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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

RHYS

The house is alive tonight.

It hums with that low, familiar buzz of shared history—laughter weaving through the air, the scent of pizza mixing with fresh blueberry muffins, and the occasional squeal of protest whenever someone (read: Chase) pushes his luck too far.

The lights are low, fairy lights twinkling like stars strung across the walls, casting everything in a soft glow. Someone—definitely Chase—is in a heated argument about movie choices. Yasmin and Ella are both yelling over him. Their voices layered with mock outrage and half-serious sass. Hayden’s leaned back against the couch, smirking, tossing a stress ball in the air like he’s above the mayhem even though he thrives in it. Millie’s beside him, looking effortlessly calm as always, gently rocking their son in her arms, swaying with the quiet rhythm of a lullaby only she can hear.

Ashley and Caitlin are curled together on the love-seat, arms intertwined, their commentary cutting through the noise with perfect comedic timing. Arden is standing near the TV, re-enacting a fight scene with such dramatic flair it should be illegal. He fake-punches the air, collapses to the floor, rolls once, and shouts, “That’s how you rescue a hostage , baby!”

And then there’s Ally.

She’s perched on the arm of the couch, legs folded underneath her, her oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Her head is thrown back in laughter, hair spilling down her back like liquid fire, cheeks flushed from too much sugar, and too many inside jokes. Her eyes find mine across the room, and—just like that—I feel it all over again.

Like I always do.

The way love can hit you even when you already have it.

Like a second wave crashing over you, soft and overwhelming.

I think about everything we’ve come through—the seizures, the hospital visits, the late-night fear, the way she used to flinch at the idea of needing someone. I think about how she moved into my room without ever calling it that. How she fills every part of this house. Of me .

And I think… we made it.

Not perfectly. Not without scars.

But still—we made it.

“Gilmore,” she calls, catching me watching her. There’s a playful glint in her eyes as she pats the empty spot beside her. “Come sit before Chase implodes.”

“I’m not going to implode!” Chase yells from the other side of the room. “I just think it’s criminal that we’re not watching the superior version of the franchise.”

“Oh my God, let it go,” Ella groans, launching a pillow at him.

I shake my head, laughing as I cross the room and drop onto the couch beside Ally. She slides down from her perch without hesitation, tucking herself under my arm, her body curling into mine like it’s second nature.

Like it was always meant to be there.

And yeah… maybe it was.

The movie plays, but no one’s really watching. Conversations drift in and out, laughter simmering beneath the surface. It’s loud and soft at the same time. The kind of noise that feels like home.

The tension is gone, finally. No shadows waiting in the corners. No unspoken fear wrapped in silence.

Just warmth.

Just us.

Eventually, people start peeling off. Ella yawns first, dragging Arden away with promises of retribution for a charades dare he made her do earlier. Ashley and Caitlin retreat soon after, arguing about who ate the last brownie. Yasmin drags Chase towards the hallway after he starts ranking everyone based on their “movie-watching etiquette.”

When the room finally quiets, it’s just Ally and me. The TV plays something mindless in the background, but her head’s resting against my chest and her breathing is slow, and everything else fades into static.

Then she shifts.

“Hey,” she says, nudging my side gently. “Come with me?”

I don’t even ask where. I just nod.

She grabs my hand, leading me down the hall—and I expect her to turn left towards her room. The one that’s mostly decorative at this point. But instead, she turns right.

Towards mine.

She pauses in the doorway, takes a breath, and steps inside.

I follow.

She lets her eyes travel across the room. It’s not fancy. A little messy. A little too full of both of us now—two toothbrushes, her slippers under the bed, my hoodie hanging off the back of the desk chair.

She turns to me, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

She finally reaches up, tracing her fingers along my jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath her touch. “Rhys?”

“Hmm?”

I can hear the nervousness in her voice. “If you still want to marry me someday... I’d say yes.”

I exhale sharply, dropping my forehead against hers. “You serious?” I ask, not sure I heard her correctly.

She nods, curling her fingers into my hair. “Yeah. I am.”

Her lips crash against mine, and it’s not slow, not soft. It’s desperate and full of emotion like she’s been holding on to this moment for longer than I even realised.

When I pull back, my breath is uneven, gaze locked on hers. “Someday isn’t that far away, you know.”

She laughs, tightening her grip on me. “Good. I hate waiting.”

And just like that, the future doesn’t feel so scary anymore.

Something clicks.

The kind of click you hear when puzzle pieces finally find each other.

My hands finding her waist. “No more running?”

“No more running,” she murmurs.

I rest my forehead against hers again, breathing her in.

“I love you,” I murmur.

Her hands slide up my chest, curling behind my neck.

“I know,” she whispers. “Lucky for you, I love you too.”

We stand there for a long moment. Breathing. Letting it sink in, letting it be real.

Later, she’s brushing her teeth beside me in the bathroom, and I swear it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Not because of what she’s wearing or how close we are—but because of how ordinary it is.

Ordinary can be beautiful, too.

In bed, we’re tangled in limbs and blankets, the bedside lamp casting a golden pool of light over the room. Rain has started again—soft against the windows, like the sky is whispering goodnight.

She’s curled into me, one leg thrown over mine, her fingers tracing idle circles on my stomach.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

She tilts her head up. “How scary it used to be. Letting someone in. Letting you in.”

My heart thuds.

“And now?” I ask.

She leans in and presses a kiss to the underside of my jaw. “Now I wonder how I ever survived without it.”

I close my eyes and breathe her in. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

She smirks. “Took you long enough.”

We lie there in the quiet, her breathing slowing, her body curling closer like she’s still afraid she’ll wake up and find it was a dream.

“You’re safe,” I softly say, only to her. “You’re home.”

Her eyes flutter shut.

“I know,” she murmurs.

And soon, she’s asleep.

I stay awake longer than I should, watching her. Memorising the slope of her nose, the way her mouth twitches when she dreams, the steady rise and fall of her chest.

This girl—the one I thought I’d never be enough for.

The one who nearly slipped through my fingers more times than I can count.

She’s here.

With me.

And I get to love her in the small ways every single day. In coffee made just right. In catching her when she stumbles. In shared blankets and whispered mornings.

This isn’t the kind of ending that wraps up neatly.

This is the kind that begins something.

Because we’re not perfect. We’ll mess up. We’ll fight. We’ll lose sleep and get things wrong.

But we’ll do it together.

And that? That’s everything.