Page 311 of Cross Checked
My father had laughed so hard he had to leave the room.
I was still thinking about that when Bliss’s voice cut through the main living area from somewhere near the kitchen.
“No, Briggs. You cannot call it a charcoochie board.”
“It has meats and cheeses,” Briggs argued. “I’m honoring the format.”
“You are dishonoring women and appetizers.”
Ryan coughed into his drink near the windows.
Charm gasped. “Actually, I kind of support the word.”
“Of course you do,” Aura said. “You like chaos with snacks.”
Easton’s lower voice followed. “I also support snacks.”
“You support anything Aura says,” Rider muttered.
Easton said, “Correct.”
I smiled into my glass of water because everyone else got champagne tonight, but I was still technically under enough medical supervision that Bliss had threatened to make Steve appear from nowhere if I tried anything “organ-taxing.” Ihad been cleared for training, cleared for skating, cleared for carefully rebuilding myself into a collegiate athlete again.
Apparently I had not been cleared for alcohol near my girlfriend’s anxiety.
Fair.
She stood across the room with her back to me, talking with my mother and Charm near the kitchen island. She wore a soft yellow dress that hit mid-thigh, white sneakers, and one of my old KFU zip-ups hanging open over it because spring in Michigan was still rude after sunset. Her hair fell in loose blonde waves down her back, and every time she laughed, every person near her turned like the sound had weight.
Mine. Still. Always.
It didn’t hit the way it had in the beginning anymore, sharp and hungry and half-feral. It was still possessive because I was still me, but now the word had roots. It lived under my skin in a steadier way.
Mine, because I was hers.
Mine, because we had survived long enough to choose it without blood on the floor.
Tonight, I was going to ask her to make it permanent.
The ring was in my pocket.
The one I had bought for her after Ryan drove me to the jeweler because everyone in my life still acted like me operating a vehicle was a federal crime. Charm had come with us because apparently choosing an engagement ring without her was “how men end up proposing with tragic geometry,” and while I had not enjoyed being bullied by a five-foot fashion demon in a jewelry store, I had to admit she knew her shit.
She had rejected the first six rings with increasing horror.
“Too basic.”
“Too cold.”
“Too divorced.”
“Too influencer-sponsored.”
“That one looks like it apologizes after sex.”
Ryan had stared at her. “How does a ring apologize after sex?”
Charm had looked at him like he was personally responsible for male failure. “With that setting.”
