The firehouse lights glow overhead. The engines stand silent behind us like witnesses.
“You’re not backing out,” I murmur.
“Try and stop me.”
I smirk faintly. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re smiling.”
I am. Because for the first time, this doesn’t feel like a game. It doesn’t feel like we’re performing for a KissCam or outbidding firefighters for ego.
It feels solid.
The music fades and the cheering swells again. Levi doesn’t let go. Not when the cupcakes get passed around. Not when someone sprays champagne in the corner. Not when Mrs. Dottie loudly announces she’s already booked a florist. He stays right there, hand at my waist, fingers laced with mine.
And this time—when he leans down and kisses me in front of the entire firehouse—neither of us pulls away.
Second Epilogue
Levi
one year later
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be standing in the church parking lot stringing up balloons again—married, steady, and watching my wife walk around like she owns the town—I would’ve called you insane.
Now?
I’m holding a ladder while Mrs. Dottie critiques ribbon angles, and Sadie is seven steps away arguing about raffle ticket placement with a hand on her very pregnant hip.
Life’s funny like that.
“Lieutenant Kane,” Mrs. Dottie says primly, adjusting her hat. “We always knew you two would come to your senses.”
I tighten the last knot and climb down the ladder. “You mean when you forced her onto that stage and turned me into a bidder?”
She beams. “Divine intervention.”
I snort. “You call that divine?”
“Absolutely. Look at you now.”
I do.
Sadie’s in a loose sundress, belly round and sexy, sunlight catching in her hair. The ring I slid onto her finger last year flashes when she gestures animatedly at Tyler, who’s pretending to take notes like she’s commanding an army.
She catches me staring. Her lips curve. “Stop brooding,” she calls out. “You’re scaring the bake sale.”
“I don’t brood.”
“You absolutely brood.”
The church ladies cackle like they’ve been waiting for this exchange.
“She keeps him in line,” Mrs. Henderson whispers loudly to Mrs. Crenshaw.
“I don’t need keeping,” I mutter.
Sadie strolls over, slower these days but no less confident, and slides her hand into mine.
