Page 202 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“He can file them in the morning.”

Then Forrest carries me toward the bedroom, past the noodles, past the laptop, past the life I am done being too afraid to want.

And for once, I don’t make a joke to get out of the feeling.

I let him take me with him.

I let the door close.

Epilogue

Daisy

By Christmas Eve, I have learned that living with Forrest Wolfcraft without officially living with Forrest Wolfcraft requires legal clarification, emotional stamina, and at least one drawer assigned to me.

Technically, I still have my apartment.

Technically, I still pay rent there, which is both responsible and financially insulting.

Technically, I have not moved in with Forrest.

I merely spend five nights a week at his place, keep my toothbrush in his bathroom, my cardigans in his closet, my books on his coffee table, my mug in his cabinet, my hair ties in places no forensic team could fully explain, and my face wash beside his sink because his skincare routine used to be water and audacity.

So, again.

Technically.

His apartment has changed too.

There is a tiny Christmas tree in the corner because I told him his place needed evidence of seasonal participation and he told me he had a wreath on the door. I informed him that a wreath was an accessory, not a personality.

Now the tree glows in the living room window, tucked between his bookshelf and Puck’s bed. There are ornaments shaped like books, tiny skates, a coffee cup, and one dramatic little squirrel Bea found and gifted to us with a note that said: for historical accuracy.

Forrest pretended not to understand why I laughed for three minutes.

Puck is wearing a red sweater that says TEAM SNACKS across his very proud chest.

Forrest said dogs do not need sweaters.

Puck disagreed by immediately sitting in front of the mirror and admiring himself.

I trust the dog.

“Your son is vain,” I say from the couch, where I am wrapping presents with the precision of someone who has never once wrapped a gift without making it look like the paper fought back.

Forrest stands in the kitchen, wearing dark jeans, a black sweater, and the expression of a man trying to look normal with absolutely no confidence in the outcome.

“Our son,” he says.

I pause with the tape between my teeth.

That still gets me.

Every time.

Our dog. Our mornings. Our weird little routines. Our Open Ice calls. Our Boston pilot calendar. Our argument about whether snack funding belongs under nutrition, operations, or emotional infrastructure.

Our.