Page 98 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

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

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 thatbeginssomething.

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.

EPILOGUE

ALLY – THREE MONTHS LATER

The house is loud—and that's saying something. Our house is always loud and full of people. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Yasmin's playlist is echoing through the walls, a blend of girl pop and old-school bangers. Chase is arguing with her over speaker privileges, yelling from the kitchen like he’s the head chef on a cooking show while putting even more food out. Martha has the day off, and I should be scared that Chase and Arden were in charge of the food today.

Arden is standing in front of the barbecue out back like he’s Gordon Ramsay himself, flipping sausages with exaggerated precision. Ella’s sprawled across one of the outdoor lounges, sunglasses on, sipping some sparkling water like a movie star avoiding the press.

And me?

I’m tucked under Rhys’s arm on the back steps, a paper plate of half-eaten potato salad in my lap, watching the everything unfold like it’s a movie I’ve seen a hundred times but still love.

He smells like soap and home. Like comfort and closeness. His hoodie is too warm for the late afternoon sun, but I’m wearing it anyway.

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