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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ALLY

Lazy nights like this are my favourite.

No turmoil. No expectations. Just me and Rhys tangled on the couch like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

His arm is slung over my shoulder, fingers trailing lazy, looping circles on my bare skin where the collar of my oversized T-shirt has slipped down. Every pass of his touch sends a ripple of warmth through me, the kind that sinks deep and settles in my bones. The movie on the TV blares explosions and dramatic one-liners, but I couldn’t tell you the plot if you paid me.

All I can focus on is the way he smells—soap and skin and something boyish and addictive, and the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.

It feels right. Like we’ve finally found something steady in the middle of all the things that aren’t.

“This movie sucks,” I mumble, shifting so my knee brushes higher along his thigh.

His chest rumbles with a laugh beneath me. God, I love that sound.

“You picked it,” he teases.

“Well, I have terrible taste. The internet lied to me.”

His fingers pause for half a beat before he responds, voice low and teasing. “You picked me too.”

I tilt my head back to look at him. “Are you comparing yourself to a bad movie?”

He smirks, eyes shining in the dim light. “I’m saying you have great taste when it comes to guys. Questionable taste in films, though.”

I roll my eyes but don’t move away. If anything, I snuggle closer. His hand shifts, knuckles brushing down my arm until his palm rests against my waist, warm and firm.

“I’ll have you know that”—I wave vaguely towards the screen— “is a cult classic, apparently."

“It has a 12% rating on Rotten Tomatoes.”

I gasp, pressing my hand dramatically to my chest. “How do you even know that?”

“Because I looked it up when you suggested it.”

I shove his chest, which is solid and annoyingly satisfying under my palm. But before I can pull away, he catches my wrist and tugs me right back against him, grinning.

“I like that you have terrible taste in movies,” he says, voice gentler now, and presses a kiss to my forehead.

I sigh, letting myself melt into him. Letting myself forget, just for a little while, that life is complicated and sometimes terrifying. Right now, it’s just us, bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights and quiet comfort.

Then, he says something that tightens the space between my ribs.

“You ever think about getting married?”

I blink, lifting my head just enough to look at him fully. His face is relaxed, but his thumb tenses slightly against my hip, like he’s bracing for my answer.

“Like… in general? Or are you proposing right now? Because if this is how you do it, I’m concerned.” I never really saw myself getting married. Hell, a few weeks ago, I couldn’t even see myself being in a relationship.

He chuckles, brushing his lips over my temple. “Relax, Monroe. No rings involved. Just a question.”

But it doesn’t feel like just a question. Not with the way his fingers are tracing tiny, almost nervous patterns beneath the hem of my shirt now.

I study him for a beat—his sleepy eyes, the curve of his smirk, the slight crack in his cool exterior. And then I answer honestly. “I used to think about it when I was younger. I had this stupid Pinterest board with colour palettes and dress styles and everything.” Before he shattered my heart, and I swore off anything serious.

His eyes light up. “You did not."

"I did. It was peak cringe.”

He laughs, and it’s beautiful. But there’s something softer behind it. Something real.

“But lately…,” I admit, quieter now. “I’ve been too busy just trying to figure out life. Marriage feels like this far-off fantasy for people who have their shit together.”

“Yeah. Same,” he says, like he’s been waiting for me to say it.

“Then why’d you ask?”

His thumb strokes along my side again, dipping just under the fabric of my shirt and brushing skin. My breath catches.

“Because I think about it sometimes,” he says.

My heart stumbles. Not in fear—just… awareness . Of what he’s saying. Of what it means .

“Oh?”

He smirks at the look on my face. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“Rhys Gilmore, thinking about marriage?” I tease. “What’s next? You start crying at rom-coms?”

“I said, thinking about it. Not rushing out to buy a ring.” He leans closer, his nose brushing mine. “But yeah… I could see it. One day.”

My heart pounds. My body’s still pressed against his, but something about the moment makes me feel suddenly exposed.

“With me?” my voice drops low, unsure if I want the answer or if I already know it.

He exhales, his hand slipping a little higher up my side, sending a ripple of heat through me. “Obviously with you.”

Something melts inside me.

In an instant, the fear was gone.

“You’re terrible at romance, you know that?” I murmur softly.

He grins. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“I know.” I shift up so our foreheads touch. “You really see that for us?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Yeah. I do.”

And somehow, in the midst of an action movie, mismatched socks, and messy hair, he’s just told me he wants forever.

I don’t say anything else. I just curl tighter into him, letting his warmth bleed into me. The quiet between us isn’t empty anymore. It buzzes . Charged with something deeper. Something neither of us is saying out loud.

Rhys lifts my hand and plays with my fingers, his touch featherlight. Then he presses his lips to my knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“I mean, think about it. You’d get to keep all my hoodies officially .”

I snort. “Oh, wow. What a deal.”

“And I’d get to annoy you forever. Legally.”

“You already do that,” I tease. I love that we can have these open and honest conversations now. Lately, something's shifted inside me, and I'm choosing not to analyse it too much, just allowing myself to be in the moment with him.

His lips curve. “True. But I could make it permanent.”

I hum, pretending to consider it. “I dunno… What’s in it for me?”

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. His breath is warm, and my skin tingles beneath it. “Everything.”

My pulse flutters like wings against a cage. For once, I don’t deflect. I don’t joke. I just feel it .

His fingers slide up my spine, trailing fire as they go. I arch slightly into the touch, my breath catching as he shifts on top of me, slowly easing me onto my back. I’m grateful we have the house to ourselves at the moment. The last thing we need is our friends to walk in and interrupt this moment between us.

His eyes meet mine—dark, sure, unflinching.

“You don’t have to say anything, Ally,” he says, voice low and steady. “I just wanted you to know… when the time comes, I won’t hesitate.”

I lift my hand and cup his cheek, letting my thumb trace the sharp edge of his jaw, the day-old stubble beneath it.

“I won’t either,” I say quietly.

His breath hitches—and then he kisses me.

Not rushed. Not frantic.

Slow. Deep. Intentional.

The kind of kiss that says I see you . I choose you.

His body sinks against mine, and I feel every point of contact—his weight, his warmth, the familiar scent of his skin. The way his thigh slots between mine, the delicious friction as he moves just enough to remind me that this— us —isn’t just emotional.

It’s physical.

It’s real .

It’s everything .

He kisses me like he wants to memorise the shape of my mouth, his fingers tangling in my hair as my hands explore the curve of his back, the heat of his skin under his shirt. I can’t get close enough.

I don’t want to.

Because in this moment, with his body pressed against mine and our hearts beating in sync—I know.

We’re not rushing. We’re not promising things we can’t keep.

But this?

This is forever.

And I’m all in.