“Do you want to get married?” This is probably a dream.
“Now?”
“One day.”
Stefan’s lips brush over my cheek. “Yes.”
24
STEFAN
I can’t be sure Quinn meant it or that he was even aware he said it, but my answer was heartfelt nonetheless. When I think of my future, Quinn is the first person I see—a bright, inspiring star in the midst of dark uncertainty.
I lean onto my hand and stroke his hair as he sleeps. People come and go around us. Another dog decides I’m its best friend for a couple of minutes before its apologetic owner leads it away.
It’s not long before Quinn wakes with a start. He sits suddenly, almost bashing me in the chin.
“Bad dream?” I ask.
“No. I had a really good dream.” He lays back down, with his head resting on my lap like before.
I smile. “Will you tell me about it?”
Quinn rolls onto his back and strokes my jaw. “It was silly.”
“Will you let me be the judge of that?”
Quinn stares into my eyes. He’s silent for so long that I’m not sure he’s going to speak at all. His fingers brush back and forth over my stubble, and I have an overwhelming urge to scoop him into my arms and kiss him. Every moment I’m with him makes me happy, whatever we’re doing. I only need to be near him to soak up his optimistic warmth.
Eventually, Quinn presses his hand against my cheek. “I asked you if you wanted to get married one day.”
A fountain of bubbles cascades through my chest. I can’t help but smile. “Oh? What did I say?”
“Yes.”
I gaze at his face. He’s smiling. Aside from the faintest smile lines, his face is smooth, his blue eyes bright as he stares into mine.
I press my hand over his and lower my lips, almost touching his. “Quinn?”
He raises his eyebrows.
“That wasn’t a dream.”
Quinn’s eyes widen, and his pupils shrink. He makes a strange sound, a little like a balloon deflating but much quieter. His head becomes heavier on my lap.
I stroke his forehead. “It’s okay if you want to take it back. I knew you were falling asleep. We can agree it was just a dream.”
I mean it. I wouldn’t want to rush Quinn into anything, and I’m not going to hold him to a question he asked when he was barely conscious.
“I”—Quinn blinks slowly—“asked… and you said…?” His words are slow, clumsy, and clearly a struggle.
“Yes.”
His legs flop to the side as he laughs. “Our dog could be the ring bearer.”
It’s hard to make out his words. He sounds like he’s been drinking all day. Of course, I know better, but I still need to concentrate on hearing each word.
“That’s a thing, right?”
