The first pocket yields something soft and silky. I pull it out, squinting in the low light. "Are these..."
"Manifestation panties." His voice drops low, sending shivers down my spine. "Check the word."
Written across the back in his familiar scrawl: SQUIRT
Of course this would be the pair I find first.
"There's more," he prompts when I just stare at them.
The next pocket produces another pair. OTIS
By the sixth pocket, my hands are shaking. The words come out of order, and I piece them together as a go: MY RIDE OR DIE
"Chance..."
"Keep going."
Eight pockets in: SQUIRT OTIS MY RIDE OR DIE HONEST FLAMIGO.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I reach for the thirteenth pocket: LET’S
Fourteen: YOU’RE
Fifteen: ME?
I pause at the final pocket, my fingers trembling. Chance's hand covers mine, warm and steady.
"Together?" he asks softly.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
We pull out the last pair together. MARRY
"Holly." His voice is rough with emotion as he cups my face in his hands. "Squirt, you're my ride or die.” His gaze drops to my mouth the way it always does. Only he doesn’t linger this time. This time he meets my eyes again, and there’s a sliver of vulnerability there.
“Let's make an honest flamingo out of Otis. Marry me?"
Tears blur my vision as I launch myself at him, knocking him back into the hay. "Yes. God, yes."
His kiss is fierce and tender all at once, full of promises and forever.
When he finally pulls back, he's grinning like an idiot. "Good, because there’s more.”
Cocooned under a tarp in a bed of hay, I open the single most gorgeous diamond I’ve ever seen.
My heart stutters, caught somewhere between disbelief and a wild, reckless kind of hope. My fingers tremble as I trace the pear-cut diamond—sharp on one side, soft and curved on the other. It’s beautiful, impossibly delicate like the whole thing could tip out of its setting with one wrong move.
But it doesn’t.
The intricate metalwork twists around the stone, clinging to it with a kind of fierce determination as if it knows exactly howprecious it is. Every ridge, every groove, feels intentional like it was designed not just to hold the diamond but to honor it.
It’s breathtaking. Strong and fragile all at once. And as it gleams in the light, my breath catches in my throat.
Oh God. This is real.
Slipping the ring from the box, I hook it over my index finger—because he’s going to be the one to put it on me—and take his face in my hands. “I love you, soldier boy,” I murmur over his mouth.
“I love you too, Squirt.” He dips his head and nips at my throat as he deftly takes the ring and slides it on my ring finger.
