ONE
nathaniel
Marry me.
The room is silent, save for the sound of our breathing, heavy and uneven, filling the space between us. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, each pulse a stark reminder of what just left my lips.
The words still ring in my mind, foreign in their finality.
I love you. Marry me, Olivia.
The weight of each syllable hangs in the air, pressing down on my chest, making it impossible to breathe. My own voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.
But it wasn’t someone else. It wasme.
And I meant it.
I don’t regret it either. Not the way I should. Not the way a man who spoke in the heat of passion, in the haze of desperate emotion,shouldregret a reckless proposal. On the contrary, the longer the words sat, the more certain I became.
I want this. I want her. I want…permanence.
We now lie side by side, facing each other, our bodies tangled in the sheets. The sweat between us has cooled, but the heat hasn’t dissipated. It still clings to my skin, burning behind my ribs.
Her breath fans against my collarbone, steady now, but I can feel the weight of her silence like a knife pressing to my throat. She isn’t rejecting me. But she isn’t accepting me, either.
In fact, she hasn’t acknowledged my proposal at all.
The adrenaline that burned through me only minutes ago has begun to fade, and in its absence, clarity settles in. The truth solidifies, hard and unshakable.
I want to marry Olivia. Not eventually, not someday—now. As soon as possible. I would take her to the courthouse at dawn if I could get her to agree. The thought sends a sharp thrill through me, followed almost instantly by something more urgent.
I tighten my hold on her, my palm spanning her lower back, pressing her closer. I need her answer. I need to hear her say she wants me just as much as I want her. I need her tostay.
“I mean it.” My voice is hoarse, rough with the emotion still lodged in my throat.
Olivia shifts, lifting her head to look at me. Her expression is gentle, but there’s something else there—hesitation. It makes my pulse spike. “My love…I know you do.”
That should be enough, herknowing, but I feel no reprieve. Becauseknowingdoesn’t mean sayingyes, and if she isn’t sayingyes, then does that mean she wants to sayno?
She brushes her fingers through my hair, her touch feather-light, as if trying to calm a storm I haven’t even begun to release. But I see it then, the sadness in her gaze, the careful way she chooses her words.
“You’ve had a long night,” she says softly. “Everything you told me, everything you’ve been holding in for so long…”
Something fractures inside me.
She thinks this is temporary. That my proposal is just a result of my emotions running high. That my confession, my need for her, is just a reaction to my grief. That I’m not thinking clearly.
She’s wrong.I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
Panic flares in my chest, quick and sharp. My mind begins to race, my thoughts tumbling into one another, spiraling. What is she saying? That if things were different—if my emotions weren’t so raw, she wouldn’t even be considering it? Is she trying to let me down gently?
The possibility claws at me, threatening to unspool me from the inside out.
“Then tell me you’ll think about it,” I say, my voice tighter now, more insistent. “Seriously.”
She exhales slowly, brushing her lips over my forehead in an attempt to pacify me. “Nathaniel…”
But I can hear the tentativeness in her tone, feel it in the way her fingers falter for just a fraction of a second. It’s unbearable.
