We spend hours getting reacquainted with each other, with each others’ bodies, fingers, lips and tongues running over lines and curves, tracing old marks, seeking new. It’s only been a couple of weeks this time, but it had seemed an eternity, and no matter how much time we’ve been together, we seem never to become quite sated after each homecoming.

He’s always so gentle at first, reluctant to rush, afraid to bruise, afraid to hurt, even though I can feel the impatience in him, the need to possess, to claim and be claimed in return. It takes patience, coaxing and skill to show him that it’s okay to let go, that I won’t break, that he won’t hurt me, but I’ve acquired both in the past years of living together.

So we alternate between frenzied need and languid lovemaking, our own special homecoming party.



It was already dark when we emerged from the shower, pleasantly exhausted and starving. He fed me, because he likes to take care of me and while he’s brushing his teeth (because God forbid they might rot in the next couple of hours), I attempt to get back into Pony’s good graces.

The pooch is sulking, feeling neglected, refusing to even look at me as I put his food and water down in front of him. It’s always the same; whenever Logan comes home, we get lost in each other, not paying enough attention to Pony. He’ll get over it in the morning and all will be forgotten.

I shake my head at him simply huffing and turning over, then glance toward Logan’s bag.

I know I shouldn’t, the man’s entitled to his privacy—I know I’d bite his head off, if he tried this stunt with me—but it’s his fault, really, for leaving it there, beckoning to be investigated. And it’s his fault for trying to brush off the angry-looking bruise on his shoulder, obviously the result of a bullet meeting body armor, with a Mission Impossible joke.

He was shot and he’s acting like it was no big deal. If he’d had no body armor...I shudder just thinking about it.

And just like that, I’ve come from simply looking at his bag to rummaging through it. I have no idea what I’m hoping to find, he’s far from stupid, I just need to keep my hands and mind occupied with something that isn’t him getting shot or killed while I twiddle my thumbs at home. Waiting.

“You really shouldn’t be digging through the bag of a Naval Intelligence Officer,” he says from behind me making me shudder.

Having a Naval aviator boyfriend was stressful enough, having one in Intelligence was even worse. Because I wasn’t stupid either. The profession might look innocuous on paper, but you know what they say about too-good-to-be-true. It is literally too good to be true.

Lieutenant Commander Logan Echolls isn’t just a Naval Intelligence Officer these days, he’s a SEAL trident bearing one, so yeah, his job description doesn’t sound harmless. And it certainly doesn’t involve desk duty, unless he works in an office where people get shot at.

Okay, Veronica, stop thinking about him getting shot, you’re just going to drive yourself into a frenzy. He’s trained, he knows what he’s doing, he was wearing body armor...But what if they aimed at his head?

So, instead of freaking out like I secretly want to, I go for glib, “That's what you say you are. I'm still thinking you’re an international playboy breaking hearts in exotic lands.”

“Sounds like you should lock me down.”

I’m thankful he’s back in the bathroom or he might ask me what the full-body shudder was about. Because he’s just returning the glibness. It’s what we do. It’s our thing. There’s no need to look for a deeper meaning. Still, I can’t help myself. “Be careful. Some girls might think you're proposing marriage.” Shut up, Veronica. Just shut the fuck up. “Or, in words you can understand, an Echolls Ultimatum.”

Is it too late to get a shovel and go bury myself in the middle of the beach?

“No, you had it the first time—marriage. I just forgot what it was called.” His voice is deceptively cheerful. “Let’s get married!”

Is he serious? Do I want him to be? More than five years of cohabitation, yet we never discussed marriage. We both come from broken homes, we’ve both seen our fair share of crappy marriages end in even crappier divorces, he’s been on some of the cheating-documenting stakeouts with me.

And yet, thinking about marriage and Logan in the same sentence doesn’t bring the usual wave of revulsion and disdain. Oh, God.

Flippant is my go-to response I fall back on whenever I don’t want to examine the subject too closely. So I snort and reply, “Okay, weirdo, let’s get married.”

“I’m serious,” is his response from the bowels of the bathroom.

It isn’t that large and he has a limited amount of teeth, so what is he still doing in there?

My hands full of chargers (how many does a person need, anyway?), I roll my eyes. Now I know he’s not being serious. “If you were serious, you’d be in the same room as your intended. And there’d be a ring involved.” That should shut him up. “Or so I’m told.”

I hear him move behind me and his words, “How many pockets have you searched?” elicit a shiver down my spine.

I turn, trying to read something, anything from his features, but when he wants to, he has one hell of a poker face.

He looks at the bag, then back at me. “The pocket on the right.”

Heart in throat and hands shaking, I reach into the pocket in question, feeling him crouch behind me. My fingers close around a velvety object (a ring box?) and I swallow convulsively, pull it out and hand it to him as if it’s hot coal. “Logan?”

My voice comes out in a vulnerable whisper, but I’m not ashamed of it. I would’ve been just a couple of years ago, but I’ve changed. I’ve grown and matured alongside this man and although I’ve always presented a brave, not-giving-a-fuck facade to the world, I can be vulnerable when I’m with him. He won’t think less of me, he won’t ridicule. He’ll just love me and expect the same in return.

Logan drops a soft kiss onto my shoulder, then stands and circles the bag, dropping onto his knee in front of me.

This is really happening, right? I’m not dreaming. But...What brought this on?

He opens the box and I’m sure I’m supposed to look at the ring, but I can’t tear my eyes off his face. Doubts and fears war with longing and determination in his eyes and it’s all I can do not to launch myself at him and hug him. But I must’ve gone numb in between finding the box and him taking my hand, because I cannot seem to move.

His throat works as he brushes his thumb over my knuckles. “Veronica...I know it’s sudden and we haven’t really discussed it.” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not it.”

I make a sound, something between a sob and a chuckle and he looks at me, wrinkling his nose.

“Laugh it up, missy. It’s not every day a man proposes, you know.” He clears his throat, shakes his head, inhales deeply. “Veronica, I love you. I can’t remember a time I didn’t.”

There he goes, still wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you, loving you, laughing with you, fighting with you, making up with you.”

I roll my eyes. It’s either that or full on flood of tears.

“You’re my best friend, my lover, my soulmate. Will you be my family? Will you marry me?”

Another eye roll accompanied by a flippant, “Yeah, I guess,” would be a good response, something along the lines of badass PI Veronica Mars, but deep down, I’m just a girl. A girl head-over-heels in love with the boy kneeling in front of her, handing his heart into her hands all over again. A girl in touch with her feelings, a girl seeing a freaking therapist to work hard on her intimacy and trust issues.

So my response is all girl. Or at least I think it is.

Fighting back tears, I throw myself at him, scrambling into his arms—because I can, because it’s him!—burying my face against his shoulder. He didn’t expect it, because he flails for a moment before ending sprawled on the floor with me still clinging to him.

Pony takes this as an olive branch that wasn’t meant to be, decides to forgive his two humans and declares it’s play time. He’s trying very hard to wedge his snout between my face and Logan’s neck, slobbering all over and whining.

“Down, boy.” Logan tries to push him away, but the pooch won’t be deterred. He’s half on the floor, half on top of us, tail wagging, now softly barking as if wanting to know why I’m crying. “Pony,” Logan snaps and all action seizes. “Down.”

With one last whine, Pony scrambles off, but parks his butt close enough to jump back into the fray if needed.

“Well.” One hand on my lower back and the other buried in my hair, Logan sighs. “This isn’t the response I envisioned.”

Affronted, I lift my head to look at him. “Oh yeah, and what did you envision?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He scratches at his ear. “I thought you’d stop me before I even asked. That you’d shove both our parents’ marriages in my face and then bolted.”

At a different time I might’ve done exactly that. With a different man I would’ve done exactly that. But this is now and this is Logan.

“If you thought I’d say no, why even ask?”

His eyes hold mine. “Because I love you, because I’m yours and you’re mine and I want to make it official.” He sighs. “And you still haven’t given me your answer.”

I grin down at him. “Just so there are no misunderstandings later, yes, I’ll marry you.” I lower my head to seal the promise with a kiss, my heart warming at seeing the happiness in his eyes, whispering, “What took you so long?” just before our mouths meet.

But he doesn’t let me linger long, breaking the kiss and pushing me away to look at me.

“What took me so long?”

I shrug. “Yeah. I mean we’ve been living together for more than five years, we have a joint account—”

“Yet you still won’t touch all the money in it,” he interrupts.

“Semantics.” Because it’s his trust fund, his money. If he’s not using it, why should I?

“Our money,” he says as if he’s reading my mind. Which maybe he is, God knows what they teach them in SEAL school. “Which you won’t touch.”

“Anyway,” I quickly inject, “as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. We’ve been cohabiting rather nicely, hiccups here and there not included because, let’s face it, it’s us, we have a joint account, the lease is in both our names, we share costs, and we have a dog. Marriage is the logical next step.”

And knowing what we know, having experienced what we’d experienced, I know we can make it work. We’re stubborn, Logan and I, and once we set to do something, we do it. And then perfect it.

He looks at me strangely. “Who are you and what have you done to my woman?”

“I’m serious, Logan.”

He places his palm on my forehead. “You’re not running a fever. Are you sick?”

“No.” I laugh and push his hand away. “Stop it and give me that ring already.”

Arms around me, he sits up without dislodging me from his lap, takes my left hand, kisses my palm reverently, but before he slides the rather exquisite looking ring—but what do I know about jewelry?—on my finger, he pauses. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Yes.”

The slide of the ring against my skin should feel rather final, like this is the last stop before hell, but it doesn’t. It feels right. Everything about this moment feels right.

My hair is still damp, I’m not wearing my bra, he’s shirtless, bruised and his hair is sticking up, we’re in the middle of our tiny living room in our tiny rental in the middle of the night with my half-eaten dinner on the couch behind us, and our dog staring unblinkingly at us.

It might be as unromantic as it could possibly be, but this is my perfect.