Page 39 of Whiskey & Wreckage

And just like that, I’m finally free.

Epilogue

POPPY

I am currently…very pregnant. Like, "the baby has its own ZIP code" pregnant. Like, "I dropped a pen this morning and just stared at it in mourning" pregnant.

Thomas is in the kitchen, humming off-key to some bluesy song while flipping pancakes like it’s a competitive sport. He’s wearing sweats, no shirt, and that concentrated look he gets when he's pretending he’s not showing off.

Bear is snoring dramatically on the rug, lying on his back with all four paws in the air like he’s emotionally overwhelmed by how hard his life is.

And me? I’m wedged into the corner of the couch like a cinnamon roll, wrapped in three blankets with a smoothie in one hand and the remote in the other. It’s green. The smoothie. Not the remote.

Thomas swears it’s healthy and delicious.

Thomas is a damn liar.

I grimace and take another sip. “This tastes like grass clippings blended with sadness.”

He peeks over his shoulder, completely unfazed. “It’s spinach and mango.”

“Then someone murdered the mango.”

He walks over, leans down, and kisses my forehead. “You’re dramatic today.”

“Pregnancyisdramatic. I cried earlier because my t-shirt touched my stomach wrong.”

He grins and crouches in front of me, one hand gently sliding over the swell of my belly. It’s automatic now, like breathing. Like this is justwho we are—me, him, Bear, and the baby boy currently moonwalking on my bladder.

“Morning, little man,” he murmurs. “You giving your mom hell already?”

The baby answers with a defiant kick against his palm.

Thomas lights up. “God, I love him already.”

“He’s already disrespecting me and he hasn’t even been born yet.”

“He’s clearly mine.”

I roll my eyes as he flops onto the couch beside me. Bear immediately tries to wedge himself between us, tail thumping, all 140 pounds of codependency and drool.

I shove at his snout, laughing. “He needs therapy.”

Thomas scratches behind Bear’s ear. “Heisin therapy. You.”

The house smells like pancakes and coffee. Our wedding photo—small ceremony, backyard vows, me in a white dress and Converse—sits in a frame on the shelf behind us. There’s a baby swing in the corner, a pile of folded onesies on the coffee table, and a very serious debate happening over whether the diaper caddy should go in the bedroom or the nursery.

It’s not perfect.

But it’shome.

I glance sideways at Thomas. “You really think you can put up with me for the next fifty years?”

He lets out a long, dramatic sigh and flops his head back against the couch. “Too bad. You already signed your life away.”

I snort. “That wedding wasnotlegally binding. There was pie instead of cake and a dog in a bow tie.”

“You said ‘I do’ while crying into my neck,” he says smugly. “That’s legally bindingandadorable.”

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