Her breath hitches.
“I forgive you,” I tell her, and I mean it so hard it feels like bone setting. “All of it. Every version. The girl in the hoodie, the girl in diamonds, the girl who thought she had to handle everything alone. I get all of them, or I don’t want the deal.”
Her mouth trembles. “You still want me?”
I huff out something like a laugh. “I never stopped.”
Then I kiss her.
Not hungry, not showy, just sure. A seal. Her hands fist in my shirt like she’s steadying herself and then melting at the same time, and I feel that exhale all the way down to my ribs.
When I pull back, her forehead rests against mine. Her lashes are wet. Her voice is barely air. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”
I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing platinum. The ring feels heavier this time—earned, not borrowed.
My hands shake. Never been nervous before a puck drop in my life.
“I know this is fast. We’re new. The bullshit rule says we’re supposed to wait, let time do its thing, hit milestones in the rightorder.” I meet her eyes. “And maybe you’ll say no. Maybe it’s too soon, too much, too?—”
“Wesley—”
“Let me finish.” My voice roughens. “Those rules were written by people who never met us. We don’t have to play by what makes sense to anyone else. We call our own game.”
I take out the band. “Wear my ring, Josephine Osgood Yardley Preston.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “What?”
“Marry me, Joy,” I say. “We rip the tag off this time. No refunds.”
She stares up at me—sweaty, trembling, eyes full of everything I lost and might still deserve.
For a second, the world holds still. Then she steps closer, slides her hand into mine, and smiles through the tears.
“You’re still off-beat, pretty boy,” she murmurs.
“Then teach me your count.”
Her laugh breaks open—bright, wrecked, alive.
She lets me slip the ring on, and the mirrors catch us—two idiots standing in a room full of light, doing it right this time.
EPILOGUE — ALL IN (JOY)
It’s one of those New York Sundays that smells of tulips—April flirting with May, honeyed sunlight pooling on stoops. We cut across East 78th with rosin still under my arches from the Harlem studio floor. Horton first, then a Broadway kick; flat backs, long lines, and a goofy remix to finish.
Wesley takes my tote, threads his fingers through mine, and strolls on, absurdly relaxed.
The bracelet glints at my wrist as we walk—ballroom shoe, tiny camera, and now another charm he added last week, a little gold snowflake. Alaska and New York on the same chain. “For what comes next,” he said the night he fastened it. I told him that was cheesy. I wore it to bed anyway.
“Your parents ready?” I ask.
“Probably been in the lobby since ten.” He checks his phone. “Yeah. Mom texted. They’re leaving now.”
“Your dad?”
“Quiet. Which means he’s either planning his escape route or composing a speech.” He grins, but there’s tension under it. “He asked three times if he needed a tie.”
“What’d you tell him?”
