Chapter 59 Knox
Chapter fifty-nine
Knox
December settles over Cedar Falls in slow drifts and early dark.
Mornings bite with frost, sharp enough to wake you up fast, but by midday, the sun warms just enough to take the edge off.
Not that it stops anyone from complaining, bundled in their scarves and boots, grumbling about the cold like it’s a town sport.
Half of it’s tradition, and the other half is just something to talk about while you wait in line for coffee.
And through it all, Brynn’s been…waiting.
She hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t dropped hints or circled ring ads. But I see it. The way her eyes flick to my coat pocket every time I grab it from the hook. Like maybe—just maybe—this will be the day I reach in and pull out something small. Shiny. Final.
She’s patient, but I know that look. She’s trying not to hope too loudly. Probably near her breaking point. And damn, I love her for it.
Because what we have now—it’s nothing like what we had back then.
Back when we thought love meant saying it first. Saying it fastest. Like the words were enough to make it real.
We didn’t know what the hell we were doing.
We were wild with each other. Young and selfish. Quick to love, quick to dream.
But now? Now it’s different.
Now it’s solid. Quiet in the right ways. Loud where it counts. What I have with Brynn is the kind of love that doesn’t crumble when life gets hard. The kind that stands its ground, even in the face of grief, fear, or a past that never really let go.
It’s the kind of love that makes a man show up.
That makes him reach for his better self.
It’s not perfect. It’s not showy. But it’s ours. Built brick by brick, moment by moment, over late-night dinners and early morning coffee, over apology and forgiveness, over showing up again and again.
And while she’s been quietly hoping, I’ve been quietly planning.
Because this time, I’m not rushing it. I’m not blowing it on impulse. I’ve been choosing her on purpose. Every damn day.
And soon, I’m going to ask her to choose me right back. And I’ll tell her about the house I’m building.
A few weeks ago, I called an architect. Then a builder.
Found a plot of land just outside of town—close enough that we’re still rooted in Cedar Falls, far enough that we can have something all our own.
It’ll be farmhouse style. A big kitchen.
A front porch wide enough for slow mornings and fast hellos.
I asked for a reading nook, because I’ve never met a woman who can make a blanket and a book look so damn irresistible.
I asked for a mudroom, because she tracks in the snow like a toddler.
And I asked for a soaking tub, because I know how much she sinks into silence when she needs peace.
They’ve already started clearing the lot. She has no idea.
I watch her across the room some nights.
When her hair is messy, her socks mismatched, her fingers wrapped around a mug like she owns the whole damn world.
Then I think of the other side of her. High heels, powerful, sexy, career-driven and I know there’s no one else.
No other version of life I’d rather have.
December has been full. Late nights at work closing out the season.
Quiet dinners. Brynn humming while she does the dishes and calling me out when I sneak two cookies instead of one.
There was the first snow on the sidewalks, Christmas lights on every streetlight, and my girl wrapped in the kind of scarves that make me want to bury my face in her neck and stay there until spring.
We go to town events—tree lightings and market strolls and Friday night movies with our friends. Evie drinks hot cocoa with marshmallows piled so high it’s more topping than drink. And Kinsey starts a countdown to Christmas she claims isn’t about presents—but no one buys it.
And through all of it, Brynn keeps looking at me with that quiet kind of hope in her eyes. The kind that says she’s waiting for something. Like she knows it’s coming.
And she’s right.
I’ve had the ring for weeks now.
It’s simple. The diamond is perfect, not too big, but sparkles just like she does. No flash. Just hers. I think about it every damn day.
A ring that will cement the fact that she’s mine for the rest of our lives.
Because I want all of her. Like when she pours my coffee in the morning without asking how I take it, because she already knows.
Or when she sets her frozen feet against my thighs under the blanket and smirks like she’s doing me a favor or when she kisses me slowly at the end of the night, like time doesn’t matter, like we’ve got a thousand more of these. Because we do.
I’m not just giving her a ring. I’m building her a home. I’m building us a life. Something that lasts. Something she can lean on when the world gets loud again.
And I can’t wait to hear her say ‘yes.’
We’re in matching plaid pajamas—red and black flannel, soft and a little ridiculous, and I wouldn’t change a thing. One pair for me. One for Brynn. And, yes, a tiny set for Priscilla, who’s currently curled up in her bed with her head on her paws, content and cozy, like she knows tonight's special.
Brynn stands in front of the Christmas tree, hands on her hips, studying her latest ornament placement with an intensity that belongs in a lab.
The tree sparkles in the corner of the living room, strung with white lights and sentimental ornaments, each one placed with the kind of care that says this isn’t just decoration. It’s tradition.
I hand her another ornament from the box. “You good?”
She steps back, scrunching her nose, then moves the glass ball half an inch to the left. “This side has too much silver. It’s throwing off the symmetry.”
I grin. “You know it’s a tree and not a museum installation, right?”
She shoots me a look. “We’re building Christmas magic here. Don’t get in the way of greatness.”
God, I love her.
The room smells like pine and cinnamon. Soft music plays from the speaker on the counter—something jazzy with sleigh bells. Outside, snow drifts quietly under the porch light, and everything feels like it’s been gift-wrapped in stillness.
With a look of determination, she rolls up her sleeves before she reaches for the next ornament. And I know, without a doubt, that this is the moment.
This is the night.
I clear my throat and reach into the box beside me, pulling out the first ornament I had made.
“Here,” I say, handing it to her like it’s just like the others. Like I didn’t spend a week getting the font right.
She takes it, blinking. “I don’t remember buying these.”
“Read it.”
She lifts it closer, her brows pinching as she reads the words printed in soft script across the shiny red glass:
The first time I kissed you when we were teenagers, I knew.
Her head snaps up, eyes already softening. “Knox.”
I shrug. Casual. Cool. Dying inside.
“Next one,” I say, handing her the second.
She takes it slower this time. She reads it aloud.
You once cried watching a nature documentary. It ruined me.
She laughs, sharp and sudden, her eyes going wide. “Oh my God…You remember that?”
I smile. “I remember everything.”
She shakes her head, still smiling, and gently hangs the ornament beside the first.
The third ornament is green, glittering under the tree lights.
You taught me that home isn’t a place. It’s a person.
She doesn’t speak when she reads it. Just holds it in both hands like it’s made of something special. Then she lifts it carefully and hangs it near the top.
The fourth comes with a tremble in her fingers.
Loving you made me a better man. Losing you taught me how to fight for what matters.
Her eyes glisten, and this time, she doesn’t even try to hide it. She hangs it in silence, wiping her cheek.
The fifth is gold. Bold letters.
I don’t want a future unless you’re in it.
She swallows hard, lips parting. Her breath shakes as she hangs the ornament with slow precision.
I place the sixth in her hands, mine shaking.
She gasps. Not a dramatic movie gasp, but the quiet kind that slips out when your heart leaps before your brain can catch up. Her eyes lift to mine, wide and wet and shining.
I drop to one knee.
Not because it’s a grand gesture. Not because I rehearsed it a thousand times (which I did). But because the second she looked at me like that—wide-eyed, stunned, like she already knew—I knew I couldn’t wait one more second to ask.
Brynn stands frozen across from me. Hair messy. Fuzzy socks. And still the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen.
“I had a speech,” I say, my voice rough. “I swear I had one. Rehearsed it, even. But then you walked into the room, and I forgot every damn word.”
Her eyes shine, blinking fast.
“So here’s what I know.” I shift slightly on my knee, reaching into my pocket. “You are it for me. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s perfect. But because even when it’s hard, I still want you. I always want you.”
She exhales shakily but doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“You make my life better in every way. You steal my dog, you eat the last cookie and lie about it, and you turn grocery shopping into a contact sport—and it all just makes me love you more.”
That gets a watery laugh. She bites her lip, her hands trembling.
“You’re strong. You’re honest. You love so big it makes the world feel safer just having you in it. And I’d be the biggest fool alive if I didn’t fight for this every single day.”
I hold out the ring, simple and classic. Like her. Like us.
“I want every Monday morning and every Friday night. I want burnt toast and snow days and your cold feet under the covers. I want to be yours, Brynn. Forever.”
I pause, letting the words settle between us, feeling the air pull tight around my chest.
“Marry me?”
She drops to her knees and crashes into me, laughing through her tears as she kisses me full on the mouth.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Priscilla lets out a happy bark from her cozy corner, causing a teary-eyed giggle to fall from Brynn’s mouth. And right there on the living room floor, wrapped in twinkling lights and joy and matching plaid, we begin our forever story.