Be Rude but Love Me | ✔

EPILOGUE

5 YEARS LATER

I stand in the kitchen, putting pancakes on several plates for breakfast. As I pour coffee in two mugs, I can't help but sneak a quick peek at my computer, reading the New York Times. There it is, on the front page, a story about a certain record-breaking swimmer. I smile to myself. The New Michael Phelps, the headline reads. Avidly, I read of his latest achievements even though I was there for each and every single one of them, cheering him on until I got a sore throat.

I take a closer look at the picture. His head is slightly popping out of the water, swimming cap and glasses on. His mouth is opened in a small o as he takes a deep breath in, feeding oxygen to his lungs. The water creates a sort of film over him as the picture was taken just before the water tension was broken. Water is sloshing past him, the drops captured as they are soaring over and past his body, almost making it look like he is made of water. Behind and around him, the blueness of the pool water is a little fuzzy as the focus of the camera is solely on him. He looks beautiful.

Yann. My Yann. Olympics gold-medal-winning swimmer. Being coached by Michael Phelps himself. The legendary swimmer has often complimented Yann, calling him devoted and persistent, two things he said made him who he is today.

"Careful!"

My head snaps up at Yann as his voice suddenly cuts sharp through my thoughts. I'm about to ask him what he means as I see him run towards me but I feel it. The burn of the hot coffee on my bare skin. I drop the carafe on the counter and rush to the sink, where Yann already has the water running.

"What's got your attention like that?" He asks as he stops the water and takes my hand to examine the damage.

He turns my hand over and over, making sure that I'm alright. When I don't answer, he looks up to my grinning face. He glances to the side and catches sight of my laptop and immediately rolls his eyes.

"Really, Tracy?" He says, "Why do you even read them?"

I shrug, faking nonchalance. "I like to read about my fiancé's accomplishments, that's all."

At the word fiancé, Yann takes my left hand in his own and gazes down at the engagement ring on my fourth finger. The golden little band rests perfectly against my finger, the five-carat diamond shining in the kitchen light above our heads. It's very simple but stunningly beautiful. I had been speechless when I saw it the very first time. Yann had mistaken my silence for disappointment over the ring, saying he thought I'd want something discreet but elegant. I quickly reassured him as I whispered a thousand yesses to his proposal, telling him that it was perfect.

That was one month ago.

Yann lifts my hand and places a chaste kiss on my fingers. When his gaze travels to mine, his eyes are shining with love, saying what his mouth doesn't often tell me. I love you.

The last time Yann told me he loved me was a month ago when he proposed to me. And before that, it had been about six months ago. In the five years we've been together, Yann has told me he loved me a total of sixteen times – yes, I am counting. But I've lost track of how many times I've caught him staring at me, watching me, with the same expression on his face. Small smile, sparkling eyes, softened features, sheer adoration etched in every inch of his face. Adoration of me.

No, I don't need to hear the words. I already know he loves me.

"I love you, too," I whisper to him and kiss him gently. In the five years we've been together, I must have told him about a billion times - give or take a few millions.

"Where's everyone?" He asks when he pulls away.

Moving around him, I grab the maple syrup in the pantry. "Not sure. I heard Keven and Ginnie outside."