“I’m so glad you’re okay,” I said, and my voice was so shaky, the words trembled, too.
“Thank you for not letting me die,” Owen said.
“Thank you for not dying.”
“Thank you for agreeing to marry me.”
“Thank you for asking.”
“If I could lean forward and kiss you some more right now, I would.”
I smiled. “I’d kiss you back.”
He nodded. “But I can’t. You know—because of the ribs.”
“I get it,” I said.
“So if you want to get kissed,” he went on, eyeing me, “you have to do all the work yourself.”
I leaned in. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I said.
“But you do want to kiss me.”
“I really, truly do.”
“Be careful, then,” he said.
So I kissed him. Carefully. Supporting my weight on one arm, and resting the palm of my other hand against the contour of his unshaven neck. I could feel his pulse, simple and steady, and I let myself feel so grateful—so unabashedly grateful—that it was there.
When I pulled back to take in the sight of him, he said, “Don’t stop.”
“The captain says I have to go easy on you.”
“Don’t go easy on me.”
“I should probably let you rest.”
“Don’t let me rest.”
“I should probably go.”
“Definitely don’t go,” he said.
He looked tired, as if even just a little bit of flirting and kissing was enough to knock him out. But I didn’t want to go. Instead, I shifted to lie beside him in that skinny little bed, slow and careful not to hurt him anywhere, nestled between him and the railing.
When I finally got settled, my head against his shoulder, as if it were the most natural possible next step in the conversation, Owen said, “We should do it today.”
I lifted up my elbow. “Do what?”
He smiled and met my eyes. “Get married.”
“Here? In the hospital?”
“I’m sure they’ve got a chaplain or something.”
“No,” I said.
He met my eyes. “No, you won’t marry me?”
