The apartment was small but clean. Two bedrooms, a kitchen with actual counter space, windows that overlooked a park.
"It's not the estate," Dante said, almost apologetic.
"It's perfect."
And it was. Because it was ours.
We spent the first week barely leaving the apartment. Making up for lost time, relearning each other, talking about everything and nothing.
"I read your book," I told him one morning, curled up against his chest. "Morrison got me an advance copy."
"And?"
"It's brilliant. Heartbreaking and honest and brilliant."
"You're biased."
"I'm right."
He kissed my hair. "I dedicated it to you. Did you see?"
I had. The dedication page: *For E. You taught me that redemption is possible.*
"I cried for an hour when I read that."
"Good tears or bad tears?"
"Good tears. The best tears."
---
We started building a life.
Dante got a job at a nonprofit that helped formerly incarcerated people reintegrate into society. I got a position at a community college teaching writing.
We were normal people doing normal things.
It was strange. Wonderful. Sometimes boring in the best possible way.
"I never thought I'd care about grocery shopping," Dante said one Saturday, pushing our cart through the store.
"The excitement is palpable."
"We need milk. And—do we like this brand of cereal?"
"We've never tried it."
"Let's get it. Live dangerously."
I laughed. "This is what dangerous looks like now? Experimental cereal?"
"I'm a changed man."
And he was. We both were.
The past didn't disappear. We still had nightmares. Still had moments where the weight of everything we'd done crushed us.
But we faced it together.
---
Six months after our reunion, Dante proposed.
It was nothing fancy. We were making dinner, arguing good-naturedly about how much garlic to use, when he suddenly got quiet.
"Marry me."
I froze. "What?"
"Marry me, Elena." He took my hands, getting tomato sauce on both of us. "I know it's complicated. I know legally you're Sarah Mitchell and I'm technically still a felon and we can't have a traditional wedding. But I don't care. I want you to be my wife. In every way that matters."
"Dante—"
"You don't have to answer now. I just needed to ask. Needed you to know that this—us—is forever for me."
I looked at this man who'd forgiven the unforgivable. Who'd traded his safety for mine. Who'd spent five years in prison dreaming of a normal life with me.
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I'll marry you. However we can make it work, whatever it looks like—yes."
He kissed me, tasting like tears and tomatoes and joy.
We got married two months later.
It was just us, an officiant Morrison recommended, and two witnesses we'd met at Dante's nonprofit.
No family. No big celebration. Just two broken people promising to love each other despite everything.
It was perfect.