Hugs and chocolate chip cookies for everyone who's made it this far, for everyone who commented and everyone who didn't. I told you I'd finish eventually, didn't I?

The gentle breeze stirring the cabin's front porch was cooler now than it had been that day he'd first brought Laura up here, a crisp bite to the balmy air that promised chillier nights to come. The leaves would be changing soon, the big green fronds overlooking the lake turning orange and brown before dropping away into the water, the lake too cold for swimming by then. Sooner than that, the refreshing evening breeze would turn icy, and there would be no more nights like these, cozy on the porch swing with a cup of something hot or a glass of something warming in his hands, watching the sun go down over the water, setting the night sky ablaze above what had become his favorite place in the universe. The wind picked up, raising fine hairs along his bare arms, and Bill leaned back in the big wooden swing, sheltering a little beneath the overhang of the roof. He didn't mind the temperature, himself, but he knew, tonight, that this might be their last trip up here for the year. He and Laura had managed to bring Zak and Lee up here several weekends over the past two months (and even once, memorably, come alone) but now there was no denying it: summer was over. It brought a bittersweet ache to Bill's chest, realizing it.

It had been a good summer.

Zak had turned into a surprisingly adept fisherman, baiting his own hook with his chubby fingers and casting as far out into the lake as his little arms would allow. Lee tied better knots, but he could only be prevailed upon to join them on the dock if he was promised that all fish would be thrown summarily back into the water. It had been on the tip of his father's tongue to ask him where he thought the fish he ate at home came from, but Laura had swiftly agreed to this condition, casting Bill a warning look above Lee's head. She'd been right, he could see in retrospect. Laura was right…well, most of the time, he was finding.

The bonfire, though, had been his idea. He'd built the pit himself (with nominal and very distracting help from his children), letting the boys gather sticks and branches for the fire while Laura wrote inside. That night, when the flames had arched and danced in the darkness, casting bright sparks up against the night sky, it had been almost magical.

And now it was over.

But then again, maybe he was wrong. Maybe just because this place had meant summer to the Roslins didn't mean it couldn't be something else for them. Maybe they'd come back a little later in the season, when the leaves were bright colors and the fire would help keep them warm. Maybe they'd drive up here some year for the kids' Solstice break: they could sled down the big hill, build snowmen beside the dock…

"What are you smiling about?"

He shifted over on the porch swing, allowing Laura to slip in beside him, his arm settling around her shoulders.

"I like it here," he said.

That wasn't it—not quite—but he didn't have the words to encompass this moment: the deep orange sun sinking down over the hill, disappearing into the still water below…the sound of faint crickets, softening the nighttime silence…his kids, safely asleep inside…Laura's warmth beside him, the day they'd shared together, the hours still to come…

He hoped she understood the rest of it, the ache in his throat he didn't know how to describe, the sense of something ending, and something new still unfolding.

She hadn't officially moved in with him and the boys, not yet, but she was spending most of her days (and nights) there…her time that wasn't occupied with the final push to finish her book, anyway. He'd mentioned, a few days ago, that it wouldn't be hard to convert his guest room into an office for her, someplace she could close the door on the constant noise and interruptions of Zak and Lee and Viper. She'd seemed pleased by the idea…but he hadn't wanted to push. It was where they were headed, he was positive of that. They didn't need to rush.

Laura's radiant smile mirrored his, and he knew she understood what he didn't know how to say.

"Shouldn't you be going over Cottle's changes?" he asked.

Laura had found her new editor sooner than he would have believed possible. As guilty as he still felt about his participation in Adar's inglorious exit from her professional life, he couldn't help but feel that this editor was going to be with her for the long run. Sherman Cottle was, as far as he could tell, a cantankerous, perpetually unhappy man who drove Laura to distracted mumblings with his obsessive attention to punctuation and sentence structure. Bill had liked him immediately.

Laura's smile widened. "I just finished," she said, lifting the thick stack of pages from her lap and waving it dramatically in the air. "Finished finished. You are looking at a woman who just met her deadline."

He leaned closer, closing the space between them. "Congratulations," he whispered against her lips.

He hoped his kiss said I'm proud of you better than he could.

"Do I get to read it?" he asked, gesturing at the pages in her lap.

"Eventually," she teased, stretching languidly. "I have't decided yet. But for now, I'm free."

He smiled, playing along with her game. "What will you do with all your new time?"

She smiled, an impish arch to her eyebrows, and he realized there was a plan at play here. "I had a thought."

He waited.

"I thought we'd drive up here next weekend," she continued, her bright smile belying her deliberately casual tone, "bring the kids, maybe a few other people, maybe Saul and Ellen, maybe Marcie, maybe some food…"

She trailed off, dragging out the moment, clearly enjoying herself.

"..and?" he prompted.

Her smile turned triumphant. "And get married."

He sat up straighter, startled. "Just like that?"

Laura leaned against him, her head against his chest. "Just like that."

The sun had almost disappeared now, submerged into the lake, its fires banked by the horizon. In a moment, the change would be irrevocable, nightfall complete; this instant was a pause, a held breath between the past and the future.

Laura was right; this was the place.

This was the place where they could join their lives together, a place that celebrated their present, that held their history but not their ghosts, a place where, he realized, Laura's family could be there, too.

It felt right.

He kissed the top of her head. "I'd like that."

"Laura?"

They both started, turning in the direction of the voice.

Lee stood in the doorway of the cabin, his pajama-clad body illuminated by the warm light of the kitchen. "You said you'd tell me a story."

Laura pulled away from him, a little reluctantly, he knew. "So I did," she replied. "But then you're going straight to bed. Deal?"

"Deal," Lee agreed gleefully.

Laura turned back to him, a rueful smile curving her lips. "I'll be back," she promised.

She moved to follow Lee, then paused, hesitating.

She took a step back to drop the manuscript in his lap. "I think you'll like the beginning," she said simply, before guiding Lee into the house and up to bed, the door easing shut behind them.

Bill considered the hefty manuscript in his lap, feeling the weight of the pages, the countless hours, the months of energy and effort, some pages penned in a high-rise in Caprica City, some written right next door. He couldn't help but be surprised to be holding it; he'd thought Laura would drag out the suspense on the ending she'd finally chosen for Death at the Dirty Hands for much longer, probably weeks, possibly right up until the publication date.

But as in many things, he was learning to be grateful for what he didn't understand.

He opened the book, and flipped past the first few pages, stopping short at the dedication:

For Bill, who let me kill him,

and for Zak and Lee, who brought me back to life