Six Months Later. Laurel

Sophia’s lips brush my shoulder, soft as a whisper, waking me with gentle kisses. The morning light spills through the windows of our modest Vancouver apartment, painting everything in hues of gold.

I turn toward her, pulling her close, breathing in the comforting mix of her scent—coffee and lavender.

“Morning, love,” she murmurs, her voice soft, like she’s still not used to mornings starting with quiet peace.

I press a kiss to her forehead, marveling at how surreal this still feels—the woman I once handcuffed to a hotel bed now sleeping beside me, night after night.

From the kitchen comes the faint clatter of cups and the unmistakable smell of burnt toast.

Emily is at it again, her culinary skills still a running joke in this new life we’ve carved out together.

“We should get up,” I whisper, though neither of us moves. Her fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along my back, the kind of intimacy we never imagined possible back when survival was more important that affection.

“Five more minutes,” Sophia pleads, her voice filled with sleep.

I smile, brushing her hair away from her face. How could I ever deny her?

After everything we’ve been through—the danger, the chaos, the heartbreak—these stolen moments feel like treasures we’re still learning how to claim.

The sound of Emily’s voice pierces through the quiet.

“Lovebirds! Coffee’s ready! If you don’t get out here, I’m drinking it all!”

Sophia groans and buries her face against my chest. I laugh softly, pressing another kiss to her hair before finally sitting up.

“I’ll grab the coffee before she burns the whole kitchen down,” I tease, but Sophia’s fingers curl around my wrist, keeping me close for one last kiss.

In the kitchen, Emily pushes two mismatched mugs across the counter. She smirks as she glances at our rumpled appearance.

“You two are disgustingly cute. It’s revolting.”

“You love it,” Sophia says, sliding her arms around my waist from behind.

Emily makes an exaggerated gagging noise but doesn’t bother hiding her smile. For all her snark, I know how much it means to her to see us like this—happy, whole.

Our phones buzz simultaneously, the sound cutting through the warm morning. I glance at the screen: a message from Miguel.

Another successful raid, this time in Singapore, based on Miguel’s latest intel. More lives saved, another piece of the network dismantled.

Sophia stiffens slightly at the mention of Miguel. I turn in her arms, cupping her face gently. “Hey. You okay?”

Her eyes meet mine. “More than okay. Just...grateful.”

I kiss her forehead. “We’re doing good work. You should be proud.”

She smiles, but the past is never far away. Dana’s absence looms over us like a shadow we can’t escape. No one has seen her in six months. She’s not in prison, and there’s no trace of her, but Sophia knows better than to let her guard down.

“She’ll come for me eventually,” Sophia says one night, her voice calm but firm. “And when she does, I... don't know.”

The days pass in a rhythm we’ve built together. Mornings like this, filled with burnt toast and teasing laughter.

Afternoons spent tirelessly dismantling the remnants of the trafficking networks.

Evenings curled up together, watching the mountains fade into the night sky.

Emily’s survivor support group has become a lifeline for her, a place where she’s found both healing and purpose. She’s also taken up painting—something she’s surprisingly good at, despite her complete lack of talent in the kitchen.

Her latest piece, an abstract swirl of blues and greens, hangs in the living room, a reminder of how far we’ve all come.

Mom visits when she can, though for her safety, we’ve decided to keep some distance. Her warmth fills the apartment whenever she’s here, her stories a balm for the wounds we still carry.

As for Miguel, he’s found his own path. He’s stayed in contact, sharing intel when he can, but he’s also started over in a new city, building a life free from all that. Oh, and he has a horse named Joe.

I check in on him often, and our bond—complicated as it is—remains unbroken.

One evening, as the sun dips, Sophia and I sit on the balcony, a blanket wrapped around us.

“I love you,” I say, the words still feeling like a privilege every time I speak them.

Sophia turns to me, her eyes shining with the kind of joy that makes my heart ache.

“I love you too. Even if you did handcuff me to a bed.”

I laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Not exactly the most romantic beginning.”

“But a perfect ending,” she whispers, her lips finding mine in a kiss that feels like home.

When Emily returns later, she finds us still on the balcony, tangled together, lost in quiet conversation about the future.

She joins us with fresh coffee, and we fall into an easy rhythm—talking about weekend plans, the shelter dog Sophia’s still trying to convince me to adopt, and the movie night we’ve been looking forward to.

This is our life now. Three women who survived hell, who found family in the unlikeliest of places. Our apartment may not be much, but it’s filled with laughter, healing, and hope.

Later that night, as Sophia drifts to sleep beside me, I watch the rise and fall of her breath, overwhelmed by gratitude for this life we’ve built together.

It’s not a conventional love story. But it’s ours. And that makes it perfect.