Page 205 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“That is thoughtful and concerning.”

He reaches down and unties the ribbon from Puck’s collar. Puck sits like he has been professionally trained for romance, which he has not. Yesterday, he tried to eat a bow from a gift bag.

Forrest holds the key out to me.

“This is yours.”

I take it carefully.

It is just a key. My eyes burn anyway.

“I already live here most of the time,” I say, because I am me, and I sometimes fight tenderness with technical accuracy.

“I know.”

“My face wash is in your bathroom.”

“I know.”

“My books are colonizing your apartment.”

“I know.”

“I think I have more underwear here than at my actual apartment.”

“I know.”

“You should not sound that informed.”

“I do laundry.”

“Very seductive. Very domestic. Extremely dangerous. You say laundry like a man who could ruin a woman’s credit score and improve her folding habits.”

He steps closer.

Puck leans against his leg, apparently committed to remaining inside the emotional blast radius.

“This isn’t me asking because it’s practical,” Forrest says. “It is practical. Your commute is better from here. Puck thinks your side of the bed is his emotional property. Half the mugs are already yours.”

“More than half.”

“Fine. Most.”

“Accuracy matters.”

His thumb brushes over my knuckles where I hold the key.

“But that’s not why,” he says.

The jokes inside me go quiet.

Outside, snow taps lightly against the windows. Boston glows beyond the glass, softened by Christmas lights and winter weather. The tiny tree throws gold over Forrest’s face, over Puck’s red sweater, over the couch where we said I love you after I accepted the Open Ice job and ruined my own emotional moderation forever.

Forrest lowers himself to one knee.

My heart stops.

Then it restarts badly.