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“Flynn,” I said warily. “What did you do?”

“Nothing bad,” he promised, setting a plate of avocado toast in front of me. “Just a little pre-release celebration.”

After breakfast, he handed me a soft but lightweight sweater and a pair of jeans, but added some silky lingerie for underneath and a pair of high heels to finish the look. Then he led me outside where a sleek black town car waited at the curb. The driver opened the door with a flourish.

“Your chariot, Ms. Milan,” Flynn said, using my pen name with a playful formality.

“Are you kidnapping me?” I asked as he ushered me inside.

“Technically, no, since you’re going willingly.” He settled beside me. “Besides, kidnapping seems like a plotline for your next book, not this one.”

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of a romance-only bookstore in LA. The windows were filled with displays of my latest novel, featuring the striking cover of twin football players with their backs to the reader, a woman’s silhouette between them.

“What are we doing here?” I asked as Flynn guided me to the door. “The signing isn’t until tonight.”

“You’ll see,” was all he said.

Inside, the store was empty save for the manager, who greeted Flynn like an old friend. “Everything’s ready, Mr. Kingman.”

Flynn led me to a section, where an entire table had been dedicated to my books. In the center sat a tower of hardcovers, arranged in a display that mimicked a football stadium.

“I wanted you to see it first,” Flynn explained, watching my reaction. “Before the crowds, before the interviews. Just you and your work, the way it started.”

Emotion welled in my throat as I traced a finger over my name on the glossy cover. “It’s beautiful.”

“There’s more,” Flynn said, guiding me around the display.

On the other side, someone had set up a small table with champagne, pastries, and a stack of congratulatory cards from my family, his family, and our friends.

“You did all this?” I asked, blinking back tears.

“With some help,” he admitted. “Your sisters picked the pastries. Abuela selected the champagne. My sister made sure we got the space privately for an hour.”

I laughed, wiping away a stray tear. “Our families really have merged into one unstoppable force.”

“The Kingman-Navarro machine,” Flynn agreed. “Terrifying in its efficiency.”

We toasted with champagne, surrounded by my books and the quiet hush of the empty store. It was the perfect counterbalance to the public event that would come later—this private moment of appreciation for the journey that had brought us here.

“To my favorite author,” Flynn said, clinking his glass against mine. “Who’s finally taking up all the space she deserves.”

That evening the bookstore was packed by the time we arrived. A line of readers wrapped around the block, many clutching dog-eared copies of my previous books along with their recently purchased copies of the new one.

“This is insane,” I murmured to Flynn as we slipped in through the back entrance. “There must be hundreds of people out there.”

“Five hundred and twenty-seven at last count,” came a familiar voice. “I had Artemis do a drone flyover to check.”

I turned to find Gryff grinning at us, looking relaxed and California-cool in designer jeans and a fitted t-shirt that showed off the results of his pro football player training regimen. Beside him stood Artemis, drone controller and camera in hand.

“Surveillance seems excessive,” I laughed, accepting Gryff’s bear hug.

“It’s not surveillance, it’s documentation,” Artemis corrected, snapping a photo of Flynn and me. “For posterity. And maybe extortion, depending on how the night goes.”

Artemis had been Gryff’s best friend since high school, where she’d played on the women’s rugby team.

When he’d been drafted by the Bandits, she’d followed him to LA, ostensibly to try out for the Olympic team, but we all suspected it was because neither could bear to be separated from the other.

They shared the house across from ours, adamantly insisting they were just friends despite the obvious chemistry between them.

They were a romance novel just waiting to be written .

A bookstore employee appeared, looking slightly frantic. “Ms. Milan? We’re ready for you whenever you are. The crowd is getting... enthusiastic.”

I took a deep breath, smoothing down the deep purple dress I’d chosen specifically for tonight—the same shade as the DSU Dragons, a nod to where this journey had begun.

“You’ve got this,” Flynn said, squeezing my hand. “I’ll be right there in the front row, looking inappropriately turned on by my girlfriend talking about her dirty books.”

“Flynn,” I hissed, but it was only to hide the laugh.

“We’ll keep him in line,” Artemis promised, grabbing Gryff’s arm. “Come on, Twin One and Twin Two. Let’s go find seats before the two of you embarrasses us all.”

As they headed toward the main event space, I caught Gryff’s lingering glance at Artemis, the softness in his expression when she wasn’t looking.

So much longing, so much fear of ruining what they had.

I’d seen that dance before—had performed it myself with Flynn.

Someday soon, one of them would need to take the leap.

Maybe I’d need to draft their story next, to show them how it could end.

The event passed in a blur of readings, Q&A sessions, and signing books until my hand cramped.

Throughout it all, Flynn sat in the front row, exactly as promised, his proud smile never wavering.

Occasionally he’d catch my eye and wink, or mouth “that’s my favorite part” when I read a particularly steamy passage.

During the signing portion, a young woman with curves similar to mine approached the table, clutching my first book like a talisman .

“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Before your books, I never saw heroines who looked like me getting the hot guy. It changed how I saw myself.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, remembering how I’d once felt the same emptiness, the same hunger for representation.

“That’s exactly why I write them,” I told her, signing her book with extra care.

“Because we all deserve to be the heroines of our own stories, no matter our size, shape, or what the scale says.”

Later, after the last reader had left and the bookstore staff were clearing up, I found Flynn in deep conversation with Gryff and Artemis near the refreshment table.

“Ready to go?” he asked, slipping an arm around my waist. “The after party awaits.”

“After party?”

“Just us,” he clarified. “And these two moochers who invited themselves over to raid our wine fridge.”

“Your wine collection is better than ours,” Gryff shrugged unapologetically. “Besides, someone needs to help Tempest celebrate properly. You’ll just try to get her to bed early for ‘recovery’ purposes.”

“Recovery is important,” Flynn argued with mock seriousness. “Book release is very taxing on the author.”

“I’m right here,” I reminded them. “And I vote for wine with friends, then early bed for... recovery.”

Flynn grinned. “See? The author has spoken.”

Back at our house, with shoes kicked off and wine glasses filled, the four of us sprawled across the living room. Artemis had connected her camera to our TV, scrolling through candid shots she’d taken during the event.

“This one’s my favorite,” she said, pausing on an image of me mid-laugh, Flynn watching me with unmistakable adoration. “Total romance novel cover material.”

“Speaking of,” Gryff said, examining my book’s cover, “this seems remarkably familiar. Twins and a woman caught between them? Are you writing about us now, Tempest?”

I felt my cheeks warm. “It’s Twelfth Night , not you specifically. Though I may have borrowed certain... personality traits.”

“Should I be worried?” Artemis asked, arching an eyebrow. “Do I feature in this fictional love triangle?”

“You’ll have to read it to find out,” I teased.

Artemis snorted. “I’ve read yours, I know how it goes. Boy meets girl, boy meets boy, girl meets girl, obstacles arise, grand gesture, happily ever after. Real life is messier.”

“Is it though?” I asked, glancing meaningfully between her and Gryff. “Sometimes the story writes itself, if you’re brave enough to let it.”

A weighted silence fell, Artemis suddenly extremely interested in her wine glass while Gryff studied the ceiling with unusual intensity. Flynn caught my eye, a silent laugh passing between us.

“To stories,” Flynn said, raising his glass. “The ones we read, the ones we write, and the ones we live.”

“To stories,” we echoed, clinking glasses.

Later, after Gryff and Artemis had left, together, as always, but still stubbornly apart, Flynn and I stood on our back patio, looking out at the yard we’d designed with Burrito in mind. The donkey enclosure, the shade trees, the special gate that would theoretically prevent escapes.

“Did you ever imagine this?” I asked, leaning back against Flynn’s chest as his arms encircled me. “When you were chasing a baby donkey across campus?”

“Honestly? No.” His lips brushed my temple. “I definitely didn’t expect to fall in love with the girl who wouldn’t even look up from her book.”

“I looked up eventually,” I reminded him.

“You did.” His arms tightened around me. “And then you saw me. Really saw me. Not just the football player or the Kingman legacy, but me.”

I turned in his embrace, rising on tiptoes to kiss him. “Just like you saw me. All of me, even the parts I was hiding.”

The night air wrapped around us, warm and sweet with the scent of jasmine from our neighbor’s garden.

Inside our home, signed copies of my books lined the shelves alongside Flynn’s football trophies.

Pictures of our families, Navarros and Kingmans and one special donkey, documented our journey from adversaries to partners.

Different worlds that had become one shared life.

“I have something for you,” Flynn said suddenly, reaching into his pocket. “A book release gift.”

“Flynn, you already did so much?—”

He pressed a small box into my hand, and my heart stuttered. Not a ring box, but still small, still significant.

I opened it to find a key on a silver keychain shaped like a donkey.

“It’s for the guest house,” Flynn explained. “I had it converted into a proper writing studio for you. Sound-proofed, bookshelves, one of those fancy ergonomic chairs, a day bed... for research, the works. It’ll be ready by the time Burrito arrives.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. “You did that for me?”

“I did it for us,” he corrected. “Because your writing is part of our story. And I want every chapter to be better than the last.”

I clutched the key to my chest, overwhelmed by the gesture, by the life we were building, by how far we’d come from that first meeting.

“I love you,” I whispered, the words still a wonder even after all these months. “So much.”

“Love you more, Mi Reina.” Flynn’s smile was soft in the moonlight. “Always more.”

Aww. When had he learned that endearment?

As his lips met mine, I thought of all the romance novels I’d written, all the happily-ever-afters I’d crafted for my characters. None of them compared to the story we were writing together. Messy and real and more beautiful than fiction could ever be.

The baby donkey in dragon wings had brought me more than just a man. He’d brought me to myself, to the courage to take up space, to live authentically in the full light of day rather than hiding in shadows.

Some might call it luck or coincidence. But I knew better.

It was exactly the kind of meet-cute that belonged in a romance novel.

And we were just getting to the good part.