Page 200 of That Rush

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then say it so I can understand.”

My voice sharpens. “In bed, if I say yes to one thing, you never turn it into permission for everything after. You ask. You wait. Why is this—the rest of our life—different?”

“Because we’re talking about the rest of our lives.”

“Then you should be asking me every step of the way.”

“I thought we agreed.”

“You decided the key meant moving in. You decided loving each other meant we were headed for marriage.”

“You don’t want to marry me?”

“You never asked me.”

Aiden pushes away from the couch, then stops after one step. His hands return to the worn fabric.

“I’m asking now. Do you want the same things I do? Marriage. A shared home. A life where every Friday isn’t a separate agreement?”

“You think that’s all I’ve given you?”

“I think you give me tonight, this weekend, maybe next month. I can’t build a life one Friday at a time forever.”

“I’ve given you more than Fridays.”

“Have you?”

A floorboard creaks upstairs, where no one is walking. The house settles into itself, empty.

“My cabin has your coffee in it. Josie’s drawing is on my refrigerator. You know my work, my friends. I came here, to your family. And I love your daughter.” I swallow. “I love you. How can you call that visiting?”

“Then why does every permanent thing scare you?”

“It scares me when you decide it for me.”

His hands stay locked on the couch. “You protect your cabin, your job, your time. I keep making room, and you keep making sure you can use your exit.”

“I need to know I’m still me inside whatever we build.”

“You are.”

“You say that while a drawer, a row of hangers, and half your bathroom wait upstairs like I already answered.”

He looks toward the staircase. “I thought making room showed you I was serious.”

“It did. Then you started treating the room like my answer.”

His fingers loosen. “I need a partner who wants to build toward a shared home. I need to know I’m not the only one looking past next Friday.”

“You aren’t.”

“Then tell me what you see.”

“You. I don’t have the rest yet.”

His fingers curl against the couch again. “Can you picture marrying me? Can you picture years from now, a shared home, and a life centered on us?”