I find her in the center, like I knew I would.

No longer hidden by a hoodie, a walled-up expression, and shapeless pants, but with those dirty white Keds and ripped jeans and the smile that could break your heart even from across the room.

I don’t want you, Snowflake.

I need you.

I need you.

I fucking need you.

“Happy birthday.” I unleash the pup on her, and he was a good choice—I knew he would be, when I picked him up from the shelter—because he runs straight into her arms and forces her to put down the book and hug him. He licks her face all over, like he is already hers. She squeaks, her smile too big for her face. I take my phone out and take a picture of it.

Click.

Remember this moment.

“Roman!” She stands up, holding him close to her chest, kissing the top of his head. “This is perfect. He is perfect,” she amends after lifting him a few inches above her head, checking for his gender. “I’m going to call him Pushkin.”

“It’s not all,” I tell her. She raises an eyebrow, probably remembering the fact that these were my exact words last year when I gave her the snow globe, and watches me. I decide on the spot, despite my best intentions, to do the whole shebang.

Get down on one knee.

Produce the ring I bought for her a long, long time ago.

And bow my chin down, playing humble for once in my goddamn life.

The ring was purchased after I realized I didn’t need SurfCity or a mall, or a fucking Vicious-styled secretary who looks she like she is about to shit a brick every time I glance her way. I sold the hotel and bought the ring the same afternoon. It cost about the same. Zero regrets there.

“You better say yes, because we’re having dinner with my mom and Hale tonight, and he is going to pop the question, and I sure as fuck am going to beat him at his own game.”

“So this is what our engagement is to you? A game?”

I huff. “I mean, you’re an okay chick.”

She giggles, plants another kiss on Pushkin. I like the name. It will feel good to hear it bouncing on the walls of our house. “Well, perfect timing.”

“Why is that?” I grin.

“Because…” She lifts her shirt up. Jesse spent the last two months working on an elaborate tattoo to cover the marks the assholes left on her skin. It’s a huge gladiolus, a flower that symbolizes strength and integrity, its name stemming from the word Gladius, an ancient Roman sword. I blink, ignoring her expectant stare.

“Because…?” I probe. She puts Pushkin down, grabs my hand, and flattens it against her lower stomach.

“Feel it.”

“Feels tough.”

“That’s because your baby is growing there.”

The air is knocked out of my lungs. I knew it was coming. Kind of. The birth control pills were gone, and Jesse asked me the other day how I felt about kids. I decided to be cautious and dodge it, not really sure if she would get freaked out by me wanting them or disappointed because I didn’t. Truth was, I was impartial. What mattered was whom I’d have them with. “I wouldn’t date one, but I guess they’re cute.” I shrugged. She said it normally took six months to get pregnant after you’re off the pill. I responded, “Feel free to throw them in the trash bin, along with the memories of your asshole mom.”

It took us less than a month.

Well, shit.

I’m still on my knee when Jesse cups her mouth. Mrs. B’s kids let us stay in their house while they are looking for buyers. When a house costs twenty million dollars, finding a buyer is not that easy. So we house-sit for Juliette and hop onto a plane every now and again to visit her. Sometimes we invite friends over for dinner. Edie and Trent were here the other day with Luna and the baby, Theo. I love this house, but man, I can’t wait to move into the yacht we purchased a few weeks ago. It’s being painted right now, and that shit is huge.

“That’s the part where you answer,” I groan.

“Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, yes, yes!” she yelps, and I slide the ring onto her finger. It’s the wrong finger, so she tells me to do it right, and I roll my eyes and tell her I’m new to this love bullshit. She tells me I still do it very well, and we’re happy.

So fucking happy.

And Pushkin is pissing on my boots.

And the sun is shining.

And I kiss her hard, my lips smashing into hers.

“I think we need matching ass tattoos,” I say.

“Why? Do you have another cool story?” She grins into our kiss.

I pick her up by the ass and wrap her legs around my waist. “Yeah.” I bite her lower lip and tug. Hard. “You.”