Chapter 11 #2
"Two bedrooms down the hall," Patricia explains. "Master has its own half bath. There's a full bath between the bedrooms. And through those doors—" She gestures to sliding glass doors at the back of the living room. "Your yard."
Ingrid moves through the space like she's already living here.
Running her hands along the countertops.
Opening cabinets.
Testing the faucet.
"The kitchen is perfect," she says. "I could actually cook in here."
"You cook?" Patty asks.
"I'm learning. For the right kitchen."
She catches my eye.
Smiles.
A private joke.
A shared memory.
I smile back, but my heart is pounding.
Soon.
Soon I'm going to ask her.
Soon everything changes.
Patty shows us the bedrooms—both decent-sized, both with good closet space.
The bathrooms—clean, functional, recently updated.
The yard—small but real, with actual grass and a little patio area.
"It's perfect," Ingrid says for the fifth time. "It's absolutely perfect."
"I'm glad you think so." Patty pulls some papers from her folder. "If you're ready, we can do the lease right now. One year term, first month's rent and security deposit due at signing. Since it's vacant, I can give you the keys today."
I look at Ingrid.
She looks at me.
"Let's do it," she says.
We sign the lease at the kitchen counter.
Our names, side by side.
Our commitment to this space, this life, this future.
Patty hands over the keys—two sets, one for each of us.
"Congratulations," she says. "Welcome home."
She lets herself out.
The door closes behind her.
And suddenly it's just us.
In our house.
Our home.
Ingrid spins in a slow circle, taking it all in. "I can't believe it. It's ours. It's really ours."
She moves into the living room, arms spread wide.
"We could put a sectional right here. A big one. The kind that fits like ten people. For when we have everyone over for movie nights or game days or just—just because we can."
She's facing away from me now.
Looking at the empty space.
Planning our future with every word.
My hand finds the ring box in my pocket.
This is it.
This is the moment.
I pull out the box.
Get down on one knee.
My wound protests—a sharp pull of pain that makes me wince—but I don't care.
This is worth any pain.
She's worth any pain.
"And we could put a TV on that wall," she continues, oblivious. "A big one. And maybe some shelves for books, and—"
"Ingrid."
Something in my voice makes her turn.
She sees me.
On one knee.
Ring box open in my hands.
The emerald catches the light from the windows, green fire dancing in its depths.
Her hands fly to her mouth.
"Gunnar. What—"
"I had a speech prepared," I say. "A long one. About how much I love you and how long I've loved you and all the reasons why I want to spend my life with you. But standing here, looking at you, I can't remember any of it. All I can think about is how lucky I am. How incredibly, impossibly lucky."
Tears are streaming down her face.
She's laughing and crying at the same time.
So beautiful it hurts.
"I've loved you since before I knew what loving you meant," I continue.
"You were my friend first. My best friend.
The person I wanted to tell everything to, the person I looked for in every room, the person who made every day better just by existing.
And somewhere along the way—somewhere in all those years of watching you, wanting you, waiting for you—friendship turned into something more.
Something I couldn't ignore. Something I couldn't live without. "
"Gunnar—"
"I almost died without ever getting to call you my wife.
I almost lost the chance to do this—to kneel in front of you and ask you to spend forever with me.
And I swore that if I survived—when I survived—I wasn't going to waste another second.
I was going to love you out loud. Love you completely.
Love you the way you've always deserved to be loved. "
I hold up the ring.
"This belonged to a woman who wore it for fifty years. Fifty years of love, of partnership, of choosing each other every single day. That's what I want with you. Fifty years. Longer. Forever, if you'll have me."
She's sobbing now.
Happy sobs.
The kind that shake your whole body.
"Ingrid, will you marry me?"
She nods.
Can't speak.
Just nods and laughs and cries and reaches for me.
"Yes," she finally manages. "Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes."
I slide the ring onto her finger.
It fits perfectly.
Like it was made for her.
Like it was waiting for her all along.
She stares at it for a moment—the emerald gleaming, the diamonds sparkling, this tangible proof of everything I feel for her.
Then she's pulling me up, mindful of my injury even in her excitement, and kissing me.
Hard.
Deep.
Full of everything.
"I love you," she says against my mouth.
"I love you too."
She laughs again, tears still falling, and kisses me once more.
"I can't believe you did this. I can't believe—the ring, it's so beautiful. How did you know? How did you know exactly what I'd want?"
"Your mom helped."
"My mom knows?"
"I asked your parents for their blessing this morning. Your mom cried more than you are right now."
"That's not possible."
"It's very possible. She went through an entire pack of tissues at the jewelry store."
Ingrid laughs, wiping her eyes. "She's going to be insufferable. Planning everything. Picking out flowers and dresses and—"
"Let her. She's waited a long time for this."
"So have I." She looks at the ring again, then at me. "So have I."
We stand there for a moment.
In our empty house.
In our future.
Just holding each other.
"I want to celebrate," she whispers.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Her hands slide down my chest. "I want to celebrate in our new home. On our new floor. Just you and me and this ring on my finger."
"My wound—"
"We'll be careful. You can lie down. Let me do the work." Her eyes darken with heat. "Let me show you how much I love you."
I groan.
"You're going to kill me."
"After everything you've survived? I don't think so." She pulls me toward the empty living room. "Come on, fiancé. Let's break in our new place."
She leads me into the bare space, the hardwood floor cool under our feet.
Sunlight filters through the uncovered windows, casting long shadows across the empty room.
No couch, no bed, nothing but us and the promise of what's coming.
Ingrid turns to me, her fingers hooking into my cut, sliding it off my shoulders.
She rises and places it on the kitchen island, then returns back to me and slides her fingers under the hem of my shirt, tugging it up slowly.
I lift my arms, careful not to strain the stitches on my side, and she peels it off, exposing the bandage wrapped around my ribs.
Her gaze softens for a second, but then that fire reignites.
She traces her fingertips along the edge of the gauze, light as a breath.
"I'll be gentle," she murmurs, leaning in to press her lips to my collarbone.
Her mouth is warm, soft, and I feel my cock twitch in my jeans already.
I reach for her, hands on her hips, pulling her closer.
She's wearing that simple sundress, the one that hugs her curves just right, the fabric thin enough that I can feel the heat of her body through it.
"Ingrid..." My voice comes out rough, needy.
She smiles against my skin, then steps back, grabbing the bottom of her dress and lifting it over her head in one smooth motion.
No bra, just her full breasts spilling free, nipples already hard peaks.
My eyes lock on them, and she laughs softly, a sound that sends a jolt straight to my groin. "Like what you see?"
"Fuck yes." I unbutton my jeans, shoving them down along with my boxers.
My cock springs out, hard and throbbing, the tip already leaking pre-cum.
The cool air hits it, making me hiss, but Ingrid's eyes go wide with hunger.
She drops to her knees on the floor, but I stop her. "No. Lie down first. I don't want you hurting your knees."
She shakes her head, that mischievous glint in her eye. "I'm doing the work, remember? You lie down." Her hands push at my chest gently, guiding me back until my heels hit the floor.
I lower myself carefully, the hard wood pressing into my back, a stark contrast to the softness of her body as she straddles my thighs.
The floor is unforgiving, but right now, I don't care.
Ingrid's above me, her panties the only thing between us, a scrap of lace that's already damp.
She grinds down slowly, her pussy rubbing against my cock through the fabric.
I groan, hands gripping her thighs, feeling the smooth skin tense under my fingers.
"Careful," she whispers, but her hips keep moving, teasing me with that friction.
She reaches between us, fingers wrapping around my shaft, stroking from base to tip.
Her grip is firm, just how I like it, thumb circling the head to spread the pre-cum. "God, you're so hard for me already."
"Always," I rasp, watching her.
She shifts, hooking her thumbs into her panties and sliding them off, tossing them aside.
Her pussy comes into view, shaved smooth, lips glistening with arousal.
She positions herself over me, one hand steadying my cock as she lowers just the tip inside her.
We both moan at the contact.
She's wet, so fucking wet, her entrance stretching around me.
But she pauses, eyes on my wound. "Tell me if it hurts."
"It doesn't. Keep going." My hands slide up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts.
She sinks down further, taking half my length, her inner walls clenching tight.
The sensation is intense, her heat enveloping me inch by inch.
Ingrid bites her lip, rocking her hips to adjust, careful not to jolt me too much.
Finally, she settles fully, my cock buried deep inside her pussy.
She stills for a moment, both of us breathing hard, her hands braced on my chest—away from the bandage.
"You feel so good," she says, voice husky.
Then she starts to move, lifting up slowly and sliding back down.
Her breasts bounce with each rise, nipples grazing the air.