Page 138 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Your face is pretty great.”

“Just pretty great?”

“Devastatingly handsome. Better?”

“Much.”

A week later, after we’ve settled into the rhythm of actually living together—coffee in the morning, dinner cooked in mykitchen that’s become our kitchen, slow conversations about everything and nothing—he disappears into the bedroom after we’ve cleaned up from another successful attempt at domestic normalcy.

“Where are you going?” I call from the couch where I’m grading some assessment forms.

“Just grabbing something,” he calls back. “Don’t move.”

He returns with his hands behind his back and an expression that’s equal parts nervous and determined. My heart does something complicated against my ribs because I recognize that look.

“Chelsea,” he says, moving to stand in front of the couch.

“Reed.” I set aside my work, suddenly very aware that whatever’s about to happen is going to change everything. “What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, he drops to one knee, pulling a small velvet box from behind his back. My breath catches, heart stuttering to a complete stop before racing to catch up.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he says, opening the box to reveal a ring that’s somehow exactly what I would have chosen—classic but not traditional, beautiful but not ostentatious. “You’re it for me, Chelsea. Always have been, from that first night in Vegas when you dared me to be better than I thought I could be.”

“Reed—”

“Will you marry me?” he continues before I can form a complete thought. “Not because it makes sense or because it’s the next logical step, but because I can’t imagine building a life with anyone else. Because you make me want to be worthy of forever.”

I stare at him, this man who followed me across the country, who rebuilt himself without losing who he was, who’s offering me everything I never dared to want because wanting felt too dangerous.

“Say something,” he says when the silence stretches too long. “Please.”

“I’m done running,” I tell him, the words coming out thick with tears I didn’t know were falling. “From you, from this, from anything that scares me because it matters too much.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a hell yes.”

His grin could power the entire city. He slides the ring onto my finger with hands that shake slightly, and it fits perfectly. The ring is perfect.

“I love you,” he says, rising to kiss me with the kind of thoroughness that makes me forget my own name.

“I love you too,” I manage when we break apart. “Even when you propose at eight o’clock on a Tuesday wearing sweatpants.”

“Hey, these are nice sweatpants.”

“They’re very nice sweatpants. But next time you want to change the course of our entire lives, maybe warn a girl?”

“Next time?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don’t think there will be a next time. This feels pretty final.”

“Good final or bad final?”

“The best kind of final. The kind that means we’re done with uncertainty and ready to start building something permanent.”

He kisses me again, and I lose myself in the taste of promisesand the weight of the ring on my finger and the growing certainty that some risks are worth taking.

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