Page 110 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

So I let her tend the dirt like it’s holy, and I stand in the doorway each morning—warm mug in hand, watching her move barefoot through a world she’s building with her own two hands.

And every damn time, my chest gets tight in that ridiculous way I still haven’t gotten used to.

Because we made it.

The cottage is small—two rooms, one stubborn hearth that always smokes when it rains—but it’sours.Tucked on the edge of a sleepy village that asks no questions and offers fresh bread in exchange for firewood and vegetables.

We’re too far off the map to draw attention, and the last time we passed through town, the bounty board was still empty.

It’s over.

She’s safe.

And I get to wake up next to her every morning.

Aria straightens from where she’s crouched beside the squash vines, wiping the back of her hand across her cheek. There’s a smudge of dirt along her jaw, and something stupidly tender blooms in my chest.

“I see your cult of tomatoes is thriving,” I call, grinning.

She turns, one eyebrow arched. “Jealous? Youcould’vehelped plant them.”

“I carried the bucket.”

“Once.”

“I made the fence,” I shoot back, lifting the mug in a mock toast.

“Then you knocked it over.”

I smirk, leaning against the doorframe. “Andremade it.Better.”

I set aside my drink and saunter out toward her, the grass cool against my bare feet. She narrows her eyes like she knows what I’m up to, but doesn’t move as I slip behind her and wrap my arms around her waist.

“You like this life,” I murmur against her ear. “You were made for it.”

Her laugh is soft. “You were worried I’d get bored.”

“I was,” I admit, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck. “But you’ve become a very intimidating garden vampire.”

She hums, tilting her head to give me more room. “And you’ve become a very devoted housewife.”

Oh. Right. I asked Aria to marry me.

It wasn’t grand. Just the two of us by the firewood pile at dusk, the scent of split cedar hanging in the air, her cheeks still pink from the cold. My fingers were twitching towards my pocket where the ring had been burning a hole for days.

I didn’t plan to do it then—I’d been waiting for somethingbetter,whatever the hell that meant. But she looked up at me, all soft eyes and wind-tousled hair, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“So,” I said, like a coward. “You ever think about marrying someone who’s terrible at expressing her feelings but very good with a sword?”

“Only every day,” she whispered.

And gods—when I pulled the ring from my pocket, just a simple silver band I’d bartered for weeks ago, her eyes went wide like I’d handed her the sun and moon wrapped in a promise.

She didn’t even look at the ring, not really. She just looked at me.

LikeIwas the thing she’d been waiting for.

And, well… she’s not wrong.

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