I give him a look sharp enough to peel skin.
He just grins wider. “What? It’s cute.”
“Say ‘cute’ again, I’ll knock your teeth in.”
Hayes clears his throat, amused but trying to keep it on track. “So. Dock. Lights. Water lanterns. You want flowers?”
“She hates roses,” I say automatically. “Think wildflowers. Things that feel…her. Messy, but beautiful.”
Beck nods. “Okay, nature boy. We can do that. I’ll handle the flowers. Got a guy.”
“You got a guy for everything,” I mutter.
“Damn right I do.”
Hayes is already making a list in his head; I can see it behind his eyes. “What about the timing? Night? Sunset?”
“Sunset,” I say. “She likes that blue hour. Sky going dark while the water catches fire.”
Beck whistles again. “You’ve really thought about this.”
“Been thinking about it since the first time she smelled like rain and told me she wanted to live in a house with big windows.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Hayes says quietly, “Alright. Sunset on the lake. Flowers. Lanterns. What about the actual proposal? How do we… ask?”
“Rings,” I say. “Not matching. Something custom. One from each of us. She’ll wear them all.”
Beck raises his brows. “She’s gonna need a whole damn hand.”
“Then she’ll have one,” I growl.
Beck laughs. “I’ll take care of the jeweler. Got a guy.”
“Of course you do,” I sigh.
Hayes nods, still calm. “Okay. You handle the dock and the lights, Ford. Beck does the rings and the flowers. I’ll coordinate everything else. Timing. Cover story to get her out there without suspicion.”
Beck grins, leaning forward, about to pitch something stupid. “We could tell her it’s a pack dinner. Or… better yet, a bonfire.”
“She’s not gonna buy that,” I say. “Not from me. She knows I hate small talk.”
Hayes smirks. “She also knows you hate surprises. That might help.”
Beck points at him. “Good thinking, Beta boy.”
Hayes’s smile falls. “Don’t call me that.”
“Then stop acting like the human calendar,” Beck shoots back.
I cut them both a look. “You done?”
They go quiet. For about three seconds.
“So…?” Beck drags the word out. “What are we wearing? Because if you think I’m showing up in work boots and smelling of engine oil?—”
“You’re not wearing a tux,” I snap.
“Never said tux,” Beck says, smirking. “Just saying, maybe I throw on a button-down. Open a couple buttons. Show some chest. Give Lo a view while she cries those big Omega tears.”
