3 | We Who Survive the Apocalypse | ✅

Epilogue

The first signs of spring are finally showing themselves, peering out in the form of tiny green leaves on the barren branches of trees, or the sounds of birds in the mornings, or the little flowers trying to bloom in Mrs. Norris's flower bed.

For the first time in ages, I can sit outside without freezing. The air is still cool, but in a much gentler way. Dawn is slowly approaching, but, as sleep was evading me, I crept down the stairs and sat on the porch. 

The birds are already awake, singing somewhere out of sight. One of Mrs. Norris's cats has decided to join me, curling up beside my leg and purring loudly. I stroke the cat's fluffy black fur, grateful for oh-so-normal moments like this.

Once the clear sky to the east is beginning to brighten, I hear the screen door swing open and closed, and then, footsteps creaking on the wooden porch.

"There you are." Doyle sits down, facing me from the other side of the cat. I glance up at him, his hair tangled from sleep, and smile.

"I couldn't sleep," I tell him. I pause, my smile dissolving. "I had the nightmare again."

"The one about your dad?"

I nod. It feels good to be able to share it with him. It helps settle the uneasiness, the regret. He doesn't say anything else, just places his hand over mine as I stroke the cat. We sit in silence, letting the world wake up around us.

After a few minutes, he says, "I know it sounds stupid, but it does get easier. Maybe not better, but more bearable."

"I know," I murmur. I know I'll get past it, be able to live a little more. And I don't even understand why it's happening now, after all this time. I guess since I'm not in survival mode anymore, i have to relive past trauma.

"I used to always have nightmares about my family..." he says softly, his thumb lightly stroking the back of my hand. "I still have them sometimes. But not nearly as often."

I look over at him, taking in everything about him. The way his red hair falls over his shoulders, the curves of his face, the way his eyelashes are more visible when he looks down. His lips, the line of his jaw, the way his shirt fits on his body.

The cat grows bored and stands up, stretching before leaving us alone. I scoot closer to Doyle, wrapping my fingers around his hand, bringing his knuckles up to my lips, and pressing them against his skin. His eyes crinkle in a smile as he lets out a soft chuckle. Those beautiful, beautiful eyes. They have gained so much life in the past few weeks.

"I love you." I say it before thinking. But it's not even something I have to think about. Not really.

He sort of freezes before reaching out for me and burying his face in my shoulder. I wrap my arms around him, and he just kind of holds onto me, not saying anything for a while.

He finally sits back up, his eyes shining, and as he meets my own eyes, he says, "Oh Wynne, I love you, too."

I half laugh, half choke, because even though I knew already that he did love me, hearing him say it aloud is just...overwhelming. I begin smothering him in kisses. His cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids, his nose. And then he cradles my face in his hands, and his lips so gently come to rest on mine. I kiss him more deeply, trailing my fingers into his hair, moving onto his lap. There is no space between us, and that's just how I like it.

I never want to be apart from him again, not for the rest of my life.

+

And from inside, on the other side of the screen door, unbeknownst to the two lovers, Izzy watches their embrace. 

And for once, she keeps her mouth shut. Because, even as much as she hates to admit it, she's a sucker for their love story. It's pure and true and all that shit. And she wants that. 

Hell, you have that, dumbass, she reminds herself. 

So she climbs the stairs and steals her way into Seth's room, and climbs into his bed. And even though he isn't quite awake, he moves to give her more room, and wraps her up in his arms. 

Yeah, this is definitely better than whiskey, she decides.

"I like you better than whiskey," she tells him, snuggling into his chest.

"Thanks," he mumbles groggily. "Ditto."

Yep, you have that, she thinks, and it's pure and all that shit.

+

 On the other side of town, in their own little place, Rogan and Mara lie in each other's arms, Pirate resting on the foot of their bed. They're still healing, but they're free. Safe.

 Mara shifts in her sleep, and Rogan, wide awake but completely content, watches her eyelids flutter slightly as he gently strokes her hair. 

They need no words, because their actions, their closeness - they speak for themselves. But even still, he's said those three little words to her more times than he can count, and she to him, and each time they mean it more and more. 

+

Those words are definitely not little. They carry so much more than words could possibly express. 

But they're enough. More than enough.