49. Roll for Commitment #2
Every detail is exactly the way I designed it—matte black, broad enough to suit his hand without looking heavy, with a narrow silver line circling the surface slightly off-center. And one small diamond-shaped etch.
A kite.
And a string.
Set into the metal is a tiny blue-green stone, flush enough that it catches light rather than demanding it.
Dex doesn't turn the page, not that there is another page.
His thumb traces the drawing. “What is this?”
My heart is pounding hard enough now that I can feel it in my throat.
I reach into my pocket and set the ring box on the counter.
The tiny sound it makes against the surface seems much louder than it should.
Dex looks at it.
Then at me.
“Shut the fuck up.”
I don't move.
His breathing becomes deeper. “Oh my God. Is this some elaborate Halloween bit?”
I keep staring at him.
His smile disappears, and Dex goes completely still.
I've watched that happen maybe five times in all the years I've known him. Silence doesn't come naturally to Dex. Something has to hit hard enough to knock the noise out of him.
His eyes move back to the box.
Then to me.
“Micah.”
I open it.
The real ring catches the kitchen light exactly the way I hoped it would.
Dex's mouth parts.
Nothing comes out.
“I had it made from my design.”
His eyes shine immediately.
Fuck.
I expected emotion. I did not prepare adequately for what seeing it on his face would do to mine.
I move around the island, and Dex follows me with his eyes the entire way.
When I stop in front of him, I take the box in one hand and lower myself onto one knee.
His hand covers his mouth. “Holy fucking shit.”
A laugh escapes me despite everything happening in my chest. “That's approximately what I expected.”
“You're serious.”
“Yes.”
“Like, actually serious?”
“Yes, Dex.”
His eyes are already wet, and he looks almost annoyed about it. “You're fucking proposing.”
“That is generally what this position implies.”
The sound he makes is half laugh, half sob.
I take his free hand, and his fingers close around mine automatically.
“I told you that you were my primary because we were already building a life together. I meant it then, and I still mean it now.”
His thumb presses hard against my hand.
“I don't need marriage to make that true. I don't need paperwork to make you more important, and I'm not asking because Griffin and Cami are married or because anybody needs legal symmetry.”
Dex nods too quickly. “I know.”
“I know you know.”
His face crumples for half a second.
I squeeze his hand. “I still want it.”
That stops him.
“I want you to be my husband.”
His breath catches.
“I want to keep coming home to you. I want to complain about your shoes in the hallway for another fifty years. I want to watch you play music in rooms that are too loud and listen to you insist every bad idea is part of your creative process.”
“Most of them are.”
“I know.”
He laughs through the tears.
“I want the boring parts and the complicated parts. I want whatever happens with the rest of us, and I want the part that's ours too.”
My throat tightens enough that the next breath takes effort.
Dex is staring at me like some part of him still hasn't caught up.
“So, Dexter, will you marry me?”
He looks at me for a second.
Then another.
My stomach begins to drop before his face twists.
“Oh my God, I have to answer.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.” The word comes out strangled, then again much louder. “Yes. Fuck, yes. Obviously yes.”
He comes off the stool so fast he nearly knocks me backward.
I catch him around the waist, and suddenly I'm half kneeling, half sitting on the kitchen floor with Dex wrapped around me.
His mouth crashes into mine.
He tastes like coffee and whatever candy he stole from Cami upstairs.
His hands move over my face, my neck, into my hair.
When he finally pulls back, he's openly crying.
Apparently, so am I.
“Put it on me.”
I laugh. “Give me your hand.”
He does.
His fingers are shaking.
So are mine.
The ring slides into place.
Perfect fit.
Dex stares at it for a few seconds, then looks at me again. “You made this?”
“Designed it.”
“The design.”
I nod.
His eyes close. “Kite string?”
“Yes.”
He makes another broken sound. “Fuck you.”
“I assumed you'd like it.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
“I am emotionally compromised.”
“That seems more accurate.”
He grabs my face and kisses me again.
Dex
Micah just proposed to me.
Micah.
Proposed.
To me.
I am sitting on our kitchen floor dressed as fucking Tigger, and there is a ring on my hand that he designed because apparently the man I love woke up one day and decided emotional homicide was a reasonable Halloween activity.
I cannot stop looking at it.
Black metal.
Little blue-green stone.
That silver line.
The fucking kite.
The fucking string.
Of course he remembered that.
Of course he took one stupid metaphor I made forever ago about him being the string that keeps me from flying into traffic and turned it into something I now have to wear on my hand for the rest of my life.
Asshole.
Beautiful, terrifying asshole.
“You're really going to marry me.”
Micah is still on the floor beside me.
He now has orange facepaint on his face, and his eyes are red.
Mine probably look like I smoked an entire haunted forest.
“Yes.”
“You know me.”
His eyebrows pull together. “I would hope so.”
“No, like really. You've had the full experience.”
“I live with you.”
“I leave wet towels on furniture.”
“Yes.”
“I own fourteen pairs of boots.”
“Seventeen.”
I blink. “Why do you know that?”
“Because they live everywhere except your closet.”
“Okay. See? This is what I'm talking about.”
Micah smiles.
It is soft enough that my chest hurts again.
“I know who I'm marrying.”
The stupid part of my brain—the part that has always assumed love comes with an expiration date people just don't tell you about—tries to say something.
It doesn't get very far.
Because Micah is sitting beside me on the kitchen floor holding the hand with the ring on it like he already answered that question months ago.
Years ago, maybe.
I look at the portfolio that followed me to the floor.
At the old drawing on top.
He was drawing me before either of us knew.
Fuck me.
“Did you really think I might say no?”
His expression changes just enough that I know the answer.
“You did.”
“I considered the possibility.”
“Micah.”
“It would have been irresponsible not to.”
“You made a twenty-page illustrated argument.”
“Twenty was restrained.”
I stare at him.
He looks away.
“Oh my God. How many did you originally have?”
“Fifty.”
I start laughing.
I can't help it.
The laugh comes out wet and wrecked and probably a little hysterical.
Micah lets me.
When I finally breathe again, I look down at the ring.
The word hits me all over again.
Fiancé.
I have a fiancé.
I'm somebody's fiancé.
Micah's.
“Does this mean I level up?”
He closes his eyes.
“No, seriously. Hierarchy question.”
“Dex.”
“Do I outrank Ronan now?”
“No.”
“Even after jewelry?”
“No.”
“Feels arbitrary.”
Micah gets to his feet and offers me a hand.
I let him pull me up.
The ring flashes again.
My chest does another stupid thing. “Wait.”
He looks at me.
“Ronan.”
“What about him?”
“We can't all be married and leave Ronan wandering around unmarried like some mysterious forest cryptid.”
Micah stares at me. “That is your immediate concern?”
I blink at him.
“He doesn't need matching paperwork.”
“I know that logically.”
“Then why are you worried?”
I look toward the kitchen doorway.
Nobody there.
Still, I lower my voice. “Because I don't want him to feel like we're all pairing off and he's the extra.”
Micah's expression softens. “He doesn't.”
“How do you know?”
“He knew I was proposing.”
My head snaps back. “He what?”
Micah's face immediately tells me he realizes he chose the wrong way to deliver that information.
“Ronan knew?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“A few weeks.”
“A FEW—”
Micah catches my arm. “Volume.”
“He knew?”
“Yes.”
“And he didn't tell me?”
“That was generally the objective.”
“Oh my God.”
I turn toward the stairs. “RONAN!”
Micah closes his eyes.
Footsteps stop overhead.
Cami calls down. “WHAT HAPPENED?”
“RONAN BETRAYED ME.”
Another pause.
Griffin's voice follows. “Is anyone bleeding?”
“No.”
“Then stop yelling.”
Ronan appears at the top of the stairs first.
Full Owl.
Brown pants.
Sweater vest.
Glasses.
Cami has apparently added two small feather-shaped clips to his hair.
He descends slowly. “What did I do?”
I hold up my left hand.
His gaze drops to the ring.
Then his face changes.
“Congratulations.”
“YOU KNEW.”
“Yes.”
Cami comes barreling around him in a yellow sweater and red cropped shirt.
She's Pooh—of course.
“What does he know?”
I hold up my hand again.
Cami takes a breath or two to register what she’s looking at.
Then she screams.
Actually screams.
Behind her, Griffin appears in a blue cardigan and khakis, looking irritatingly correct as Christopher Robin.
“What—”
He sees the ring.
Then his entire face changes. “Holy shit.”
Cami nearly falls down the remaining stairs. “YOU'RE ENGAGED?”
Micah comes up behind me. “Apparently.”
I look over my shoulder. “Apparently?”
His mouth twitches.
Cami grabs my hand before I can answer and stares at the ring. “Oh my God.”
Then she looks at Micah. “You designed this.”
It isn't a question. “Yeah.”
Her eyes immediately fill. “No. Absolutely not. I'm already in eyeliner.”
Cami throws herself at Micah.
He catches her.
Mostly.
Then Griffin hugs me.
Like full-on grabs me around the shoulders and squeezes. “Congrats, man.”
“Thank you.”
It comes out weirdly sincere.
I hug him back.
When we separate, Ronan is still standing near the bottom stair.
Watching.
Calm.
Not detached.
I know the difference now.
I point at him. “You.”
“Yes?”
“You kept this from me.”
“That was the request.”
“I thought we had something.”
“We do.”
“You're Owl.”
He looks down at himself. “I am aware.”
“It's upsetting how correct the costume is.”
“I've heard.”
Cami is still staring at the ring. “Can I take a picture?”
“Wait until I fix my eyeliner.”
“You're crying.”
“I know.”
“It's going to smear.”
“Worth it.”
Micah puts an arm around my waist.
I lean into him.