“For the studio?” he asked, eyes half closed.
“For the house,” she said. “I’m not explaining paint stains on the bedroom floor to your insurance agent.”
He laughed sleepily. “We’ll add it to the list,” he said. “Couch, bed frame, and eighteen fire extinguishers to make Colby happy.”
“Bridal registry is going to be weird,” she said.
“Functional,” he corrected. “People will appreciate the clarity.”
"I'll need to go home and pack up my stuff. Give notice to my landlord. Hug my parents. Are you ready to come with me?"
He nodded. "I have to do the same. Let's plan for later this week. We'll need the furniture for the house."
She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “You know what I’m looking forward to most?” she asked.
“Hot water that isn’t timed by the front desk?” he guessed.
“That too,” she said. “But I meant this. Waking up in that farmhouse, coming here, climbing these stairs, and seeing work in progress. Not in a guest room in my parents' house, not borrowed, not temporary. Ours.”
He reached up, brushing her hair back from her face. “You’re really in,” he said quietly, as if testing the shape of it one more time.
She looked at the ring on her finger, at the paintings around them, at the dust motes swirling in the light.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m in.”
Outside, a gull cried. Somewhere below, the faint sound of the bay door rolling echoed briefly; Jason, probably, coming to grab a tool he’d forgotten. Life, already moving around them.
Bree sat up, pulling her shirt back on, not bothering with the paint streaks. She crossed to Bryn’s painting in the corner, touching the edge of the canvas lightly.
“We’re going to need more names,” she said.
Hank pushed up on his elbows. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just thinking. Bryn won’t be the only one. There are so many families out there who never got a place to put their grief down. We should start reaching out when we’re ready.”
“We will,” he said. “One story at a time.”
She nodded, then turned back to him.
In a few weeks, this room would be full of easels, tables, and racks. The wall downstairs would start to bloom with color and memory. The farmhouse would creak under the weight of their furniture and their arguments over cabinet handles.
The case Diaz was working on would grind forward. New problems would appear: pipes, engines, permits, and people.
But right now, in this small, bright pocket of time, the future felt less like a cliff and more like a path. Not smooth, not without potholes. Just something they could walk together, one step at a time.
She picked up her brush again, loaded it with color, and turned to the blank canvas waiting on the second easel.
“What are you starting?” Hank asked.
She smiled, feeling the weight of the ring, the steadiness of his presence, the ghosts that felt a little less heavy here.
“Home,” she said. “I’m painting home.”
Outside the windows, Copper Moon glittered along the harbor. Inside, Bryn’s portrait dried in the corner, Hank’s finished painting gleamed under the afternoon light, and on Bree’s hand, the ring caught every bit of brightness it could.
They’d started. They weren’t stopping.
Epilogue
