Chapter 13
Six months later.
I was working again. New company. New city. A fresh start that felt genuinely fresh instead of like another reset.
The divorce was finalized. I'd dropped the name Carter like it burned—which, metaphorically, it always had.
Bella Jensen. Just me. Clean.
I'd also started therapy. Two sessions a week. My therapist didn't know about the time loop—I'd told her about the murder plot, the betrayal, the PTSD—and that was plenty to work with.
"You're making progress," Dr. Wren told me during our last session. "The hypervigilance is decreasing. You're trusting your environment more."
"I still check the locks three times before bed."
"That's down from seven. I'll take it."
Fair enough.
Ethan texted me daily. Nothing heavy. Memes, mostly. Updates on Natasha, who'd started a nonprofit for domestic violence survivors. Occasionally a question:
[Coffee this weekend?]
I always said yes.
We'd been doing this dance for months—hovering between friendship and something more. I knew he was waiting. I knew he'd wait as long as I needed.
But one Saturday morning, I woke up and thought: I'm tired of waiting too.
I texted him: [Dinner tonight. My place. I'm cooking.]
His response: [Should I bring a fire extinguisher?]
[Rude. But probably yes.]
That night, I made pasta—badly—and we ate it anyway, laughing at how overcooked the noodles were.
"This is genuinely terrible," he said, chewing heroically.
"I know. But I made it. That counts for something."
"It counts for a lot, actually."
We moved to the couch. Wine. Comfortable silence. His arm along the back of the cushion, not quite touching me.
"Ethan."
"Bella."
"I want to ask you something, and I need a completely honest answer."
"Okay."
"In four hundred loops—did you ever develop feelings for me? Before I knew you existed?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Yes."
"When?"
"Around loop fifty. You were at the reception, dancing with your friend Molly. You were laughing. And I thought—this is a woman who laughs like the world is good. Even when it's trying to kill her."
"That's problematic," I said softly. "You fell for someone who didn't know you were watching."
"I know. I've thought about that a lot. Whether it's fair. Whether I have some unfair advantage because I've seen four hundred versions of your worst day."
"And?"
"And I decided that I'd let you choose. No pressure. No grand declarations. Just... me. Present. Available. Honest." He finally looked at me. "Whatever you decide, I'll respect it."
I set down my wine glass.
"I've decided," I said.
And I kissed him.
Not tentatively. Not uncertainly. With everything I had.
He pulled me closer—gently, like I might break, like I was something precious—and kissed me back.
When we finally separated, breathless, he pressed his forehead against mine.
"Are you sure?" he whispered.
"I've died six times and survived four hundred loops of hell. I think I know what I want."
He smiled. The kind of smile that transforms a face entirely.
"Then I'm yours," he said. "For however many days we get."
"Just one condition," I said.
"Name it."
"No more June 15th weddings. Ever."
He laughed and kissed me again.
"Deal."
I was working again. New company. New city. A fresh start that felt genuinely fresh instead of like another reset.
The divorce was finalized. I'd dropped the name Carter like it burned—which, metaphorically, it always had.
Bella Jensen. Just me. Clean.
I'd also started therapy. Two sessions a week. My therapist didn't know about the time loop—I'd told her about the murder plot, the betrayal, the PTSD—and that was plenty to work with.
"You're making progress," Dr. Wren told me during our last session. "The hypervigilance is decreasing. You're trusting your environment more."
"I still check the locks three times before bed."
"That's down from seven. I'll take it."
Fair enough.
Ethan texted me daily. Nothing heavy. Memes, mostly. Updates on Natasha, who'd started a nonprofit for domestic violence survivors. Occasionally a question:
[Coffee this weekend?]
I always said yes.
We'd been doing this dance for months—hovering between friendship and something more. I knew he was waiting. I knew he'd wait as long as I needed.
But one Saturday morning, I woke up and thought: I'm tired of waiting too.
I texted him: [Dinner tonight. My place. I'm cooking.]
His response: [Should I bring a fire extinguisher?]
[Rude. But probably yes.]
That night, I made pasta—badly—and we ate it anyway, laughing at how overcooked the noodles were.
"This is genuinely terrible," he said, chewing heroically.
"I know. But I made it. That counts for something."
"It counts for a lot, actually."
We moved to the couch. Wine. Comfortable silence. His arm along the back of the cushion, not quite touching me.
"Ethan."
"Bella."
"I want to ask you something, and I need a completely honest answer."
"Okay."
"In four hundred loops—did you ever develop feelings for me? Before I knew you existed?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Yes."
"When?"
"Around loop fifty. You were at the reception, dancing with your friend Molly. You were laughing. And I thought—this is a woman who laughs like the world is good. Even when it's trying to kill her."
"That's problematic," I said softly. "You fell for someone who didn't know you were watching."
"I know. I've thought about that a lot. Whether it's fair. Whether I have some unfair advantage because I've seen four hundred versions of your worst day."
"And?"
"And I decided that I'd let you choose. No pressure. No grand declarations. Just... me. Present. Available. Honest." He finally looked at me. "Whatever you decide, I'll respect it."
I set down my wine glass.
"I've decided," I said.
And I kissed him.
Not tentatively. Not uncertainly. With everything I had.
He pulled me closer—gently, like I might break, like I was something precious—and kissed me back.
When we finally separated, breathless, he pressed his forehead against mine.
"Are you sure?" he whispered.
"I've died six times and survived four hundred loops of hell. I think I know what I want."
He smiled. The kind of smile that transforms a face entirely.
"Then I'm yours," he said. "For however many days we get."
"Just one condition," I said.
"Name it."
"No more June 15th weddings. Ever."
He laughed and kissed me again.
"Deal."