..Out of the Blue ..💙

47.Epilogue

Back Home

The island breeze had been traded for the buzz of the city, the scent of the ocean for the familiar fragrance of home. Still, something had shifted—something had settled.

Monica stood in the doorway of their house, bags in hand, watching Zoya run barefoot to scoop up Athena in a hug. Grace was just behind, smiling at the sight like she knew exactly what had bloomed while they were away.

“You look… different,” Grace murmured, passing Monica a knowing glance.

Monica only smirked. “Tan lines.”

But her eyes gave away more. They sparkled. She looked lighter. Less guarded.
Inside, the house had a faint lavender scent—the maid must’ve freshened up. Athena wouldn’t stop clinging to Zoya, demanding island stories, and when Monica offered to unpack, Zoya wordlessly reached out and laced their fingers together.

“Together?” she asked.

“Always,” Monica replied.

They moved in sync, a rhythm they’d found quietly between each shared toothbrush and tangled bedsheet.

Later, with Athena finally asleep—curled up with her new island teddy—Monica and Zoya sat on the balcony under fairy lights. Tea in hand, silence in peace.

Zoya leaned her head on Monica’s shoulder. “Did you miss her?”

“Athena?”

“No, your spreadsheets.”

Monica scoffed. “A little. But I missed her more than I expected.”

Zoya grinned. “See? You're not heartless.”

Monica turned slightly, brushing her lips against Zoya’s temple. “No. I just… didn't know where my heart belonged before.”

Zoya's throat tightened, but she covered it with a teasing laugh. “God. That was sappy. Should I start planning the wedding now?”

Monica raised a brow. “Try proposing first.”

Zoya blinked, then slowly smiled. “So you are open to the idea.”

“I’m open to everything... with you.”

As the night deepened, Zoya curled closer under the blanket, her voice a whisper against Monica’s skin.

“I used to think I’d never fall for someone like you.”

Monica chuckled softly. “I used to think I’d never let someone like you in.”

They exchanged a quiet look. Full of memories. Full of the island. Full of all the nights they couldn’t sleep without touching each other, and all the mornings they didn’t want to get out of bed.

“I love you,” Zoya said again, simply.

“I love you too,” Monica said, even simpler.

---

Monica – Three Years Later

If someone had asked the old Monica Mittal what love meant, she would’ve scoffed. Rolled her eyes, maybe. Filed the question under “romantic nonsense” and walked away, heels clicking, heart sealed shut.

She never believed in love.

Not in the messy, maddening, warm sort of way. Not in the type that made you want to stay up listening to someone breathe. Not in the kind that made you want to be known—flaws and all.

But that was three years ago.

Now, Monica stood at the doorway of their sunlit living room, watching her seven-year-old daughter patting a round stomach with all the serious fascination only a child could possess.