“Technically, this is your fault,” I say. “It was supposed to be a lot more stressful than this.”

“Noted.”

Before I say more than I probably should, I remind myself that it’s not the most romantic thing to be making fake accusations during a proposal. “Ah, sorry. Scratch that. Start again at the part where I say your name.”

“Okay …”

“Reilly St. Clare, before I say anything else, I want to say that I don’t remember much of what life was like before you, but I remember that I thought I was happy.”

He nods, a tiny, confused line pulling between his eyebrows.

“But I wasn’t. Or … maybe I was, but it wasn’t happy happy. It wasn’t this kind of happy where I’ll be going about my day and then think of you and smile. Or where I’ll open a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and remember the time you got so drunk you tried pole dancing in your own nightclub. Or when you leave for work earlier than me and always spray a little bit of your cologne by my pillow so you’re the first thing I smell when I wake up.”

The confused line smooths, and I swear my steady boyfriend’s eyes get all shiny.

“I have this light in my chest that’s always there, and it’s completely thanks to you. And while we might have started out on a shitty accident, I don’t think it was an accident at all. We were meant to be. We were supposed to find each other. And now, here, I want to do this. I want to be each other’s person. I want to be the Nikov St. Clares—still workshopping—and I really fucking hope you want that too. Even without all our family here to pressure you into doing it.”

Then I crack open the ring box, and St. Clare goes from misty-eyed to full-blown laughing through his tears.

He picks up the gunshot-heart golden charm I had made and put onto a necklace for him. At first, he says nothing, just a whole long stretch of nothing where I sweat through my shirt and silently beg him to say words, any words.

Then he touches his fingertips to the necklace before setting them over the bracelet on my wrist. “We match.”

“Still waiting for a yes here, pookie.”

He’s nodding before he answers. “Yes. A thousand yeses. And you don’t need anyone to pressure me into it. Not with you.”

I push to my feet and kiss him, loving the taste of him and how passionately he kisses me back.

“You know,” I mutter against his lips. “We could skip tonight and hang out in this room. For old time’s sake.”

“You want to miss the opening of our own club?”

“Seems reasonable.”