She looks at me, and for a second, all that wildfire in her eyes stills.
“Clay.” Her voice wavers. “This is… it’s beautiful.”
I step closer, take the dish from her hands, set it down. Then I drop to one knee.
Her breath catches.
I don’t give her a speech. I’ve never been good with pretty words. But I’ve been working this moment over in my head for weeks. I want her to feel it like a tremor in her bones.
I grab her hand, hold her knuckles to my lips. “You lit me up, Firecracker. Burned through all the ash and made me want more.”
She swallows. “Clay?—”
I pull out the ring. Simple, gold, engraved with the wordhomeinside the band.
“I want to marry you. I want to wake up beside you and fall asleep with your hair in my mouth because you’re a bed hog. I want to argue over curtain colors and listen to you cuss under your breath when you spill glaze on your jeans.”
She’s full-on crying now, mascara streaking down her cheeks, smile trembling.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. So marry me, Ember Quinn. Make me your husband, your partner, your fool forever.”
“Yes.” It bursts out of her like a laugh, like a sob, like every damn thing I’ve ever wanted to hear. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
I slide the ring on her finger, and she drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around my neck. We collapse into each other, mouths meeting with years of heat and hope and relief.
She tastes like fire and sugar. My favorite addiction.
I pull back just enough to see her face. “You crying because I’m sentimental now? Told you I had layers.”
She huffs a laugh and kisses my jaw. “You’re a gooey cinnamon roll wrapped in firefighter bravado.”
I growl. “You better take that back.”
“Nope. I stand by it.” She grins against my lips, then leans back on her heels and bites her lip like she’s holding something back.
“What?”
She reaches into her oversized purse, digs around, and pulls out a white plastic stick.
My brain doesn’t catch up right away.
“You…?”
She hands it to me. Two lines.
Positive.
The world tilts.
“Firecracker,” I whisper, voice gone. “You’re pregnant?”
She nods, teary again. “I took it this morning. I wasn’t sure how to tell you. Then you go and make me cry twice in one day, and?—”
I lift her off the floor in one smooth motion, her laughter ringing through the studio. I carry her across the room, past her wheel and my tools, through the back office, and into the studio’s private loft where we sometimes nap or escape on long workdays.
I set her on the couch, yank the blinds closed, and sink to my knees between her thighs.
“You’re mine,” I murmur, hands on her hips, dragging her shirt up slowly. “All of you. Forever.”
