I walk back into the living room.
Malcolm is standing by the island, tracing the red line I drew on the blueprint earlier. He looks up as I approach.
"Vivian thinks you’re terrifying," I tell him, hopping up to sit on the edge of the marble counter.
"Vivian is highly observant," he replies, stepping between my knees. He rests his hands on my thighs, the heat of his palms seeping through the denim of my jeans. "Are you happy?"
"I am." I look down at him, my hands resting on his shoulders. "I have my company back. I have an office that doesn't smell like bleach. And I have you."
"You have me," he confirms, his thumbs brushing lightly against my legs.
I trace the collar of his t-shirt. "Vivian mentioned the wedding."
Malcolm’s hands stop moving. He looks up at me, his dark eyes searching my face. The absolute certainty he usually carries falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by something that looks dangerously close to hesitation.
"We haven't set a date," he says quietly.
"No. We haven't."
"If you want a large event," he begins, his voice dropping to a careful, measured register, "I can arrange it. We can book a venue. We can invite the press. We can make it a public statement."
"I don't want a public statement," I interrupt him.
I slide my hands from his shoulders up to his neck, my fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck.
"I spent the last four years going to massive, awful parties where nobody actually liked each other," I tell him, my voice steady. "I don't want to perform for a room full of people. I don't want to prove anything to the media. I just want to marry you."
Malcolm exhales a slow, rough breath. The tension in his shoulders completely dissolves.
"A private ceremony," he murmurs.
"Very private." I smile, leaning down until my forehead rests against his. "Just us. Vivian can be the witness. Grant can stand by the door and look intimidating."
"Grant would insist on a perimeter sweep before the vows," Malcolm points out, a faint trace of dark amusement returning to his voice.
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
He kisses me. It is slow, deep, and completely grounding. The frantic, desperate energy that defined the first two weeks of our relationship is gone. We aren't fighting a war anymore. We are just two people standing in a kitchen, planning the rest of our lives.
When he pulls back, he rests his hands on my waist, lifting me effortlessly off the counter.
"I will call the courthouse tomorrow," he says, setting me on my feet. "We can secure a private room for the ceremony by the end of the week."
"The end of the week?" I raise an eyebrow. "You don't want to wait?"
"I have waited long enough," he says, his voice dropping to a low, absolute register. "I am not giving the universe an opportunity to introduce another variable."
I laugh, wrapping my arms around his waist. "The universe is terrified of you, Malcolm. I think we’re safe."
**
Three days later, the universe proves me wrong.
It isn't a massive, catastrophic variable. It isn't Preston escaping from federal custody, or Simon leaking another document to the press.
It is a phone call.
I am sitting at the drafting table in my new office in the guest wing. The morning sun is bright, illuminating the clean lines of the commercial space I am designing. Malcolm is in the living room, supposedly reading a book, though I know he is actually monitoring the security feeds for the building.
