Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“Oh my,” I manage to mutter as he holds the box higher, the diamond catching the very last sliver of the setting sun.
“Marry me, sweetness. Let me spend the rest of my life making sure you’re happy and taken care of. Let me be your home.”
I can’t speak. My throat is tight, clogged with a mixture of joy and a relief so profound it feels like drowning. For years, I’ve looked at him and seen the forbidden. I’ve seen my best friend’s brother, the man who was always just out of reach, the protector who stood in the shadows. I’ve spent so much time convincing myself that wanting him was a mistake that I almost missed the moment it became my destiny.
I sink to my knees in the dirt in front of him, our faces inches apart. I don't care about the gravel digging into my skin or the cold desert air. I only care about the heat of him, the way he’s looking at me as if I’m the only light left in the world.
“Yes,” I choke out, the word a sob and a laugh all at once. “Yes, Diesel. Of course I’ll marry you.”
The tension in his shoulders snaps, his entire body sagging with a relief that mirrors my own. He reaches out, taking my left hand in his. His fingers tremble as he slides the ring onto my finger. It’s heavy, a solid reminder that this isn't a dream. It’s real. We’re real.
“It fits,” I whisper, staring at the way the diamond sparkles against my skin. It’s perfect. It’s exactly the right size, exactly the right weight. Like it was made for me. Like he was made for me.
“I knew it would,” he murmurs, his voice thick. He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. “I’ve spent enough time holding your hand to know the measurements by heart.”
I laugh, a wet, shaky sound, and pull him into a kiss. It’s not the desperate, frantic kiss of the hallway or the kitchen. It’s slow and deep, the sealing of a vow that doesn't need a priest or a witness to be sacred.
When he pulls back, he doesn't let go of my hand. He weaves his fingers through mine, the gold of the ring pressing into both our skin. We sit there on the edge of the world, watching the stars take over the sky, and for the first time in my life, the silence doesn't feel like a void waiting to be filled. It feels like a foundation. It feels real.
“You’re really stuck with me now, caveman,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder. “I hope you’re ready for a lifetime of me calling you out on your overprotective bullshit.”
He chuckles, the sound deep and resonant against my ear. “I’m counting on it, sweetness.”
I look at my hand again, the diamond catching every slant of starlight and throwing sparks across my skin. It isn’t just a ring—it’s Diesel’s mark on me. His claim. A hard, shining boundary drawn between what came before and whatever comes next. And I’m all in for it.
EPILOGUE: DIESEL
TWO YEARS LATER
The humidity in the Los Angeles air is a thick, clinging weight, nothing like the dry, honest heat of the Nevada desert. It tastes like salt and car exhaust, but today, I don't mind. I’m sitting in a sea of folding chairs on the UCLA lawn, my knees practically touching my chin because these things weren't built for a man with my frame, and I’m pretty sure I’m sweating through my charcoal suit. But I haven’t looked away from the stage once. Not since the ceremony started.
Next to me, Bones is radiating a similar brand of uncomfortable-in-formalwear energy. He’s adjusted his tie three times in the last ten minutes, his massive shoulders straining against the seams of a blazer that Eden definitely picked out for him. Eden is sitting on his other side, looking cool and composed in a sundress, her eyes fixed on the program. Alana is on my left, and she hasn’t stopped vibrating with excitement since we parked the SUV. She’s currently leaning over, her dark curls brushing my shoulder.
"If you cry, I’m recording it," she whispers, her voice sharp with that signature sass that hasn't dimmed a bit in two years.
"I’m not crying, kid," I say, though my throat feels like I’ve swallowed a handful of desert sand. "It’s the smog. My eyes are sensitive to the pollution."
"Right. And I’m a world-class ballerina," she retorts, clicking her tongue. "Just admit it, Diesel. You’re obsessed with her. It’s been two years, and you still look at her like she’s the best thing since sliced bread."
I don't bother arguing. There’s no point in lying to Alana, and there’s definitely no point in lying to myself. I watch as the line of black robes moves forward. And then, I see her. Serenity. Ren.