Page 74 of Honeyfires

"It's only been—"

"I know how long it's been."

"Other people would say—"

"I don't care what other people would say. I care what you say." I squeezed her hands. "So. What do you say, baby?"

I watched the emotions move across her face in sequence of surprise, hesitation, the brief appearance of something cautious, and then, like the desert after rain… hope, opening all at once.

Her hands came up to cup my face, her thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. "Yes," she said. "God, yes. Obviously yes. I've actually been waiting for you to ask for weeks."

"You've been waiting?"

"I had a whole speech prepared, but I was still unprepared when you finally suggested it. I'm sorry." She looked mildly indignant. "It was very good, too. Included three separate Austen references."

"You prepared a speech."

"I'm a librarian, Petra. I prepare for things. But your version was also good. Very direct. Very you."

"High praise."

"It really is." She kissed me, tasting of coffee and dreams, and the eggs started smelling gently of impending disaster on the stove. Neither of us moved.

"Your eggs," I said against her mouth.

"I don't care about the eggs."

"You're going to care about them in about forty-five seconds."

She turned and scraped them off the heat, flipped off the stove, looked at them critically, and then back at me. "They're fine. Rustic."

I laughed, unable to help it. "They're brown, baby."

"Rustic," she repeated firmly, "means different things in different contexts."

"Your place or mine?" I asked, before she could defend the eggs further.

She didn't hesitate. "Mine. Yours is just where you sleep. Mine has curtains."

"I have curtains."

"You have one curtain. Singular. In the bathroom." She pointed the spatula at me. "That doesn't count."

She was not wrong.

"Yours," I agreed. "Then yours. If that's what you want."

"Ours," she corrected gently.

The word settled into my chest.

Ours.

The crew showed up on moving day with Miller's truck, a concerning amount of enthusiasm, and absolutely no intention of being useful without commentary.

"Alves is getting domesticated," Jackson announced, appearing in my doorway. He was wearing his flame-patterned apron, which he had not been asked to bring and which served no functional purpose on a moving day. "I genuinely never thought I'd see this."

"Pick up a box, Jackson."