Page 669 of End Game

He makes another broken sound. “Fuck you.”

“I assumed you'd like it.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.”

“I am emotionally compromised.”

“That seems more accurate.”

He grabs my face and kisses me again.

Dex

Micah just proposed to me.

Micah.

Proposed.

To me.

I am sitting on our kitchen floor dressed as fucking Tigger, and there is a ring on my hand that he designed because apparently the man I love woke up one day and decided emotional homicide was a reasonable Halloween activity.

I cannot stop looking at it.

Black metal.

Little blue-green stone.

That silver line.

The fucking kite.

The fucking string.

Of course he remembered that.

Of course he took one stupid metaphor I made forever ago about him being the string that keeps me from flying into traffic and turned it into something I now have to wear on my hand for the rest of my life.

Asshole.

Beautiful, terrifying asshole.

“You're really going to marry me.”

Micah is still on the floor beside me.

He now has orange facepaint on his face, and his eyes are red.

Mine probably look like I smoked an entire haunted forest.

“Yes.”

“You know me.”

His eyebrows pull together. “I would hope so.”