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We bought this house four months ago, a modest place with hardwood floors, a fenced backyard for Faun, and a primary suite with a bathroom I could have all to myself.

The past year hasn't been entirely peaceful, although I've learned that happiness doesn't necessarily require peace. Casey's case resulted in arrests, hearings, and an exhausting succession of interviews, but her family finally had the opportunity to bury her, and the people who had spent years protecting the truth were forced to answer for what they'd done.

Baryn released the final episode of his investigation six months after the arrests, and although I'd told him I wasn't sure I'd ever listen to it, curiosity eventually got the better of me. I listened alone in my car outside the institute, unwilling to have an audience for what I suspected would be an emotional experience, a decision that proved wise when I inevitably cried through the ending. Baryn figured it out later through a series of sophisticated investigative techniques involving my swollen eyes and the pile of tissues in the passenger seat.

I returned to my work, Baryn returned to his microphone, and eventually we found a rhythm that accommodated both of our schedules. Some evenings we argue about evidence over takeout, others we spend hours working in companionable silence, and occasionally I find myself watching him from across a room with the unpleasant realization that I have become one of those people who enjoys simply being near someone.

“You're doing it again,” Baryn murmurs, brushing his thumb along my hip as Faun abandons us in favor of investigating something beneath the sofa. “Whatever's happening in that beautiful brain of yours, I hope you'll remember that I'm entitled to legal representation.”

“I'm wondering how I ended up sharing a house with someone who considers annoying me a legitimate form of recreation,” I explain, smoothing his collar beneath my fingers. “And why, against all available evidence, I seem to enjoy it.”

He laughs and catches my hands before I can finish adjusting him, bringing my knuckles to his mouth with a tenderness that still manages to disarm me. “Come outside with me,” he suggests, glancing toward the back door. “It's a nice evening, and you've been staring at that skeletal analysis report for at least three hours today.”

“We literally just took a break,” I remind him, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you've already forgotten the time we spent upstairs engaging in activities that required us to shut the bedroom door and leave our poor, emotionally neglected dog to fend for himself.”

“Trust me, I haven't forgotten,” Baryn assures me, his grin turning positively indecent as he pulls me closer. “I was particularly impressive during the second half.”

I allow myself to be persuaded, only after pointing out that the analysis is an important part of my professional responsibilities and not, as he has previously suggested, a particularly tedious exercise in masochism. Outside, the air has cooled enough to make the porch comfortable, and the last of the evening sunlight stretches across the backyard while Faun enthusiastically investigates a shrub he has encountered approximately nine hundred times.

Baryn settles beside me on the porch swing, drawing me against his side as the old boards creak beneath our combined weight. I tuck my feet beneath me and rest my head against his shoulder, listening to the distant traffic and the occasional indignant bark from our dog, who appears to have discovered that squirrels remain unwilling to respect property boundaries.

For several minutes, neither of us speaks, which is unusual enough that I begin to suspect he's planning something. My suspicions intensify when he shifts beside me for the third time and reaches toward his pocket, a movement I recognize immediately because he's been repeating it throughout the entire day.

“You've been behaving strangely all afternoon,” I observe, lifting my head to examine his expression. “And before you deny it, I'd like to point out that I live with you. I've become something of an expert.”

Baryn closes his eyes briefly, looking remarkably put upon for a man who has forgotten just how well I've come to know him. “I had a plan,” he admits, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket and turning it between his fingers. “A very good plan, actually, involving dinner tomorrow and a botanical garden that Simon spent an extensive amount of time helping me procure for the evening.”

My attention fixes on the box, and the immediate acceleration of my heartbeat is medically fascinating.

“I've already suffered enough,” Baryn informs me, opening the box to reveal a simple silver ring that is so precisely what I would have chosen that my throat begins to tighten. “Could you stop being so ridiculously perceptive for approximately thirty seconds while I attempt to ask you something important?”

I look from the ring to his face, noticing the nervous movement of his throat. For all his confidence, all his ridiculous charm and infuriating ability to talk his way into and out of almost any situation, he looks genuinely uncertain.

“I love you,” he begins, reaching for my hand and threading our fingers together. “I love the way your mind works, even when you're using it to dismantle my arguments, and I love that you've made room for me in a life you worked very hard to build.”

My eyes burn, and I make a valiant attempt to maintain a neutral expression while he brushes his thumb across my knuckles. “I know there are days when things are difficult, and I know loving each other doesn't make those things disappear, but I want to be here for all of them, Serena, because there isn't anywhere else I'd rather be. I want the ordinary days and the difficult ones, the arguments about where I leave my shoes, and the mornings when you steal my side of the bed because the sunlight comes through that window first.”

A tear slips down my cheek, and Baryn reaches up to catch it with his thumb. “Dr. Harper, after a year of extensive research, I've reached a conclusion,” he murmurs, squeezing my hand. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, so how would you feel about making my continued presence in yours legally binding?”

"Yes," I manage, laughing when his eyebrows lift in unmistakable surprise. "And before you ask whether I'm certain, I would strongly advise against requesting additional verification."

He laughs, too, then slips the ring onto my finger with hands that aren't quite steady, and I find myself staring at the silver band while the world continues its ordinary business around us. Somewhere in the yard, Faun is barking at a squirrel, a car passes on the road beyond our fence, and the man I love is looking at me as though I've just given him something extraordinary.

I turn the ring once, adjusting to the unfamiliar sensation of it on my finger.

“Fiancée,” he murmurs, sounding entirely too pleased with himself as he settles me more securely against his side. “I think I'm going to enjoy saying that.”

“Don't get too attached to calling me your fiancée,” I warn, tilting my face toward his as he smiles against my cheek. “I have every intention of upgrading to wife as soon as reasonably possible. Despite the fact you did write that terrible haiku about me.”

He looks so offended. “It was not terrible and you know it.”

I clear my throat. “I was celibate. Then you had to look like that. Please ruin my life.”

He places a hand to his chest. “A true literary masterpiece.”

I dissolve into a fit of giggles, wrap my arms around him and pull him in close.

He kisses me then, one hand closing around the back of my neck while mine finds its familiar place against his chest. When we finally pull apart, the porch has grown darker, Faun has settled at our feet, and I realize I have absolutely no desire to be anywhere other than right here with him.