Alaric shakes his head. “Last I saw, he got traded to some expansion team in Arizona. Probably chasing warmer weather and fewer reporters. And good riddance,” he mutters.
I nudge him under the table. “Let it go, babe.”
He exhales, then grins faintly. “Working on it.”
After dinner, Alaric and I help clear the table while Molly sneaks Butter scraps under the counter. Joanne hugs me before we leave, longer than I expected.
“I’m glad you stayed,” she whispers. “He needs you. And I think… you need him too.”
I can only nod. My throat’s too tight to speak.
Outside, the air is cool, crisp with the smell of rain. Alaric laces his fingers through mine as we walk to the car. The drive home is quiet in the good way. The streetlights slide across the windshield in long gold stripes, flickering over Alaric’s face as he dozes in the passenger seat. His head lolls slightly toward the window, his mouth just barely open.
I keep one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the gearshift, close enough that our fingers almost touch.
The hum of the engine fills the silence. Alaric murmurs something in his sleep—my name, maybe—and I feel my chest pull tight, that old ache that used to mean pain but now just meansalive.
I glance over at him. Three months sober. Three months of coffee instead of vodka, of morning runs instead of hangovers, of being able to look in the mirror without flinching. And through it all, he’s been here. Not saving me—because that’s not his job—but standing beside me, reminding me that I’m worth the effort.
We hit a red light near the edge of downtown. I steal another look at him, the streetlight painting his profile in gold and shadow. His lashes are ridiculously long. His hand rests palm-up on his thigh, open, trusting.
I want this forever.
The thought drops into my chest with the clean certainty of something I can’t ignore anymore.
The light changes. I drive the rest of the way home with my heart thudding quietly behind my ribs.
When we pull into the garage, Alaric stirs, blinking. “We home?” His voice is rough, soft around the edges.
“Yeah,” I say. “You fell asleep on me.”
“A full belly will do that,” he mumbles, stretching. He unbuckles, hair sticking up in back. “Remind me to thank Molly for that second plate.”
We take the elevator up to the condo. It still amazes me sometimes that this place is ours now—clean lines, tall windows, the faint smell of laundry detergent and lemon polish. The city hums outside, but inside it’s quiet, warm.
I set the keys in the bowl by the door and turn to see him leaning against the wall, half-smiling, sleepy and gorgeous in that disheveled way that always gets me.
I step closer, slip a hand to his jaw, and kiss him.
It’s soft at first but then he makes that low sound in his throat, and the world tilts a little.
When I pull back, he’s still smiling. “What was that for?”
“For being you,” I say.
He chuckles. “That’s corny as hell, Magnus.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug, heart hammering. “Get used to it.”
He starts to turn toward the bedroom, but the words tumble out before I can stop them.
“Marry me.”
He freezes.
The air between us goes still. The faint hum of the refrigerator suddenly sounds too loud.
He blinks. “What?”
