“To Sophie and Zayn,” Dr. Martinez lifts her cup. “May your marriage be as sweet as these ridiculously fancy drinks Tara insisted were essential for an engagement announcement.”
“To finally making it official,” Sara adds, still teary-eyed.
“To my best friend,” Harper says, bumping my shoulder affectionately, “and the guy who finally proved he deserves her.”
“To my sister,” Reed says warmly, “and the only man I trust to cherish her properly.”
We clink our cups together, and stories start flowing. Harper recounts threatening Zayn with bodily harm if he hurt me again, Sara describes the night Zayn appeared at our apartment door looking wrecked, and Reed admits he suspected something was developing between us years ago before everything imploded.
Throughout it all, I keep catching Zayn’s gaze across the table. It feels like the first day I saw him again—same coffee shop, same morning light, same ambient bustle around us. But everything is different now. His eyes used to hold sadness and uncertainty; now they radiate warmth and conviction. My heart used to race with fear when I saw him; now it races because I’m genuinely, completely happy.
“Remember what you told me that day?” he asks quietly during a lull in conversation. “After we kissed in my office?”
I nod, the memory crystal clear. “I said, ‘This doesn’t change anything.’”
He reaches across the table and captures my hand, his thumb brushing my new ring. “And I said it changes everything.”
“You were right,” I admit, something I never imagined saying a year ago. “It changed absolutely everything.”
The coffee shop thrums with life around us—the hiss of steaming milk, the bell announcing new customers, the murmur of morning conversations. Once, this was where we had our painful reunion, where all my fears built walls I believed would stand forever. Now it’s the perfect setting to celebrate our future—surrounded by the people who helped us find each other again, in the exact spot where our second chance began.
Harper launches into wedding planning mode, already debating color schemes with Sara. Reed and Dr. Martinez discuss potential ceremony venues. And throughout it all, Zayn keeps watching me, his expression communicating what words can’t:We did it. We made it home.
CHAPTER 25
Always, Us
ZAYN
The Spring Rose Festival feels brighter this year. Last year, I stood at this same adoption booth, desperate for Sophie to give me even five seconds without that ice in her eyes. Today, she works beside me like we’ve been doing this our whole lives, sunlight catching in her hair as she strings roses around our tent. All around us, kids sprint between booths, elderly couples stroll hand-in-hand, and the high school band murders “Walking on Sunshine” from the gazebo. But I can’t stop watching her hands as she arranges those pink flowers. My fiancée. That word still hits me in the chest every single time.
“You’re staring again,” Sophie says without looking up, a smile playing at her lips.
“Can you blame me?” I reach over to tuck her hair back, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. She leans into my hand for a moment before returning to her work.
Last year, she would’ve flinched away. Last year, there was nothing but walls and wounds between us—five years of damage I’d caused. Now we move around each other like we were always meant to fit together exactly like this.
“The puppies are getting restless,” Sophie nods toward the pen where six rescue pups tumble over each other. “Mrs. Wilson’s bringing the kittens at noon, and we need space.”
I head to the puppy pen, crouching down to give them scratches and belly rubs. A black and white border collie pup launches herself into my lap immediately, tiny paws on my chest, tongue assaulting my chin with enthusiastic kisses.
“This one’s getting adopted first,” I call over my shoulder. “Too damn cute for her own good.”
“Like someone else I know,” Sophie says, those green eyes hitting me with a look that still makes my pulse stutter.
I scoop up some flyers from our table, tucking the puppy against my chest with one arm. She settles there warm and trusting, like she belongs. Last year, I would’ve forced myself to look professional while feeling completely out of place. Now I feel solid as I approach a family lingering near our tent.
“She needs a home with space to run,” I tell the kids as they reach out to pet her soft fur. “Your yard would be perfect for her.”
Their dad looks surprised. “How do you know about our yard?”
I grin. “You’re the Hendersons, right? Handled your property dispute last fall. You’ve got three acres backing up to the state forest.”
Recognition lights his face. “Blackwell! The attorney with all the ink.” He sounds genuinely friendly, which still catches me off guard after years of expecting small-town judgment.
“That’s me.” I hand him a flyer and watch his kids take turns loving on the puppy. “Application’s on the back if you’re interested. No pressure—we’ve got five more who need homes just as badly.”
As they wander off discussing it, Sophie appears at my side, her hip bumping mine in that casual intimacy we’ve built.“You’re terrible,” she whispers, eyes dancing. “Using your clients to find homes for puppies.”
