They didn't go to Paris or Bora Bora or any of the places Cole's private jet could have taken them.
They went to Frankie's house.
The white clapboard with the blue shutters. The porch swing that creaked. The roses that climbed the trellis. The sound of waves crashing against the cliff below.
Frankie had insisted. "Take the house. It's paid for. I won't be using it much longer." She'd said it with a smile – her dying smile, the one that said I've made peace – and Cole had nodded without arguing.
Now Sloane stood on the porch, watching the sun set over the water, her bare feet cold on the wooden planks.
Cole came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. His chin rested on her shoulder.
"You're thinking," he said.
"I'm always thinking."
"About what?"
She leaned back into his chest. "About Frankie. About the bakery. About how we got here."
"Here is good."
"Here is perfect." She turned in his arms and kissed him – soft, slow. "Thank you for not taking me to Paris."
"I hate Paris."
"You've never been to Paris."
"I hate it on principle. Too many people. Too many baguettes."
"You love my baguettes."
"I love you. The baguettes are a bonus."
She laughed and pulled him inside.
---
Frankie's house was small but warm. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace. The kitchen smelled like the shortbread they'd made together – Cole was getting better at not burning things. The bedroom was at the end of the hall, with a four-poster bed and a window that faced the sea.
Sloane walked into the bedroom and stopped.
Rose petals covered the bed. Red and white, scattered like confetti. A bottle of champagne sat in a bucket of ice on the nightstand. Two glasses. A small box wrapped in gold ribbon.
"Cole?"
He stood in the doorway, his hands behind his back. "I had Jade help me. Before we left."
"You had Jade sneak into Frankie's house?"
"I had Jade prepare Frankie's house. There's a difference."
Sloane picked up the small box. She untied the ribbon. Inside was a key.
"What's this?"
Cole walked over and took the key. He pressed it into her palm and closed her fingers around it.
"It's the key to this house. Frankie gave it to me before the wedding. She said –" His voice caught. "She said she wanted us to have it. For when she's gone. For weekends. For anniversaries. For when we need to remember that love is possible."
Sloane's eyes filled. "She's not gone yet."
"No. But she will be. And I didn't want to wait until after to give you this." He kissed her forehead. "This is our place now. Yours and mine. Forever."
She set the key on the nightstand and pulled him onto the bed.
Rose petals scattered. The champagne waited. But they didn't need either.
They had each other.
---
Later – much later – they lay tangled in sheets, the window open to the sound of waves.
Sloane traced patterns on Cole's chest. His scars were silver in the moonlight.
"Cole?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
She hesitated. Then: "Do you ever think about having children?"
His body went still beneath her hand.
She felt it – the tension, the fear, the way his breathing changed. She sat up and looked at him.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "Too soon. I shouldn't have—"
"No." He sat up too, pulling the sheet around his waist. "It's not too soon. It's just..."
"What?"
He stared at the window, at the moonlight on the water. "I don't know how to be a father."
Sloane waited.
"I only had one model," he continued. "The foster fathers. The ones who hit. Who locked me in basements. Who used belts and cigarettes and worse." His voice was flat, but his hands were shaking. "What if I become them? What if I get angry and I can't stop? What if I hurt my own child?"
Sloane took his face in her hands. "Cole. Look at me."
He looked at her.
"You are not them. You are kind. You are patient. You learned to knead dough because I asked you to. You stayed with Frankie when she was dying. You took a beating for Marcus when you were twelve years old." She stroked his cheeks. "That's who you are. Not the men who hurt you."
"What if I'm not enough?"
"Then we'll figure it out together. That's what marriage is. That's what family is." She pressed her forehead to his. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. I'm not saying you won't be scared. But I am saying you won't be alone."
His arms wrapped around her. His face buried in her neck.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too. And when the time comes – if it comes – you're going to be an amazing father. Because you know what it feels like to be unloved. And you'll spend every day making sure our child never feels that way."
He held her tighter.
They stayed like that until the moon crossed the window and the waves lulled them to sleep.
---
The next morning, Sloane woke to the smell of coffee and something burning.
She smiled. He's trying to make breakfast again.
She pulled on his shirt – the one from last night, still smelling like him – and walked barefoot to the kitchen.
Cole stood at the stove, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else. His back was to her. She could see the scars – silver lines across his shoulder blades, down his spine. But she also saw the way his muscles moved as he flipped pancakes.
Perfectly. No burning.
"You're getting good at that," she said.
He turned. His hair was messy. His jaw was stubbled. He was holding a spatula and wearing an expression of pure concentration.
"The secret is the heat," he said. "Medium. Not high. You were right."
"I'm always right."
"Don't let it go to your head."
She walked over and wrapped her arms around him from behind. Her cheek pressed to his back. His heart beat steady and strong.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too. Now sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."
They ate on the porch – pancakes with too much syrup, coffee that was a little too strong, fresh strawberries from Frankie's garden. The sun was warm on their faces. The water sparkled.
"This is what forever feels like," Sloane said.
Cole took her hand. "Yeah. It is."
---
They spent the rest of the honeymoon doing nothing and everything.
They walked on the beach. She collected shells. He carried her shoes.
They made love in the afternoon, sunlight streaming through the curtains, slow and sweet.
They cooked together – real meals, not just pancakes. Pasta with clams. Roasted chicken. A chocolate cake that collapsed in the middle but tasted perfect anyway.
They sat on the porch swing at night, wrapped in a single blanket, and talked about nothing and everything.
"What's your happiest memory?" Sloane asked on their last night.
Cole was quiet for a long time.
Then: "Right now."
"Right now?"
"This. You. The porch swing. The waves." He looked at her. "I didn't know I could be this happy. I didn't know I deserved it."
"You've always deserved it. You just couldn't see it."
He kissed her. Soft. Slow. Promising.
"I want to try," he said. "For a baby. When you're ready."
Sloane's heart soared. "Cole—"
"I'm scared. I'll always be scared. But I'm more scared of missing it. Of missing us." He touched her stomach, flat beneath the blanket. "I want to see you hold our child. I want to be better than the men who raised me. I want to prove that love can break the cycle."
Sloane was crying. She didn't try to stop.
"Then we'll try," she said. "Not yet. But soon."
"Soon."
He pulled her closer. The waves crashed below. The stars wheeled overhead.
And Sloane Thorne – wife, baker, soon-to-be mother – had never been more certain of anything in her life.
---
The next morning, they packed their bags and locked Frankie's house.
Sloane slipped the key onto her necklace, next to the flour-and-resin pendant Cole had made her – a tiny ring of dough, preserved forever.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready."
They drove to the seaplane. The pilot was waiting. The sky was blue.
As they lifted off the water, Sloane looked back at the white house with the blue shutters. The roses climbing the trellis. The porch swing where she'd promised to try.
Thank you, Frankie, she thought. For this house. For him. For everything.
The house grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the trees.
Sloane turned to Cole. He was watching her, not the window.
"What?" she asked.
"I'm just looking at my wife."
"Your wife is hungry."
"There's food on the plane."
"Your wife wants a croissant."
Cole smiled – that real smile, the one that reached his eyes. "Then when we land, I'll make you one."
"You'll burn it."
"Probably."
"I love you anyway."
He kissed her. The plane hummed. The water sparkled below.
And somewhere in Seattle, a bakery waited. A new life waited. A future they'd build together – one loaf of bread, one pancake, one baby step at a time.