The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving us with Angus, who’s already standing to follow.
“I'll let you two talk. Got a ranch to run. Beckett, we'll work out the details later.” He whistles for Cheese Puff, who ignores him completely, trotting after him only when George gives her a gentle nudge.
When we're finally alone, George turns to me, her eyes bright. She winds her arms around my neck, leaning in until our foreheads touch.
“You think I'd let you leave?” Her smirk is pure fire—pure George. Then, softer, meant only for me: “You're mine, Beckett Lawson. You always have been.”
I pull her closer, kissing her like a man who just got everything he never knew he wanted. Because I did.
When we break apart, both breathless, I can't help the words that tumble out next.
“I love you, George.” The confession tears straight from my soul, raw and unplanned but absolutely true. “I have since the moment you parked your perfect ass at The Honey Pot.”
Her eyes widen, bright with unshed tears, but her smile—God, her smile could light up the darkest corners of my battered soul.
“I love you too,” she whispers against my lips. “Probably for just as long.”
I came back from war thinking I had nothing left to fight for, nothing worth living for. But now? Now, I'd fight for this woman until my last breath.
“I'm never spending another night without you again,” I murmur, tucking her hair behind her ear. “So, about moving my things...”
George laughs, the sound vibrating through me like music. “Your duffel bag? All two shirts, a razor, and a tattered paperback?”
“Hey,” I protest in mock offense. “I have at least four shirts.”
She stands, tugging me up with her. “Come on. Let's get you moved in. I want you in my bed. Permanently.”
As she leads me out of the kitchen, her hand warm and certain in mine, I know with absolute clarity that I've found that elusive thing I've been chasing since I left the military—purpose.
Belonging.
Home.
All wrapped up in one fierce, beautiful woman who chose me forever.
Epilogue
George
Three Months Later
The garage is supposed to be my space. My sanctuary. A place where I can get my hands dirty and my head clear without anyone hovering.
But the second I step inside, I see him.
Beckett is under my truck, legs sprawled, his broad back flexing as he works on something I didn’t ask him to fix. There’s a smudge of grease on his forearm, a wrench in his grip, and a cockyI own this placeenergy radiating off him like heat off asphalt.
I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe. “You know, I can fix my own truck.”
He grins without looking up, completely unbothered. “Yeah, but then what excuse would I have to hang out here and admire you?”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach does that annoying little flip it does every damn time he opens his mouth and ruins my best scowl.
The air smells like motor oil, metal, and him—sweat, cedar, something earthy that clings to my skin long after he’s gone.
I touch the small weight in my back pocket, excitement bubbling in my stomach.
Three months. Three months of arms wrapped around me in sleep, of peeling back every scar—his and mine—and realizing we weren’t broken. Just rough-cut and finally shaped into something solid together.
