Then she says, "Yes."
One word.
Barely a whisper.
But it changes everything.
"Yes?"
"Yes." She laughs, tears spilling over. "Yes, I want to be your ol’ lady. Yes, I want to build a life with you. Yes to all of it."
I pull her toward me—carefully, mindful of my injuries—and kiss her.
It hurts.
My side protests every movement.
But I don't care.
Because she said yes.
She's mine.
Officially.
Finally.
"We should probably start looking for a place," I say when we break apart. "I'm guessing you don't want to live in the clubhouse."
She laughs again, wiping her tears. "What gave it away?"
"Call it a hunch." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "Something with a yard, maybe. Room to grow."
"Room to grow?"
"I mean—" I pause, suddenly aware of what I implied. "Not that we have to—I just meant?—"
"I know what you meant." She's smiling. "And yeah. Room to grow sounds good."
We sit there for a while, holding hands, talking about hypothetical houses and neighborhoods and all the mundane details of a future that suddenly feels real.
Possible.
Within reach.
It's the best I've felt in days.
Maybe in years.
Then my stomach growls.
Loud.
Embarrassingly loud.
Ingrid laughs.
"When did you last eat?"
