Chapter 56
Chapter fifty-six
Brynn
Knox is folding laundry.
Like, actual folding. Not his usual chaotic method of stacking vaguely warm T-shirts into what looks like a cotton-based topographical map. Tonight, he’s deliberate. Matching socks, smoothing fabric, even separating my things into a neat little pile on the far end of the couch.
I’m sprawled across the rug with a glass of wine and a bowl of red grapes, flipping through a bridal magazine Kinsey accidentally left in my car. Accidentally. Right.
“You know,” I say, holding up a page of sparkly white dresses, “if we ever get married, you’ll need to wear a tux. And not one of those cheap rental ones that smells like Axe and desperation.”
Knox doesn’t look up, as if he isn’t fazed by my statement. “Will it have to be tailored?”
“Obviously.”
He nods like this is a serious concern. “Do they make those to fit a quarterback's shoulders?”
“We’ll have it custom stitched with ‘Coach Daddy’ on the inside.”
That earns me a raised brow. “That’s a bold move for a woman who wants me to keep my clothes on during formal events.”
I grin and pop another grape into my mouth. “Who said I want your clothes on at all?”
There’s a pause—his hands stalling on a towel—and then that grin I know too well spreads across his face. “You’re trying to distract me from my domestic groove.”
“Mission accomplished.”
He tosses the towel and walks over, kneeling beside me on the rug, bracing himself with one arm and stealing a grape with the other.
I let myself watch him for a moment, really watch him. The curve of his jaw. The flecks of gold in his eyes. The quiet way he settles beside me, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. No rush. No performance. Just him, close and unguarded.
And I realize—I don’t need the ring yet. Or a wedding date. Or answers to every question about the future. I just need this.
This ease. This love. This man. This ordinary, beautiful life we’re building in between laundry loads and late-night talks and stolen grapes on a Monday. It’s not flashy, but it’s ours.
I spent so long believing love was supposed to feel like fireworks—explosive and all-consuming. My last relationship felt like that. Volatile. Bright. Over too fast, leaving more ash than warmth.
But with Knox? It’s steady. Solid. The kind of love that holds you up instead of knocking you down. The kind that grows roots and stays.
It’s not about nostalgia or the people we used to be. It’s who we are now. What we’ve fought for. What we’ve chosen.
We broke apart once and somehow, we found our way back. Stronger, smarter, softer in the ways that matter most.
And I finally understand what love is supposed to feel like.
“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning in, his voice all gravel and warmth. “Where’d you go just now?”
I shake my head and smile, tracing my finger down his arm. “Just thinking about how much I love you.”
He studies me. “You know, if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna do something reckless.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Stay ready, Marlow.”
I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.
Not at first.
It started innocently enough. I came downstairs for socks—because someone (me) forgot to bring clean ones to Knox’s place after spending yet another night here pretending we aren’t basically living together.
The plan was simple: sneak into the laundry room, grab socks from the dryer, return to my bubble bath and my latest hockey romance on my Kindle.
But then I heard my name.
And—okay, yes. I paused.
Not because I was snooping. Because I was…assessing the situation. Like a responsible adult. Who happened to be barefoot, half-dressed, and crouched in front of the dryer door with one sock on her hand like a puppet.
“I’m telling you, she has no idea,” Knox’s voice came through the cracked kitchen door. He was on the phone, low and serious, that gravel-in-honey tone he gets when he’s concentrating.
There was a beat of silence, then a deep sigh.
“I’m gonna ask her soon,” he said. “I just want it to be right. Not flashy, just…ours.”
My heart immediately leapt into my throat and started doing the Macarena.
Ask her soon.
Not flashy.
Just ours.
Oh my God.
He’s going to propose.
I let out the tiniest squeak and immediately clamped both hands over my mouth, sock included.
My brain launched into a complete tailspin. Do I go back upstairs like I didn’t hear anything? Do I run in there and fake a heart attack to cover the fact that I’ve been loitering near the dryer like a raccoon with emotional baggage?
“I’ve already talked to her parents,” Knox continued, and I swear my soul briefly exited my body.
He talked to my parents?!
I’m sweating. Why am I sweating? It’s November. I was cold thirty seconds ago.
“She’s the one, man,” he added, and this time the softness in his voice nearly undid me. “I knew it the second she stormed into Gordy’s that first night with that look on her face like she was ready to kill me and kiss me at the same time. And I’d let her do both, if that’s what she needed.”
Well. That’s it.
I’m marrying this man even if he doesn’t ask. I’ll drag him to the altar kicking and screaming if I have to.
There was a rustling sound—like he was moving—and I panicked, bolting silently, dramatically, across the hall and diving into the downstairs bathroom like it was a bunker and I was under siege.
The door clicked shut just as I heard the fridge open. I pressed my back to the wall, heart hammering, half-laughing, half-freaking out, and entirely in love.
He’s going to ask me to marry him.