“What’s she looking for in life? A good time? Or someone to share a future with?”

Magnolia shrugs one shoulder, checking the oven before glancing over at me. “Violet loves a good time, sure. But she’s thirty now. She’s ready to find someone who wants the same things she does.”

“Which is what?”

“She’s ready to settle down. Marry. Start a family.”

I nod, letting that sink in.

Violet’s ready to settle down. Ready to build something real. But what about her best friend?

Magnolia wasn’t ready for that months ago. Hell, not even close. She’d made that much clear. She wanted freedom, not chains. And I respected her feelings. I still do.

She has said some things since that make me wonder where her head is now.

But being parted from her changed me. I realized there isn’t a single version of my future that doesn’t have her in it. I want her in my life. Always. Every single day.

I want to marry her even more now than I did when we were tangled up together in Australia. Putting a ring on her finger is the only way to quiet this fire in my chest—to let the whole damn world see that she’s mine. The need to call her my wife hums beneath my skin, constant and aching, like a second heartbeat I can’t shut off.

The smell of dinner pulls me back to the moment, and I let myself get lost in watching her move around the kitchen. If this is what married life looks like—Magnolia making dinner while I stare at her like a lovesick idiot—I want it.

All of it.

I’d be in there with her if my ankle wasn’t wrecked—stealing bites, wrapping my arms around her from behind, making a mess of whatever perfect plan she had for dinner. But for now, I settle for sitting here on this sofa watching, feeling the want for her deep in my bones.

Magnolia plates everything, sliding a big helping of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a buttery biscuit on one plate like she’s feeding an army.

She glances over her shoulder, catching me staring.

“What is it?” she asks, one brow lifted.

I grin, pushing up from the couch and hobbling my way over to the kitchen table.

“You’re good at this.”

“At what? Feeding you?” she says, laughing as she sets the plates down. “I know how much you love food.”

“I meant you’re good at making me want to never live without you,” I say, pulling out a chair and lowering myself into it with a groan. “At this rate, I’m gonna end up proposing over a plate of mashed potatoes.”

Magnolia freezes for half a second—long enough that my heart stutters—before she smiles, soft and a little shy, like she’s trying to hide it but can’t.