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She blinks. And pauses. “That was disgustingly romantic of you.”

“Don’t tell Charlie. She’ll retreat into irony forever.”

“Too late!” comes the high reply.

Blake laughs again, and her hand doesn’t let go of mine as we follow.

The snow falls sharper now, little frozen stars catching in her lashes, on my coat, in the crooked bend of Charlie’s elbow as she spins once more under the streetlamp’s gold gaze.

It’s strange, being this full. This whole.

I’ve walked through endless winters. Some colder than this. Some crueler. But none I’ve ever wanted to stay in.

Until now.

I look at Blake—to the woman I’ve marked and vowed and built a life with.

I look at Charlie—my daughter, in every way but blood. But love runs thicker than blood. And the bond between us has always defied explanation.

And I think: This.

This is what I was waiting for without knowing it.

Not victory. Or vengeance. Or peace.

Just this.

My fingers stay wrapped in hers as we follow Charlie down the street, Paris glowing gentle like a lullaby left on for no one but us.

And if the world ever tries to take them from me again?—

I’ll burn it to ash.

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