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“I mean, you’ve already got half your shit here. You’ve got a drawer, your own shampoo, and that weird little machine that makes your coffee taste like dessert.”

“It’s a milk frother.”

“Whatever. Point is, you’re here all the time anyway.”

He shrugs. “So why don’t you just stay?”

My eyes start to sting.

“I—I don’t know what to say…”

“Move in with me, Peachy.”

He says it so simply.

I look around the kitchen.

At the two water bottles on the counter.

At Pickles, who’s currently investigating Wyatt’s abandoned hockey bag.

At the apartment where I’ve spent so many of the happiest moments of my life.

And at the man standing in front of me, holding out a key with a tiny peach attached to it.

“You really want me to live here?”

Wyatt’s expression softens.

“Baby, I’ve wanted you here since you stayed at my place to look after Pickles.”

I smile through the tears gathering in my eyes. “That was before we were even dating.”

“Yeah, well. I was playing the long game.”

He steps closer. “I want you here when I get home from practice. I want your shit all over my bathroom and your weird coffee in my kitchen. I want to wake up next to you every morning, even when you steal the blankets and accuse me of snoring.”

I laugh.

He brushes his thumb across my cheek. “And I want you here when things get hard too. If I have a shitty game, if I get benched, if I get traded someday. Whatever happens, I want to come home to you.”

A tear slips down my cheek.

He catches it.

“I’m not promising everything’s going to be perfect, Quinn. I don’t know where I’ll be playing in five years, and I don’t know what kind of shit life is going to throw at us.”

His forehead rests against mine.

“But I know I want you with me.”

My chest aches.

Three months ago, I would’ve immediately started thinking about everything that could go wrong.

What if living together is too much?

What if we fight?