"Definitely doing that again. Multiple times."
"Good."
She curls against me, head on my chest, hand over my heart, where she can feel it still racing. She looks thoroughly fucked and happy, and something in my chest expands until it feels too big for my ribs.
This. This is what I wanted when I asked her to move in. Not just the sex, though that's incredible, but this moment after. The intimacy of lying together in our own space with no secrets, no shame, no fear of interruption or discovery.
"You okay?" Maya asks, tracing patterns on my chest.
"More than okay."
"What are you thinking about?"
I almost say it. Almost tell her I'm thinking about rings and proposals and forever, about how I want to spend the rest of mylife doing exactly this. But I want to do it right. Plan it. Make it special.
"Just that I love you," I say instead.
"I love you too."
She yawns, snuggles closer. Within minutes, she's asleep, breathing deep and even against my chest, trusting and relaxed.
I stay awake, staring at the ceiling of our apartment, planning.
I'm going to propose.Soon. Not here at the apartment, somewhere meaningful. Somewhere that means something to both of us, somewhere that represents what we've survived and built together.
The ice rink in Emma's backyard, maybe, where I taught her to skate, where we had that moment before everything exploded. Or the hospital where she saved Sofia and found herself again.
I don't know yet. But I know it's happening.
Because Maya Rivera is it for me. The person I want to wake up to every morning, fall asleep with every night, and build a life with through good days and bad ones. She survived hell and came out stronger, faced her rapist in court and won, went back to nursing and saved lives, loved me when I didn't deserve it, and stayed when things got hard and messy.
She's everything.
And I'm going to marry her.
42
MAYA
June in Hartford means summer training and off-season recovery, the kind of quiet intensity that comes after the chaos of playoffs you didn't make.
Jackson's at the arena most mornings, working with the strength coach on conditioning and trying not to think about how close they came. The Wolves didn't make the playoffs, lost the last two games and missed by three points, but he's already planning for next season, channeling disappointment into determination.
I've been working steady shifts at Hartford General, finding my rhythm again in a way that feels natural now instead of forced. The nightmares are rare now, maybe once every few weeks instead of every night. Dr. Mills and I have moved to biweekly sessions. I'm healing in ways that feel real, sustainable, and permanent.
Today I'm off shift, and Jackson texted me an hour ago:Come to the arena after practice?
I arrive around noon, parking in the nearly empty lot. Most of the team's already gone home, leaving just Jackson's truckand a few staff vehicles scattered across the asphalt. Inside, the arena's quiet.
Jackson's waiting in the lobby, showered and changed into jeans and a button-down, looking nervous.
"Hey," I say, searching his face for clues. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Great. Just..." He takes my hand, palm sweaty. "Come with me."
He leads me through the corridors, past the locker rooms that smell like ice and sweat and rubber, toward the rink.
"Why are we here?" I ask.
