“Micah Dane,” I whispered, “will you marry me?”
The silence that followed was so complete it felt like the plane itself paused midair.
Then Micah exhaled—slow, shaky, like something inside him had just given way.
“Baby …” he murmured, voice rough. “Yes.”
A sob threatened. I laughed instead—wet, bright, overwhelmed.
“Yes?” I asked, because I needed to hear it again.
“Yes,” he repeated, firmer. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
I pressed my forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in.
Then he added, low and fiercely stubborn, “But I’m picking you a ring, too.”
I lifted my head. “Micah?—”
“I’m not letting you take that from me,” he said, blindfold still on, but I could feel his eyes, anyway. “I want to choose for you. I want to put something on your finger that says mine in a way the whole world can see.”
My chest squeezed.
I smiled through tears. “Okay.”
His thumb brushed my knuckles. “Okay?”
I laughed softly. “Okay. I’ll wear two.”
A sound came out of him—half laugh, half groan.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he murmured.
“I already have,” I said.
I slipped the ring onto my own finger—but I used his hands to help me do it, guiding his fingers over mine so he could feel it settle there. So he could be part of it.
Even without seeing it, he stilled. Then he turned my hand over and kissed my palm like it was sacred.
Around us, the women started noticing.
Portia appeared at my row like a shark sensing blood in the best possible way.
“What did you do?” she whispered, eyes wide.
I held up my empty velvet box.
Portia’s face split into pure joy. “Oh, my God. You did it!”
She spun away, hissed something to Isabel, who hissed something to Claire, who made a sound that could’ve been a squeal or a threat.
Within thirty seconds, the entire cabin was buzzing.
And somewhere behind us, one of the blindfolded men—probably Levi—said, “Why does it suddenly feel like we’re about to be ambushed by you ladies?”
Amelia’s voice floated back, sweet as poison. “Because you are.”
Micah squeezed my hand.
