Page 44 of The Words of Us

And my heart, the one I thought had been locked up for good, starts to beat again.

EPILOGUE

SASHA 5 YEARS LATER

It’s early, and the city is still quiet. I can hear the soft hum of traffic outside the window, the occasional bark of a dog, but inside our little apartment, it’s peaceful. The air smells like coffee and books—Evie’s doing, of course. She’s always got something brewing, whether it’s a new blend or a new stack of poetry anthologies spread across the kitchen table.

Our beautiful grey cat, Bruce, stretches himself out and then resettles himself on the window ledge.

I’m lying in bed, watching her move through the room, dressed in one of my old shirts, her hair still a little wild from sleep. It’s funny how after all these years, just seeing her like this—comfortable, relaxed, completely herself—can make my heart race.

It’s been five years since I almost lost her. Five years since I walked into that bookstore, terrified that it might be the last time I’d see her. And now, here we are, sharing mornings like this. It’s still a little surreal.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking up from her coffee cup, her voice teasing.

“Can you blame me?” I stretch lazily, the sheets cool against my skin. “You’re hard to look away from.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “Flattery won’t get you more coffee.”

I laugh, slipping out of bed and padding across the room to stand beside her. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her close, and she leans back into me with a soft sigh. It’s these little moments, the quiet intimacy of everyday life, that I never take for granted. I spent so long running, hiding from my past, that I never imagined I could have something like this—something that feels so stable, so real.

“Did you finish that poem?” she asks, turning her head slightly to glance at me.

“I’m still working on it,” I admit, resting my chin on her shoulder. “It’s not...coming out the way I want it to.”

“You’ll get there,” she says softly. “You always do.”

I smile against her skin, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck. “What about you? Have you decided which book to feature for the next poetry night?”

“Not yet.” She taps her fingers against the counter, thoughtful. “I was thinking of doing something classic. Maybe Yeats or Auden.”

“Always a safe bet,” I murmur, tightening my hold on her.

Her breath hitches slightly, and I feel the warmth of her body against mine, the familiar pull of desire sparking between us. Even after all these years, that feeling—the magnetic draw toward her—never fades. It’s always there, simmering beneath the surface.

She turns in my arms, her eyes meeting mine, and there’s a spark of something in her gaze—something playful, something teasing. “You know, we could have coffee...or we could skip straight to dessert.”

I raise an eyebrow, my lips curling into a smirk. “And what kind of dessert are we talking about?”

Her hands slide up my arms, tracing the lines of my muscles, and she leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “The kind that doesn’t require leaving the apartment.”

God, she knows exactly what she’s doing. My body reacts instantly, heat pooling in my stomach, desire thrumming through me like a live wire. I tilt her head back slightly, brushing my lips against hers, but I don’t kiss her yet. I want to draw it out, savor the tension.

“You’re playing with fire,” I whisper, my voice low.

She grins, her fingers tangling in my hair. “I know.”

And just like that, the space between us vanishes. My mouth finds hers, the kiss slow at first, but it deepens quickly, heat building between us like it always does. Her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, and I can’t get enough of her. I never can. The taste of her lips, the way her body fits so perfectly against mine—it’s intoxicating.

She presses herself closer, and I lift her onto the counter, my hands sliding under the hem of her shirt, feeling the softness of her skin. She gasps into my mouth as my fingers trace up her sides, sending a shiver through her.

“You’re supposed to be getting ready for work,” I murmur against her lips, though I have no intention of stopping.

She lets out a breathy laugh, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “I think I can be a little late.”

I grin, pushing her shirt up over her head, and the sight of her—bare, vulnerable, and mine—makes my pulse race. She pulls me in again, our kisses growing more urgent, more desperate, as the need between us builds. Every touch, every breath, feels electric, and I can’t think of anything else but her—how much I want her, how much I love her.

We don’t make it to the bedroom.

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