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DORIAN

T hree weeks passed like falling leaves.

Slow at first, drifting. Then suddenly, everything had changed.

The inn was different now. Lighter. Autumn still muttered to ghosts under her breath when she thought no one was listening, but the spirits no longer pressed heavy against the walls.

The floorboards no longer creaked like they were crying out.

The halls no longer wept. The mirrors held only reflections. The house breathed.

And so did he.

They’d spent the past few weeks elbow-deep in repairs—replacing the windows blown out by the final flare of the ritual, re-chalking damaged sigils, and clearing the lingering soot from the walls of the east parlor.

The townsfolk had come in waves to help, armed with ladders, charms, pastries, and opinions.

Even Cassian had shown up one afternoon with vintage stained glass panels and an uncharacteristically sincere smile.

Now, only a few details remained. A bit of polish here. A final coat of paint there.

The reopening was scheduled for next week.

They already had bookings—mostly supernatural couples intrigued by the “reformed haunted inn” charm, some in it for the mystery, others for the town’s undeniable magic.

Even the realtors who were skeptical of Dorian’s commitment to the place had vanished.

No one questioned that he was staying and that Autumn was his mate.

Not anymore. And as far as Dorian could tell, the house wasn’t complaining.

Dorian stood in the center of the greenhouse, wiping his hands on the rag tucked into his back pocket.

The late spring sun filtered through the glass panels above, casting soft shadows across the freshly swept floors.

The vines had climbed a little higher since last week.

The little wildflowers from Millie Grace’s herb bed bloomed defiantly in a reclaimed corner.

It looked alive .

It felt like them.

Behind him, a breeze fluttered the curtain tied at the doorway, and he turned just as Autumn stepped inside.

She wore denim overalls over a thin white shirt, hair up in a loose knot that she’d probably twisted without a mirror. Dirt was smudged along her wrist. She looked like home.

“Hey,” he said, casually enough.

Her brows arched. “Why do you sound suspiciously calm?”

He grinned. “What, I can’t just say hi to the woman I love?”

“You can,” she said, squinting. “But you’ve got that look. Like you’re about to suggest something reckless.”

“I resent that,” he said, stepping toward her. “I’m a model of responsibility.”

She laughed one of those warm, real ones he’d come to crave. She stepped further inside, brushing her hand over the edge of a planter box filled with basil and sleepy violets.

“You’re stalling,” she said.

“I might be,” he admitted.

She cocked her head. “Why?”

He exhaled. Pulled the small box from his back pocket.

Autumn blinked.

He didn’t drop to one knee.

They weren’t the kind of people who needed theatrics. What they’d built had already been full of storms and hauntings and messy, sacred second chances.

He just stepped in close, took her hand, and held her gaze like it was the only anchor he had left.

“I didn’t know what home meant until you knocked the dust off this place,” he said softly. “Until you looked at my porch like it might love you back. Until you told me ghosts weren’t the scariest things you’d ever faced—but hope was.”

Her eyes shimmered, just a little.

“So I’m not asking you for perfection,” he said. “I’m asking you to stay. For mornings with bad coffee and long nights with weird ghosts. For every porch light and creaky stair and stolen blanket. For all of it. With me.”

He opened the box.

The ring was simple—silver, etched with runes from Moonshadow Apothecary, a single moonstone set in the center.

She stared at it, lips parted, breath caught. Then something soft rained down between them.

She glanced up.

The vines above had bloomed. Tiny white flowers drifted down like confetti, dusting her shoulders, her hair, her cheeks.

She laughed again, breathless, blinking through petals.

“Yes,” she said, voice cracking on it. “Yes. Yes—of course yes.”

Dorian slipped the ring onto her finger, hands just barely shaking. She threw her arms around his neck and he lifted her off the ground like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

They kissed in the middle of the greenhouse while petals fell around them like blessings, while the moonstone on her ring caught the sun and gleamed like it had known all along.

And somewhere in the rafters, unseen but felt , the house, their house, smiled too.