Page 132 of Puck Your Feelings

I throw a sock at his face.

He catches it, grinning, then watches as I return to organizing his clothes, explaining how to do it as I go.

"You know," he whines after a minute, "I don't actually need to know all this."

I fold another shirt. "You do."

"Why?"

"Because there are rules in my house."

He sits up fully, head tilted like a confused puppy. "Your house?"

I set down the shirt I'm holding and turn to face him. "Move in with me."

Becker blinks. "What?"

"Move in with me," I repeat, forcing myself to hold his gaze even though my heart's trying to escape through my ribcage. "My place’s big enough. Close to the rink. And has a dishwasher that actually works."

"You're selling your apartment based on appliance functionality?"

"I'm selling my apartment based on the fact that I want to wake up next to you every morning and not have to coordinate whose place we're sleeping at like we're running a logistics operation."

Becker's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "You want me to move in."

"That's generally what I meant by 'move in with me,' yes."

"Into your house."

"Apartment, technically, but—"

"With the rules."

I nod slowly. "With the rules."

"What rules?"

Oh good, now we're negotiating.

"Shoes off at the door," I start. "Dishes in the dishwasher immediately, not sitting in the sink. Laundry separated by color. Gym bags don't live on the kitchen counter—"

"You have a lot of opinions about domestic organization."

"I have a lot of opinions about not living in chaos."

"I'm chaos," Becker points out.

"I know." I step closer, until I'm standing between his knees where he's sitting on the edge of the bunk. "Move in anyway."

He looks up at me, blue eyes searching my face for something. "You sure? I leave wet towels everywhere. Eat cereal at two AM. Set off fire alarms—"

"I know all of this."

"And you still want me around?"

"Every day," I confirm. "Preferably starting immediately."

A smile breaks across his face. "Okay."