Page 70 of Sawyer
“I do my best work unscripted,” I murmur, and slide the band onto her finger. It fits like it was made for her.
It definitely fucking was.
She kisses me there under the skylight, almond-sweet and salt-wet and yes. Later we tell Vanessa, and she screams so loud HarborShield checks the cameras. Later we tell Dean, and he says “about time” and sends a bottle of something old enough to vote. Later we tell Gregory, and he cries like a man and not like a CEO.
We don’t plan a big thing. We plan a right one. Friends, kids from the mural, a courthouse judge who owes Hartley a favor, and our hands blue with a bit of paint because she swore she wouldn’t scrub it all off for anybody’s photos. I wear a suit that had to be talked into being a suit; she wears a dress that looks like someone painted the twilight on silk and draped it over bones and breath. The ring catches the sun and throws a line across her palm, and for a second it does look like a door where there wasn’t one before.
That night, when the last of the laughter slides down the hall and the house settles around us like a big, content animal, she pulls me to the floor of the studio and we make a mess with intent—paint under nails, color on shoulders, my shirt sacrificed to art again. We fall asleep on drop cloths, and I wake with her hair in my mouth and a smear of cobalt on my jaw and the kind of happiness that makes you feel a little dumb and very alive.
In the morning, coffee whistles. Edgar clatters. The wisteria tries to worm its way in through the window like it wants to bless the chaos. I’m barefoot, unarmed except for the knife I keep for bagels, and so stupidly at peace I almost don’t recognize myself. Then she walks in wearing my T-shirt and the ring, hair wild, eyes steady.
“Morning, husband,” she says, sleep in her voice and a smile I’d kill for if killing were the thing needed.
“Morning, painter of my heart,” I say, because ridiculous is still my favorite genre.
We drink from the ugly mug and the pretty one, share the almond cone we didn’t finish, and watch the city blink itself awake. Outside, the world does what it always does—aches, mends, tries again. Inside, we do what we learned the hard way—hold, laugh, make it loud when loud is needed, make it quiet everywhere else.
And on the wall by the stairs, the white line glows thin and stubborn through blue, cutting a path like a promise that refuses to fade. It doesn’t cover anything. It doesn’t need to.
It shows the way home.
Epilogue
SAWYER
Three months after the last gavel fell, Saint Pierce tastes like salt and second chances.
Morning slides in through the studio skylight and finds me exactly where my best days start—wrapped around Cam on the paint-splattered rug, our coffee cooling on the windowsill, the city humming as if it’s throat-singing blessings down the block.
Her left hand is flung across my chest, the thin platinum band catching the light like the white line in her painting, a vow that never rubs off. She blinks awake, smiles the kind of smile you can roadtrip by, and lifts her chin for a kiss.
“Good morning, husband,” she murmurs, voice warm with sleep.
“Good morning, painter of my forever,” I say, because I’ve earned the right to be ridiculous and she lets me.
The radio on the workbench crackles—Dean’s line. I groan, and Cam laughs, shoving at my shoulder.
“Go save the world,” she says, “and bring back croissants.”
“Yes ma’am.” I kiss her nose, then her mouth, then stand and snag a T-shirt. She sits up, tucks her knees under her shirt, and watches me the way people watch sunrises they know won’t storm.
Dean doesn’t waste syllables. “I’ve got Riggs in my office pretending he can’t hear me. Come calm your favorite berserker.”
“On my way.”
Cam steals my baseball cap and sets it backward on my head. “Be nice to him,” she says. “And text me his grumpy face.”
BRAVO’s officestill smells like coffee and gun oil, like competence with a citrus top note. Rae is at her terminal, flipping a pen through her fingers, amused. Riggs is leaning in the doorway to Dean’s glass-walled office, arms crossed, beard more mutinous than usual.
Dean looks up when I enter, lifts his brows in thatyour turnway he’s perfected.
“What’s the emergency,” I ask, “besides Riggs scaring the potted plants?”
Riggs grunts. “New assignment.”
“Congratulations,” I say. “Why do you look like someone glued your boots to the ceiling?”
Dean steeples his fingers. “A high-visibility tour. Four cities, twelve days. Large checks, larger egos, lots of cameras. Our client asked for BRAVO by name.”
