Page 39 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
And I know it’s cliché, it’s exactly what every song and movie has promised, but in this tiny apartment, surrounded by takeout boxes and the faint hum of the city outside, it feels brand new.
It feels like life, as I know it, just started.
EPILOGUE
SOL
THE NEXT CHRISTMAS
The kettle whistles,and I turn it off before it screams. The kitchen smells like coffee and toast and the faint trace of whatever candle Ben lit before leaving for the gym when it was still dark outside.
He’ll be back any minute—he always says he’ll “just do a quick run,” and then comes home three hours later, sweaty and starving. I should tell him to stop paying for a membership he only uses when he’s in town, probably once a week, but honestly, I like watching him come through the door like that. Happy. Breathless. Proud of himself for doing the thing.
I pour hot water over the tea bag and glance at the small white stick sitting next to my mug. The two faint pink lines are still there.
I’m not sure what I expected—that they’d fade if I looked away long enough? That it would disappear like a daydream?
Then again, this whole past year has felt like one.
A blur of Sunday mornings in bed, lazy walks through the city, his eyes finding mine in the middle of a crowd.
Of dinners turned into long conversations, and long conversations that turned into laughter, and laughter that somehow turned into love.
It’s been the kind of year I used to think belonged to other people—the ones who got it right the first time.
But somehow, it’s mine now. Ours.
“Sunshine?” The front door clicks open and Ben’s voice echoes down the hall, soft and familiar. “You up already?”
“Kitchen,” I call back, trying to sound normal. Our apartment is still half-finished in that charming, chaotic way that says two people live here and both have strong opinions.
There’s an unfinished painting leaning against the hallway wall—something I started one weekend and never quite decided what it needed. His work shoes sit by the door, next to my laptop bag. The dining table is covered in sketches for my next project, and next to them, his open computer, notes scrawled in the margins of a printed deck.
It’s the first place I’ve ever lived that feels like both of us—warm and alive, a little messy, but full of motion.
Every corner hums with evidence of the life we’re building: our shared mornings, our constant half-plans, the quiet certainty that we’re staying.
Ben rounds the corner a few seconds later, still flushed from the cold, cheeks pink, hair damp under his beanie. He’s holding a paper bag in one hand. “I brought croissants.”
“Of course you did.”
“They were calling my name.” He sets the bag on the counter, leans in to kiss my forehead, then freezes. “What’s wrong?”
I must look like I’ve seen a ghost. My hand automatically goes to the counter, where the test sits, half-hidden behind the mug.
He follows my gaze, and his brow furrows. He reaches out, hesitates for half a second, then picks it up.
My heart hammers so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I want to say something—make a joke, fill the silence—but nothing comes out. I don’t know if I’m ready, ifwe’reready, and yet under all the nerves, there’s this tiny flicker of wonder. The kind that makes my chest ache.
There’s a long silence.
“Is this—” He stops, blinking. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” I manage.
Ben looks from the test to me and back again, like he’s trying to make sense of something he never dared to imagine. His mouth opens, then closes. And then, to my complete surprise, he starts to laugh.
