Finn hangs back a moment, watching. Content. Then he steps forward and pulls me in properly, his kiss steady and unhurried.
“You’ve got an assignment due tonight,” he reminds me softly.
“I know.”
Final year. Environmental policy. Coastal sustainability. I commute twice a week now, train rides filled with notes and drafts and articles bookmarked for later.
Three years ago, I was trying to escape control. Now I’m building systems.
We walk back together, easy and unhidden.
The town doesn’t whisper anymore. They smile.
Grandma moved into a bungalow in Silver last year – smaller garden, easier upkeep, closer to her friends and the little bakery she insists is superior to ours. She says she prefers the simplicity. I suspect she enjoys watching us restore her old house from a comfortable distance.
The deed is in my name. Not the Butlers’. Mine. That was important to her and it’s nice to have something I can call my own.
The house is half-wrapped in scaffolding right now. We’re adding an extension with wide windows facing the sea. Sol wants light flooding the kitchen. I want space – open floors, soft corners, room for children to run without feeling contained.
We don’t rush the conversation. But we don’t avoid it either. Family. Future. Roots. All on the cards for us one day.
After lunch, Finn and Koa head toward the hotel to review renovation budgets and projected revenue. Kai stays to finish the lesson block, shouting encouragement across the water like he’s conducting an orchestra of beginners. Sol closes the grill early – “quality over quantity,” he insists – and we walk the shoreline barefoot, sand warm under our feet.
“You’re glowing,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
My next heat is due in a month.
We’ve talked about it.
Properly talked. Long evenings. Practical considerations. Laughter. Even spreadsheets Finn made that no one asked for but everyone secretly appreciated.
No more birth control.
The decision wasn’t impulsive. It wasn’t wrapped in fantasy. It was deliberate. We want this.
They never stopped courting me. Not after the bond. Not after the renovations. Not after three years.
Flowers still appear on my desk. Surprise weekends away still materialise without warning. Kai still brings me absurd gifts purely to see my exasperated expression. Koa still brushes my hair when we watch films. Finn still brings coffee to my bedside before I wake. Sol still cooks like each meal is sacred.
“I love you,” I tell him quietly as we pause at the edge of the dunes.
He looks startled for half a second before his expression softens.
“We know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” he replies, brushing his thumb along my cheek.
That evening we gather on the hotel terrace.
The sun sinks low, molten gold spilling across the water in long, shimmering paths. Aisling is there, tucked beneath one of her packmate’s arms, laughing at something Kai said. The other girls join us – weddings in planning stages, toddlers tugging at dresses, life unfolding in quiet, ordinary miracles.
It feels full. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just…right.
Finn stands behind me, arms circling my waist as the sky shifts from gold to blush to deepening indigo.