The house was empty except for us. The heat from the fire still lingered, soaking into the old plaster and making everything smell like bread and pine. The only sound was the creak of floorboards as we moved through the rooms, picking up stray glasses and setting chairs back where they belonged.
Bo trailed me from kitchen to hallway, not saying much, just watching the way the night had transformed the cottage into something softer, more private.
I caught his reflection in the window once, and saw him touch his own throat—fingers settling on the collar like it was a secret he wanted to keep for himself.
When we finished, I took his hand and led him down the short hallway to the bedroom. He hesitated at the door, just for a second, like he was waiting for someone else to call the shots. I squeezed his hand, then let go and turned on the lamp by the bed.
The room was small, but Bo had made it his own. The dresser was littered with Polaroids of the two of us—him asleep in the grass, me shirtless and grinning, a half-eaten pie between us; him painting, face and arms smeared with blue; both of us, arms tangled, in the backseat of my old truck on a night we’d driven until dawn.
The walls were hung with his smaller canvases—vivid, almost violent color, nothing like the big pieces he showed to other people.
I liked these best.
I stood at the foot of the bed and looked at him, waiting.
He caught on fast. He always did.
He dropped to his knees, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He rested his hands on his thighs, head tipped up, eyes shining.
“Good boy,” I said, and the shiver went straight through him.
I stepped close and knelt down in front of him, cupping his jaw in both hands. I took my time, running my thumbs along the line of his cheek, then down to the leather at his throat.
“May I?” I asked.
He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
I unbuckled the collar, careful and slow. The pulse in his neck thudded against my knuckles, and I felt him breathing, steady but quick. I set the old collar aside, then reached under the bed and pulled out a small box. He watched, silent, waiting for the punchline.
I opened it and took out the new collar. I’d made it myself: black leather, hand-stitched, lined with something soft enough that he could wear it all night if he wanted. At the front was a silver lock, delicate but real.
I buckled it around his throat, then clicked the lock into place. The sound was tiny in the quiet, but it filled the room.
He smiled, a shaky thing, eyes going wet.
“This isn’t just a collar,” I told him. “It’s a promise. You’re mine to protect. To cherish. To love—forever. Got it?”
He nodded, but the tears were already rolling down his face. I kissed them away, one by one.
Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ring. It wasn’t fancy—just a simple band of platinum, no engraving, no diamonds, nothing but the promise of what it meant.
“And this,” I said, voice gone rough, “is for when we’re in public. So you always know who you belong to.”
He laughed, a sound that was more sob than chuckle. “You’re supposed to ask first.”
I grinned. “Will you marry me, Bodean McKenzie?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at me, tears and snot and all, and then he launched himself into my arms, knocking us both sideways onto the rug.
He kissed me, deep and hungry, then pressed his lips to my ear. “Yes, sir,” he whispered, voice barely there.
I rolled us over, pinning him, and kissed him again. We stayed like that a long time, the world narrowed to the heat of our bodies and the way his breath hitched whenever I touched the new collar. The future stretched out ahead of us—messy, bright, and full of promise.
When we finally made it to the bed, we curled up together, his head on my chest, my arms locked around him. He traced the ring on his finger, over and over, until he fell asleep.
I stayed awake, listening to the river outside, the house settling, the steady thump of his heartbeat under my hand.
I’d built engines, rebuilt bikes, even fixed a few broken bones in my time. But nothing had ever felt as good as this: a life made by hand, every day chosen and earned, and a man who wanted to be here more than anywhere else. He was mine and I was his, and maybe that was all that mattered.
