behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Epilogue

HARPER

TWO YEARS LATER
Venice, Florida.

The camera is warm in my hands, its strap tucked snugly between my collarbone and shoulder, like it belongs there. Like it always has. I've been trying to get the perfect shot of the purple-pink sky melting into the endless blue of the ocean, but I've given up. Not even the best lens in the world could capture what I'm seeing. What I'm feeling.

Because what I'm feeling is peace. And the kind of joy that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

There are blankets spread across the floorboards, towels slung over the railing, and kids running barefoot through the sand with popsicles dripping down their wrists and bright, messy smiles.
Fizzy and Nico—now twelve and almost as tall as Millie—are attempting to build a sandcastle that's turning more into a moat with every wave, arguing over who gets to be in charge. I've stopped trying to keep my lens clean. Everything is sticky, and sandy, and loud, and a little bit wild.

But it's the best kind of chaos.

The Bennetts have officially taken over Florida. And somehow, this house—the one I used to think was too full of ghosts to ever be mine again—has learned how to hold laughter. To hold life.

Inside, I hear Camille humming softly as she carries her and Aurora's newborn—just one month old—up the stairs for his afternoon nap. Ciro is wrapped in one of the soft blue blankets I made for him last winter. He is perfect. Round cheeks, wisps of dark hair, tiny fists always curled. Camille keeps the nursery cool, tucked away from the Florida heat. She always looks peaceful holding her son like that, her love quiet and sure.

Millie's moms are out on the deck, Mia rests between Luna's legs, her back against her chest. They're half-drunk on homemade lemonade and debating whether the new garden they planted last spring is too symmetrical. Willow's manning a game of cards with two of Millie's cousins and somehow winning every hand. Aurora and Summer are sitting with their feet in the kiddie pool, arguing about sunscreen reapplication while stealing bites from the fruit tray they said was "for the kids." There's a rhythm to this now—a comfortable, lived-in chaos that doesn't just feel like vacation.

It feels like home.

And my fiancee—, Millie is in her element.

She's standing barefoot in front of the grill with Lia balanced easily on her hip and a spatula in her other hand, flipping corn and talking shit like she was born to do both at once.
Her skin is sun-kissed and golden, her legs dusted in sand, freckles multiplying across her shoulders like stars. She's wearing an old tank top of mine and those cutoff shorts that should honestly be illegal, plus a backwards cap that barely keeps her wild red hair in place. The Florida sun has turned it even brighter—it's practically glowing now, fiery and fierce. Strands curl around her cheeks, stuck with sweat and humidity. She's glowing. She's radiant. She's home.

Every so often, she looks up just to find me. Like she's tethered to me, even across the chaos. And when our eyes meet, she smiles like I'm the only thing that matters.

That hasn't changed.
Not through sleepless nights or plane rides or full arenas. Millie still plays. Still wins. Still carries the weight of the world on her shoulders and somehow makes it look effortless. And still, every time, she finds me in the crowd like I'm her center. Her lighthouse.

I snap a shot of Millie laughing, her head thrown back, sun hitting the side of her face. And another of the way she balances her niece on her hip while turning the food, totally at ease. Then a few of the beach, the way the sand looks like sugar, the way the waves roll so gently tonight, like they know it's sacred.