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We both step inside, with Pickles trotting at our heels.

“Pizza?” Wyatt asks.

“Please.”

“Pepperoni?”

“Obviously.”

“God, I love you.”

I smile as I open the fridge.

We’ve developed something of a routine over the last few months.

After home games, we usually come back here, order food, and spend the rest of the evening on the couch.

Sometimes Wyatt falls asleep halfway through a movie.

Sometimes I do.

Sometimes we don’t make it to the couch at all. Those are my favorite nights.

I pull two bottles of water from the fridge and turn around.

Wyatt is standing at the kitchen island, watching me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I narrow my eyes.

“That’s your suspicious face.”

He grins. “This is just my regular handsome face.”

Then he reaches into his pocket.

What is he doing?

He pulls out a small black box.

Oh.

My heart stops.

All I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

“Wyatt?”

“Yeah?”

“What is that?”

“A box.”

I stare at him.