"And let's talk about this kilt. Hands up, who saw more o' Fergus than they bargained for earlier?" he bellowed, waving at himself. Half the front row raised their hands, crimson with laughter. "Aye, apologies tae you lot...free show, nae refunds. Consider it my wedding gift. Don't say I never give ye anything."
The hall exploded—pints slammed down, bridesmaids shrieking with laughter, the back table yelling, "Aye, and the front row's seen enough proof o' that already!"
He raised his pint again, his grin softening just a fraction. "But in all seriousness, Euan's one of the most loyal, big-hearted idiots I know. He'd give his last quid tae a mate, or his last pint,which is saying something. And Sage...you've put the fire in him—we can all see it. He's happier, steadier, a better man because of you. So, thank you for seeing what the rest of us sometimes forget is there."
Fergus paused, eyes gleaming with both mischief and warmth, then lifted his glass high. "So here's tae love, tae laughter, and tae never ever letting him near a frying pan, unless ye like your sausages blacker than Satan's arse. Here's tae nights that shake the headboard, mornings where ye cannae walk straight, and bairns loud enough tae prove you've not just been holding hands. May your glasses always be full, your sheets never stay cold, and Euan—may you always keep your kilt down...unless Sage asks otherwise!"
Euan hid his face in his hands, Sage was doubled over in helpless giggles, and Fergus bowed low, smug as a man who knew he'd nailed it.
Sage caught him later, leaning against the bar, head dipped close to Rose—her shy colleague from the hospice. Rose's cheeks were pinker than the rosé in her glass, her laughter nervous but genuine as Fergus murmured something in her ear. An hour later, both had slipped out together, the empty corner of the garden suddenly missing its two occupants.
Shaking her head, Sage tried not to laugh. Trust Fergus to find trouble—or romance—before dessert had even been served.
By the time dancing began, Brock was wide awake, his powerful lungs making sure everyone knew he wanted a feeding. Euan took him without complaint, settling into a chair with the bottle, his big hand cradling the baby's head with surprising tenderness.
Ronin was quiet all evening, just watching from the periphery. At one point, he asked Sage for a dance. She hesitated, then laid her hand in his. The music was slow, lilting, and for a few minutes, it was just the two of them swaying under fairy lights.
"You look beautiful," Ronin said softly, his eyes holding hers. "I should've given you all this. I knew it even then. But I was a lazy fool, and I deserved to lose you."
They danced in silence for a while.
"Are you happy, Sage?" he asked in a whisper.
Her throat suddenly felt full of tears. For a moment, she didn't trust herself to answer, but then she smiled faintly. "I am, Ronin. Truly."
He nodded, jaw tight, then pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek before handing her back to Euan.
Euan's eyes danced with mischief as he pulled her close. "You've got quite the fan club, Mrs. Robertson," he teased, kissing the side of her mouth. "But I'm the one who gets to peel this dress off ya."
Sage laughed, resting her head against his chest as Brock's cries rose again, sharp and demanding. "Your son may rain on that parade."
"Ourson," he corrected, pride thick in his voice. And with that, he spun her into the dance, their little family's laughter carrying long into the summer night.
Epilogue 2
The house was unnervingly quiet.
For the first time in what felt like centuries, there were no toy cars underfoot, no tiny voice calling Muuum, where’s my sock? The silence rang with a kind of fragile freedom. Their son had started Reception that week, and the house—though still strewn with the debris of a small boy’s chaos—felt strange.
Euan had kissed her in the doorway that morning, grinning like a man half in disbelief.“Four years, Sage,” he’d murmured. “Four years of talking about poop schedules.”
She had laughed, warm and helpless. “Has he pooped yet?” had been the most common sentence in their marriage for months. Their son had developed a toddler’s knack for strategic constipation, and together they had survived the era of prune juice, stickers, and desperate negotiations over the toilet bowl.
They were still laughing when Euan had suddenly swept her up the stairs.The laughter turned to something breathless when he pressed her to the wall and kissed her the way he hadn’t in months—hungry, reverent, a little wild.
And when he tied her wrists in the silk scarf from her dresser and made her wait—God, the waiting—she remembered what it felt like to want and be wanted, to surrender to something that wasn’t duty or exhaustion. He had drawn it out until she was trembling, eyes glazed, and only then given her what she’d begged for.
Afterwards, they’d showered together, the kind of slow, lazy intimacy that used to belong to their early days. His hands had lingered at her hips; her laughter had echoed against the tile. When they were finally dressed, the world felt lighter—dishevelled but safe.
They stood surveying the battlefield of domestic life—the couch that looked like a granola bar, courtesy of their son’s trail of snacks and Euan’s indulgence. “This,” she said, “is your doing.”He’d only grinned, utterly unrepentant.
Later, while she was tidying the bookshelf—rearranging a few old novels, her fingers tracing names that once meant something—the folded page slipped out. It landed face-down on the carpet with the faintest sound, a ghost returning home.
She knew that paper. Even before she picked it up, her throat went tight.It was that letter. The one she’d written the day her world had ended.
Her fingers shook as she opened it.The handwriting looked younger somehow—hurried, desperate, as though every word had been carved out of pain. She remembered that night too clearly: the tears, the suffocating weight in her chest, the thought that maybe not waking up would be easier.
Dear Future Me,
