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The chandelier casts buttery light over the Fentons' renovated dining room, its crystals trembling whenever Jack's boisterous laughter shakes the house's old bones. Dante shovels mashed potatoes into Eryth's open mouth like a besieged zookeeper, while Ellie debates ghost ethics with Jazz over the charred remains of what was supposed to be lasagna. Vlad's fingers twitch against his wineglass—not from nerves, but from the way Maddie's thigh presses against his under the table, her thermal-knit leggings whispering against his tailored slacks with every slight shift.
Jack chooses that moment to slam his palms on the table, making silverware rattle. "I vote we name the next one Spork!"
Absolutely not, Maddie says, flicking a glob of ectoplasm from her sleeve. The substance sizzles where it lands on Vlad's untouched steak. He clears his throat. The children fall silent first—even Eryth, who recognizes the particular cadence of a man about to dismantle his own carefully constructed defenses. Vlad stands, chair scraping hardwood, and produces three rings from his breast pocket. They're forged from melted-down Fenton thermos alloy, still faintly humming with residual ecto-energy.
"Fifteen months ago, you asked me to prove ghosts weren't inherently evil." He slides the first ring toward Jack, its inner engraving catching the light: You built the door—let me walk through it. Maddie's bears a different inscription: My first and final hypothesis: you.
Youngblood claps gravy-coated hands. "Do I get to be flower boy?"
Danny snorts soda out of his nose. Vlad doesn't smile. Not yet. He's watching Jack's broad fingers tremble around the ring, how Maddie's goggles fog at the edges.
"Marry me," he says, simple as sunrise, "and I'll show you the next fifty years aren't nearly enough."
Jack crushes him in an embrace that cracks two ribs. Maddie kisses him with teeth. Somewhere behind them, Ellie shouts, "Pay up, Ember!" and the clatter of cash hitting the floor sounds suspiciously like a future.