Page 446 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“What did you do?” Ronan held out a small box. Elliot stopped breathing. “No.” Ronan stared. “Great start.” “I mean—” “You've had five years to improve your communication.” “Shut up.” Ronan smiled. Elliot stared at the box. “You're serious.” “Unfortunately.” “Why today?” “Why not?” “I got out this morning.” “I noticed.” “Ronan.” His expression softened.

“I bought it eleven months ago.” Elliot froze. “What?” “I've been carrying it to visits for eleven months.” “Why?” “Because I kept almost asking.” Elliot stared. “What stopped you?” Ronan looked around. “This.” The apartment. Freedom. Home. “I wanted to ask somewhere nobody could tell me our time was up.”

Fuck. Elliot looked down. Ronan opened the box. Simple band. Dark metal. Nothing dramatic. Perfect.

“I don't have a speech.” “Thank God.” “Asshole.” Elliot smiled. Ronan took the ring out. “I spent five years showing up.” Elliot’s throat tightened. “Yeah.” “You spent five years doing the work.” He looked away. Ronan caught his chin. “No.” “What?” “Don't minimize it.” “I killed five people.” “I know.” The words did not flinch. Never did. Ronan continued. “And you confessed.” Elliot swallowed. “You helped stop Adrian.” “Yes.” “You testified.” “Yes.” “You went to therapy even when you hated it.” “Still hate it.” “I know.” “You stopped pretending remorse had to look a certain way to count.”

Elliot went quiet. That had taken years. Ronan continued.

“You accepted that some people will never forgive you.” “Yes.” “That some shouldn't have to.” “Yes.” “And you kept choosing what happened next anyway.” Choice. Always. Ronan held the ring between them. “I don't know what the rest of our life looks like.” Elliot looked at him. “I know what tomorrow looks like.” His chest tightened. Ronan smiled. “You'll complain about my coffee.” “It’s terrible.” “You'll fight me over the shower.” “You take too long.” “You'll probably insult the rug again.” “It deserves it.” “And I'll still be here.” Elliot couldn't speak. Ronan’s voice softened. “So marry me.” No grand speech. No kneeling. Just Ronan. Exactly right. Elliot looked at the ring. Then at him.

“You sure?” Ronan stared. “Five fucking years.” “That's not an answer.” “Yes.” Immediate. “I'm sure.” Elliot swallowed. “You could still—” Ronan covered his mouth. “No.” Elliot stared over his hand. “No exit speech.” Ronan removed it. “You taught me boundaries. Let me use one.” Elliot laughed. Fuck. Then looked at the ring again. Marriage. Husband. Ronan. A future outside. Not clean. Not forgiven. Not erased. Still possible.

“Yes.” Ronan froze. Elliot smiled. “Now who needs processing time?”

“Shut up.” “Yes.” Ronan slid the ring onto his finger. Elliot stared. Of course. Ronan noticed.

“One.” “Don't.” “You're going to count all night.” “Probably.” Ronan kissed him. Elliot grabbed him. Then stopped. Ronan groaned.

“What now?” Elliot looked at the ring. Then the apartment. Then Ronan. “You really want me here?” Ronan’s expression softened. “Yes.” “Not because you promised.” “No.” “Not because you waited.” “No.” “Not because you think leaving now would make those five years meaningless.”

“No.” Elliot breathed. “Why?” Ronan stared at him like the answer was obvious. “Because I love you.” Simple. No philosophy. No justification. No Saint. Elliot nodded.

“Okay.” Ronan smiled. “Okay?” “Yeah.” “That’s all?” Elliot pulled him closer. “I love you too.” “Better.” They kissed. Later they ordered food because neither could cook anything worth eating. Elliot spent forty minutes learning how many streaming services apparently existed now. Ronan showed him the balcony. Elliot insulted the rug again. Ronan threatened to make him sleep on it. Elliot reminded him they were engaged. Ronan said that only made eviction easier. Normal. Ridiculous. Perfect. At

11:52, Elliot stood alone in the bathroom brushing his teeth. He looked at himself in the mirror. Twenty-six. Free. Engaged. Murderer. Son. Brother. Stepbrother. Fiancé. All true. None erased another. He looked at the ring. Two. Fuck. Ronan shouted from the bedroom.

“That's two.” Elliot spat toothpaste into the sink. “Fuck you.” “I know you’re staring at it.” “You can't even see me.” “I know you.” There. Elliot looked at himself again. No mask. He turned off the bathroom light. Walked into the bedroom. Ronan was already beneath the blankets. Elliot stopped in the doorway. Ronan looked up.

“What?” Nothing. No clock. No officer. No goodbye. Tomorrow was not something they had to negotiate anymore. Elliot crossed the room. Got into bed. Ronan immediately complained that his feet were cold. Elliot put them against his legs deliberately.

“Asshole.” “Fiancé.” “Unfortunately.” Elliot smiled in the dark. Then Ronan reached for him. Elliot went willingly. No command. No test. No reward. Just choice. He rested his head against Ronan’s chest. Heartbeat beneath his ear. Real. Here. Home. Five years ago, Elliot had asked the same question every time Ronan stood to leave. Tomorrow? And Ronan had always answered. Tomorrow. Now Elliot closed his eyes. No question. No promise. For the first time, tomorrow didn't require Ronan to come back. Neither of them was leaving.

Chapter Forty — Anyway

ANYWAY

ONE YEAR LATER · 4:17 P.M.

Claire wore red. Ronan knew she would. Elliot had known she would. Rebecca had probably known before either of them. Still, the second Claire stepped through the garden gate wearing a deep red dress and a smile that made it obvious she had chosen the color specifically to piss off the groom, Ronan started laughing. Claire pointed at him.

“Don’t.” “You promised him.” “I promised nothing.” “You said you’d consider another color.” “I considered it.” “And?” “Rejected.” Dylan appeared behind her in a dark suit, carrying two glasses of champagne.

“Her exact words were, and I quote, ‘If he survived prison, he can survive a dress.’”

Claire turned. “Traitor.” “You told me that in the car.” “You weren't supposed to repeat it.” Ronan took one of the glasses from Dylan. “You’re both terrible.” “Which is why we were invited,” Dylan said. Ronan looked toward the house. “No. You were invited because Elliot has spent six years pretending he doesn't like you.”

Dylan smiled. “He loves me.” “Careful.” “Still jealous?” The voice came from behind Ronan. Every part of him recognized it before he turned. Elliot stood beneath the garden arch.

Black suit. White shirt. No tie. Of course. His hair was slightly longer than it had been when he walked out a year ago. Not college-long. Just enough that Ronan could already imagine Elliot complaining when the wind messed it up during photographs. He looked good. Annoyingly good. Twenty-seven now. One full year outside. One full year of supervised release. One full year of therapy appointments, employment meetings, mandatory check-ins, paperwork, awkward introductions, occasional nightmares, family dinners, arguments about laundry, arguments about groceries, arguments about whether the ugly living-room rug was still ugly. It was. Elliot refused to admit he secretly liked it now.

Some things required time. His gaze moved from Ronan to Dylan.

“Still jealous?” Dylan repeated. Elliot stared. “Yes.” Dylan blinked. Ronan laughed. Claire looked delighted. “You admit it now?” Elliot adjusted one cuff. “Therapy.” Ronan nearly choked on his drink. “That might be the nicest thing therapy has ever done for me.” Elliot looked at him. “You're enjoying this.” “Immensely.” Dylan lifted his glass toward Elliot. “Congratulations.” There was a time Elliot would have heard mockery. Ronan saw the instinct flicker anyway. Then disappear.

“Thank you.” Dylan smiled. Real. No game. That relationship had taken longer than most. Understandably. Dylan knew Elliot had once considered killing him simply because Ronan had slept with him. There was no neat way around that. No apology capable of making it small. Dylan had never forgiven Elliot in the uncomplicated sense. Maybe he never would. But he had agreed to coffee. Then dinner. Then eventually showing up to annoy him at his wedding. Progress came in weird fucking forms. Claire looked Elliot up and down.

“Well?” His eyes went to the dress. “No.” She smiled.