Harper’s POV
He sits on the couch and pulls me down beside him, his hand warm around mine, his eyes holding that same determination I saw in the doorway. The folder with the Phoenix job offer sits on the coffee table between us, but neither of us looks at it—there's something more important to address first, something that's been hanging in the air since I told him the truth about the baby.
"I spent seven days not sleeping, thinking about it." His voice is rough, cracked at the edges. "About you—eighteen, scared, alone. What you went through while I was three states away, convincing myself I'd done the right thing by leaving."
My throat tightens, fresh tears threatening to spill over. "Ethan—"
"Let me say this." He squeezes my hand, grounding us both. "I can't change what happened. I can't go back in time and be there for you, can't hold your hand in that waiting room, can't take away even a fraction of what you carried alone. But I can be here now, Harper. For everything that comes next."
"I thought you left because you didn't want—" My voice breaks before I can finish the sentence. "Because knowing about the baby changed how you felt about me."
"I left because I needed to fix things." He shifts closer, taking my hand and pressing it flat against his chest where I can feel his heart pounding steady and strong. "Not run from them. When you told me what happened, what you went through—I felt like I'd been gutted. Not because of what you did, but because you had to do it alone."
The tears are falling now, tracking down my cheeks, and I don't bother wiping them away. His hand stays pressed over mine, keeping it against his heart, anchoring me to him.
"I want a future with you." His eyes hold mine, unwavering. "Kids, if you want them. A family. A life that we build together instead of apart. But only when you're ready, Harper. Only if it's what you choose."
"How can you say that?" The question comes out raw, desperate. "After what I did—"
"What you did was survive." He cups my face with his free hand, thumb brushing away tears. "You were eighteen and terrified and completely alone, and you made the best choice you could with the information you had. I don't blame you for that—I blame myself for putting you in that position."
"It wasn't your fault." The words spill out automatically. "You didn't know—"
"I should have been there." His voice cracks, something vulnerable breaking through. "Whatever was happening with the gambling stuff, whatever threats they made—I should have found another way. I should have trusted you with the truth instead of making the decision alone. And I'm so fucking sorry, Harper. For all of it."
I stare at him through blurred vision, watching the grief and guilt and love war across his features. Three years of carrying this secret, three years of convincing myself I was damaged goods, and he's looking at me like I'm the most precious thing he's ever seen.
"I love you," he says quietly. "All of you. Including the parts that hurt, including the scars you carry, including every secret you've been afraid to share. I love you, and I'm not going anywhere."
I kiss him before I can second-guess myself, pulling him close with desperate hands. The kiss is deep and messy and tastes like tears, both of us pouring three years of grief and longing into the press of our lips. His arms wrap around me, holding me tight against his chest, and I feel something crack open inside me—something I've been protecting for so long I forgot it was there.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against mine. "So," he murmurs. "Phoenix?"
"Phoenix." The word feels strange on my tongue, foreign but not unwelcome. "I have to interview first, though. They might not want me."
"They'll want you."
"You can't know that." I pull back slightly to look at him. "You showed them my work, but that doesn't mean they'll actually hire me. These things are competitive."
"Then I'll refuse to sign until they do." He says it so casually, like he's not talking about gambling with his entire career.
"That's insane." I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. "You can't hold a multi-million dollar contract hostage over a job interview."
"Watch me." His mouth curves into that smile I fell in love with years ago—reckless, confident, utterly sure of himself. "That's not insane, Harper. That's love."
I laugh, really laugh, for the first time in weeks. The sound surprises me, bubbling up from somewhere deep, and once I start I can't stop. He's grinning at me like I've given him something precious, and maybe I have—maybe laughter after grief is the most valuable gift of all.
"Come on." He stands, pulling me up with him. "There's somewhere I want to take you."
We drive through the dark streets, his hand warm on my thigh, the radio playing softly. I don't ask where we're going—I already know, can feel the destination in my bones before we even turn onto the gravel road.
The bridge rises out of the darkness like a memory made solid, rusted metal and overgrown wildflowers exactly as they were weeks ago. He parks at the edge of the lot and kills the engine, and for a moment we just sit there, looking at the place where so much of our history lives.
We walk to the edge together and settle onto the cold metal, legs dangling over the drop. The city lights twinkle in the distance, and the stars spread overhead like a blanket of scattered diamonds. His arm wraps around me, pulling me close against his side, and I let myself lean into his warmth.
"Phoenix," I say again, trying the word out.
"Phoenix." He presses a kiss to my hair. "New city, new team, new chapter."
"It's terrifying." I watch the distant lights blur and shift. "Starting over somewhere we don't know anyone, building everything from scratch."
"We'll know each other." His arm tightens around me. "That's enough to start with."
Silence settles between us, comfortable and full, and I think about everything that led us here. The hallway breakup that shattered me, the fake dating arrangement that was never really fake, the secrets we carried alone until they almost destroyed us. The pain and the grief and the walls we built and broke and built again.
"We're really doing this?" My voice comes out soft, almost wondering.
"We're really doing this." He tilts my chin up, kissing me softly under the stars. "Together."
I rest my head on his shoulder and watch the city lights dance in the distance, feeling something settle into place inside my chest. This isn't a fairytale—it's messier than that, built on grief and secrets and choices we can't take back. We're two people who've hurt each other deeply, who've carried scars alone, who've spent years running from what we really feel.
But we're also two people who keep choosing each other, despite everything. Who keep finding our way back to this bridge, to this moment, to the stubborn hope that love can survive even the worst things we do to each other.
It's not perfect. But it's ours.
And right now, sitting on the edge of our past while looking toward our future, that's more than enough.