“Fine,” I sighed, giving up, so tired of it being a thing. “I’m sorry I ever brought it up.”
“Yeah, but you did.”
“So what,” I muttered, turning to the sink to rinse the dishes. “Like I said before, let’s just forget it.”
“I already told you we can’t. You can’t let it go and neither can I. We’re both screwed.”
“But we wouldn’t be if you just married me.”
“Sure,” he replied stoically. “And we wouldn’t be if what we have now was enough for you.”
“You—”
“We need to go to bed. We gotta work tomorrow and it’s already midnight.”
“You’re going to bed now?” I was incredulous. “In the middle of a fight?”
“We’ve been fighting about this for three weeks, what’s another night?”
“How can you sleep?”
“Training,” he said flatly.
“Clearly this is not that important to you.”
“You’re wrong,” he replied. “But I think we both need some time to think about what we want and what we can do.”
“What we want? What’re you talking about?”
“You want a husband, right?”
“Ian—”
“If that’s not gonna be me, then what?”
“Then fine, I’ll deal with it.”
“Why should you have to? Why shouldn’t you find someone who wants the same things you want and will give in?”
“I don’t want someone to give in. This isn’t about winning.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, idiot, it’s about me wanting to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“Which is all I want, but without the fuckin’ ring and the bullshit piece of paper!”
“Why do you always gotta call the marriage license a piece of paper? It’s more important than that.”
“To you,” he reiterated.
“To a lot of people!”
“This isn’t about a lot of people; it’s about you and me, period.”
“Fine.”
“What’s fine?”
I sighed. “You figure out what you want, and when you do, you’ll let me know.”
“I already know. I want things just like how they are.”
“Okay,” I sighed, too tired to fight with him anymore.
He murmured something I didn’t catch and pounded up the stairs. In his absence I cleaned the kitchen, got the dishwasher running, and was preparing to take our dog, our werewolf, Chickie, out for a run.
“What’re you doing?” he yelled down to me.
Normally I walked out into the living room so I could see him when I yelled up into the loft. “I gotta take Chickie out.”
“Just let him go in the backyard. I’ll clean it tomorrow when we get home.”
“No,” I called up to him. “We could both use the air.”
“Whatever you want,” he grumbled. “I’m taking a shower.”
I didn’t wait to hear the water running. Instead I went to the front door, took a breath of the crisp fall air, and stepped out into the night. It was already getting chilly, but not cold enough for me to put on a heavy jacket. The hoodie I had on would be enough.
Closing the door behind me, I went quickly down the stairs and was almost to the end of our street in Lincoln Park when I heard my name yelled out.
I turned in time to have Ian run into my arms. He hit me hard, grabbing me tight, crushing me, wedging his head down in my shoulder.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
I realized I hadn’t even been breathing moments before. Only Ian could do that to me, freeze me in absolute limbo—physically, mentally, emotionally—and turn me into the guy who waited.
Inhaling deeply, I clutched at him, my lips on the warm skin of his neck, savoring the feel of him in my arms, not wanting to let go, terrified that what we had was slipping away and we were both trying so desperately to hold on.
“We’ll figure this out,” he said shakily. “Don’t do anything like take my name off the deed to the house or anything.”
“I can’t do that,” I said around the lump in my throat. “And I wouldn’t even if I could.”
He nodded into my shoulder.
“There’s a middle ground,” I sighed, tightening my hold. “We’ll figure it out. I swear.”
“I thought I was gonna throw up when you walked out of the house.”
“We just have to figure this out. It’s not terminal.”
“No,” he agreed quickly.
“It’ll be all right,” I said, easing back so I could see his face.
Fucking Ian. Only he could turn the tables and get me to reassure him that everything would be okay even when I wasn’t sure I was telling the truth. For fuck’s sake, I was the one who was the most upset; I was the one with the hurt feelings and wounded pride, like I had skewers in my heart because he didn’t want to marry me. I should have punched him in the face, but he was covered in worry. I could see it in the pinch of his eyebrows, the darkness in his eyes, the tight press of his lips, and the clench of his jaw. He was spooked good, and because I was the one who always took care of that, fixed that, I couldn’t stop now just because it affected me.