s messes.”
“Now?” I asked.
She smiled. “I don’t want him to worry. And he’ll worry either way, right? Just like you guys. Not because he’s overbearing, but because he loves me. Just like you guys.”
With that she hit the call button, lifted her phone to her ear, and started talking.
Epilogue
Aimee
Ibalancedthecardboardtray of coffee cups in one hand, the pink box of donuts in the other, and breathed in the scent of flowering trees as I walked. Two years ago, I would have laughed if someone told me I'd voluntarily be up at 6:30 AM on a donut run. But then again, two years ago I wasn't in love with two firefighters whose had to keep an early schedule for work.
The streets of our new neighborhood were quiet, with only the occasional early runner or dog-walker passing by. I'd gotten used to this rhythm—the pre-dawn tranquility that came with loving men who lived their lives in twenty-four-hour increments. Troy and Rhett worked the same rotation but at different stations, which meant they were both coming off shift this morning. And while I could have slept in, I'd discovered there was something magical about these early homecomings. Something worth sacrificing sleep for.
I shifted the Pink Pony box, its cardboard corners digging into my palm. Inside were six donuts—three of Rhett's favorites with strawberry glaze and sprinkles that made him grin like a kid, two chocolate-glazed for Troy, and one lemon-filled for me. The coffee was still steaming through the lid vents, sending up little curls of vapor that dissipated in the cool air.
Turning onto our street, I caught sight of our house—our house—and felt that now-familiar bubble of disbelief and joy. The little Wash Park bungalow with its cheerful yellow door and front porch swing was ours. Two weeks of homeownership hadn't dulled the surreal edge of that thought. After spending the winter crammed into the guys' loft, sharing closet space and tripping over each other in the tiny kitchen, we'd made the leap.
Rhett's truck sat in the driveway, its dark green paint still flecked with water droplets from the morning dew. Troy's motorcycle was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn't unusual—as a lieutenant, he often stayed later to wrap up paperwork.
The sight of Rhett's truck sent a little thrill through me. I quickened my pace, my boots tapping a happy rhythm on the sidewalk. Our house was modest but perfect—three bedrooms (one for us, one for guests, and one that Rhett insisted was "for the future"), two bathrooms that meant we weren't constantly fighting over mirror space, and the office I'd converted into a sound studio for my podcast. The screened-in porch that extended from the back of the house had been transformed into what Rhett dubbed "the catio"—a cat paradise where Olive and Cheeto could safely experience the outdoors. Most days, they sprawled on the cushioned window seats, lazily tracking birds and soaking up patches of sunlight.
I paused at the front gate, taking in the sight of our home. The spring bulbs Troy had planted were pushing up through the soil, green shoots promising future color. Rhett had spent last weekend repainting the mailbox and adding our three names: DONOVAN • MATTHEWS • HALE.
As I approached the front door, I thought about the journey that had brought us here. Last fall, after the stalker incident, I couldn't bear to stay in my apartment alone. My sanctuary had been violated, and it felt impossible to reclaim the space. The image of that cardboard box on my doorstep, the way it had moved on its own, the hissing sound... I shuddered. Even now, the memory made my skin crawl.
I'd stayed with Troy and Rhett "temporarily" in the firemen loft, sleeping on their pull-out sofa for exactly three nights before I ended up in Rhett's bed, with Troy joining us on the fourth night. What had started as comfort and protection had quickly evolved into something none of us had anticipated but all of us had wanted, even if we hadn't known how to ask for it.
The loft wasn't meant for three people, though. Rhett's clothes mingled with mine in his small closet. Troy's extensive shoe collection migrated into the living room. The kitchen counter disappeared under my podcast equipment. And yet, we'd been reluctant to change anything, afraid to disrupt the delicate balance we'd found. Until Rhett had spotted the "FOR SALE" sign on the little yellow bungalow and dragged us to see it, his eyes bright with possibility.
I juggled the coffee tray and donut box as I fished for my keys. Before I could find them, the door swung open, and there stoodRhett, his broad frame filling the doorway, wearing nothing but a pink jockstrap that left nothing to the imagination.
"Morning, beautiful." His smile was warm and full of mischief. His light brown hair was still damp from the shower, falling across his forehead in a way that made me want to brush it back.
