Page 49 of Saved By the Ex-Military Sheriff

"What?"

"That this house has felt empty for four years. And today, for the first time, it feels like home."

I turn to look at him. "Because I'm here?"

"Because you're here."

I kiss him then, soft and slow, and when we break apart I'm smiling. "We're really doing this."

"We're really doing this."

Later we head down the hall to bed. To his bed. Our bed now, I guess. I change into sleep clothes in the bathroom and he does the same in the bedroom, and when I come out he's already under the covers.

I slide in next to him and he immediately pulls me close. I settle against his chest, my ear over his heart, listening to the steady rhythm of it.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"About?"

"How much can change in less than a week. Five days ago I was alone and terrified and running. Now I'm here with you and Trevor's in jail and I'm unpacking my clothes in your dresser. It doesn't feel real."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Good. Definitely good. Just surreal."

He runs his hand up and down my back, slow and soothing. "You think we're crazy?"

"Completely. But I don't care."

"Me either."

I close my eyes and let myself sink into the warmth and safety of it. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The solid presence of him next to me. The quiet certainty that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

"Kieran?" I say, already half asleep.

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad I ran away to Bloomfield."

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Me too."

I fall asleep thinking about purple paint for the spare room and vegetables in the garden and all the ordinary beautiful things that might be waiting in the future. And as Kieran's breathing evens out beside me and his arm tightens around my waist, I let myself believe that everything is actually going to be okay.

Because for the first time in years, I'm not just surviving. I'm living.

And that makes all the difference.

Epilogue — Kieran

Three Years Later

The house smells like paint and the lasagna Lyla's got in the oven when I get home from the station. I can hear music playing from down the hall.

I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and head down the hall. The spare bedroom door is open and Lyla's standing on a ladder in cutoff shorts and a tank top, rolling paint onto the far wall. The color is not what I expected.

"That's gray?" I ask from the doorway.