Page 155 of Jayson
I nod. “Better than okay.”
And then I say it. The thing that’s been sitting on my chest for months like a stone I finally got the strength to lift.
“You asked me if I wanted to do it again. The wedding.”
He freezes. Waits. I smile. Small. Real.
“I don’t care about flowers or rings or paperwork. But if it matters to you—if it’s something you need to feel like it’s real, I’ll do it. We’ll do it. You and me. Just not because we have to. Because we want to.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
“I want it,” he says. “But not for the ceremony. For the vow.”
“You already made the vow.”
“Then I’ll say it again. Just louder.”
That night, I stand at the window and watch the city fall asleep.
The skyline is stitched in gold. The harbor glitters. The streets quiet themselves one by one. And behind me, Jayson brushes his hands over my waist, presses a kiss to my shoulder like a ritual.
I used to think I wouldn’t survive this life. That if the trauma didn’t swallow me, the guilt would. But somehow, I made it here. To this house. This man. This quiet.
I still have bad nights. Still wake up with the echo of screams in my ears. Still can’t stand small, confined spaces. But the bad moments pass quicker now. They linger less. And when I reach for him in the dark, he’s always there. Solid. Steady. Mine.
The future doesn’t scare me anymore.
It’s not perfect—not clean. But it’s ours. And that’s enough. Because I’m not running. Not hiding. Not bleeding quietly behind a locked door.
I am here. Alive. Whole enough to begin again. And whatever comes next? I won’t just face it. I’ll fight for it.
EPILOGUE - KEIRA
The wind outside is whispering again.
I’ve never figured out what it’s saying—only that it never stops. Even in summer. Even when the fog rolls in so thick it swallows the estate whole. Jayson says they remind him of me. Quiet. Relentless. Refusing to be silenced.
I think maybe they remind me of him, too.
The house we built is all clean lines and glass, old wood and iron. It took two years of renovations—twice as long as planned—but it was never about deadlines. It was about presence. About creating a space that didn’t just hold our lives, but witnessed them.
Jayson’s somewhere inside, probably in the office-turned-observatory he never admits to loving. It’s filled with starmaps, satellite prints, and sketches of constellations.
Today is slow. Quiet. Heavy in a good way.
My hand rests over my stomach, still flat but knowing. I haven’t told him yet. I wanted to wait until the moment felt real. Until it felt like joy, not fear.
It does now. Maybe because this life we made doesn’t feel borrowed anymore. It feels like it’s ours.
That evening, I find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, sauce simmering on the stove like he’s been doing this forever. There’s flour on his cheek. A streak of basil on his knuckle. He looks more like a man in love than a man with blood on his hands.
And maybe now, he’s both.
“Hey,” he says, turning when I enter.
“Hey.” I bite my lip, nerves fluttering.
He pauses, reading me instantly—the way he always does. “You okay?”
