rings.

[Danicka] They really needn't have bothered with the heater, as it turns out. Danicka's fair skin is flushed with pink, her cheeks reddened, as she starts to come down from her second orgasm, which unfurled so soon from the first. She's trembling, her legs coltish around him and her arms mostly just limp now. She lies there with her head back and her eyes closed as Lukas starts kissing her body, making rough little sounds as he presses his lips to her, tastes her sweat, even those slight motions of his head causing tremors through each of them, everywhere they're joined. It makes her breath catch in her throat. It makes her sigh softly when she exhales.

Right now she's not telling him that it makes her inexplicably happy sometimes to feel him come inside of her. Little things, strange things: she likes feeling him soften while he stays joined to her. She likes it when he hardens all over again without ever leaving her. She doesn't want children just yet, would most likely pitch a fit if she were to become pregnant halfway through college, but in some indescribable way it makes her happy to think of the possibility of children happening, all the same, whether they plan for it or not. Right now Danicka isn't telling Lukas a whole host of filthy things that are flitting through her mind, half-formed thoughts that mean little enough but would, if muttered into his ear, just make him start fucking her again.

And she doesn't say those things because she doesn't want to move right now. She doesn't want to interrupt the way he's nuzzling her, holding her without crushing her, staying atop her and warming her by their contact. She doesn't want to stop watching him, her head re-adjusting on the rumpled bedspread and her eyes drowsily opening to see him playing -- with such an intrigued, sleepy, transfixed look in his eyes -- with her tits. She's smiling in that lazy, amused way that develops on his mouth long before he notices, and it grows a little when he gently tugs her bra back down.

The truth is that's more comfortable than having it rucked up, but she's never told him that. She's never done it herself. It's just some little thing he does -- like the rapid but skillful flash of his straightrazor, like the somber look he has when he's reading, like the way his eyebrows flick and his eyes light up when she makes some noise or presses against him in such a way that he thinks it's time to fuck, or time to protect -- that is utterly but wordlessly a part of who he is when he's with her. Who he is to her.

Danicka strokes his hair as he speaks. She half-grins, wry, and chuckles softly. "There were times," she answers, stroking her thumb over his forehead above his eyebrow, "that I thought I might see you but didn't know if we'd end up fucking. I was wearing some crazy underwear some of the times we fought, baby." Danicka laughs again, barely more than breath, and scritches his scalp.

They both fall quiet, though. Lukas holding her, listening to her heart get slower and calmer and return to baseline. She starts to feel their sweat cooling on their skins, and lets her legs slide down his, staying tangled but finding a corner of the sheets to tuck her feet under. Danicka's eyes close. Her hand in his hair becomes rhythmic. Hypnotic. They could fall asleep like this, or wriggle apart and curl together again then sleep like this. Spend Christmas day sleeping and fucking and maybe rousing from bed long enough to eat before fucking and sleeping some more before dragging themselves up to wash and dress and make themselves presentable to go visit Katherine for dinner.

When he starts to speak again, Danicka opens one eye, then another, and with his head on her chest he can't see her blink. Her fingers don't hitch along his scalp, and he hears no intake of shocked breath or displeased, uncomfortable steadying of herself before she speaks. It's hard to tell exactly what she is feeling, but she does sound a bit surprised when she asks, simply:

"Why?"

[Lukas] That slow, rhythmic movement of her fingers in his hair is indeed hypnotic. He doesn't move, even when she asks him why. He breathes in, his chest expanding against her stomach. Then he exhales, nuzzling against her body as he settles again.

"Why I didn't, or why I wanted to?" he asks. She sounds surprised. He almost sounds sleepy.

Both, she says. There's a smile in her voice, which he can hear. It -- or the answer -- makes him laugh a little, turning his head, kissing her skin again. His arms tighten a little around her, holding her. He can hear her heartbeat in her body, a smooth double-rhythm that assures some animal part of him that she's alive. She's here, she's alive, she's warm, she's his.

"I didn't," when he speaks again he's quieter, but more alert, "because I wanted to talk to you first. I didn't know how you felt about it. If you wanted it or not.

"I wanted to because I love you." That's the easy answer, the simple one, the truest one of all. A little more, then, "And... I know we're already mated. We've been mated since before we realized we were mated. My heart knows that. My body knows, and my spirit knows. I know mating means more and runs deeper than any marriage contract.

"But my parents are married. And I like knowing that, even though I can't quite explain why. One day when we have children, maybe they'll like to know that their parents are married, too."

Another short pause. Lukas lifts his head from Danicka's body finally, propping his cheekbone on his knuckles as he looks at her. The grey morning light slants into his eyes, makes them piercing and pale, clear as glass, but the look in those eyes is still lazy. Loving.

"It's not just that," he admits. "I guess ... I just sort of want to marry you. On top of everything else. The Garou Nation knows what you mean to me. I guess I want the rest of the world to know, too.

"But only if you want to," he adds, lowering his head, kissing her stomach gently before raising his head again. "Only if you want to."

[Danicka] After awhile, Danicka lets her hand slow to stillness in his hair. It isn't distraction; she just doesn't want him falling asleep on her in the middle of a conversation. In the middle of this conversation. He holds her tighter, and she wriggles down a little, closer to him. He tells her first why he didn't go buy her an engagement ring, present it to her on Christmas morning curled up naked in bed with her, even laughing as kissing the way they have.

The answer to why he wanted to -- and there's no thought about this time, just an open wanted to -- is simpler, and she smiles softly as she holds him, as he holds her. But there's more to it, or they wouldn't be having this discussion. It does take explanation, why it occured to him that he wanted this. Why on earth it might feel -- it not necessary -- then desirable. To him, or to either of them.

When Lukas starts talking about his parents, and about the potential children he and Danicka might have -- he says when, and she notices that, and her heart considers beating faster but calms -- she begins stroking his hair again. And scritching the back of his neck, gently, so her nails don't scratch him there.

Her hand slides away as he lifts his head, propping cheek to fist, and now he can see her. Those eyes of hers are as inscrutable as ever, but he knows that look now, knows the difference between carefully manufactured blankness and quiet thoughtfulness. And she can tell, looking at him, watching him as he talks, that he's not nervously anticipating her response. He's not inwardly panicking over this, picking apart her features to try and see if she's pleased or unnerved, excited or annoyed.

When he insists -- repeats -- only if she wants to, a wryly amused curl curves the corner of Danicka's mouth. Her hand is still resting lazily against his face, fingertips in his hair and against his temple, her thumb to his cheek. She strokes it once over that bristle of beard he has, her eyes leaving his and falling to the way each tiny dark hair bends and straightens again under the pad of her thumb.

"You just sort of want to marry me?" she echoes, her eyes moving to his, her tone evidently amused. It's rhetorical; she leans up and kisses him, more slowly, more lingeringly, than he might expect. She tastes his mouth with it, til she's satisfied, and then lies back down, her eyes slightly more lazy than a moment ago.

"Your parents were married," she says, or repeats, "but they were from the Old World." Old World, she says, like she remembers it somehow, though she's never even been there. "My parents weren't." There's a pause there. She's looking at his face, tracing him with her eyes instead of her fingers now. "My father was married to his first mate, but that was in the Old World, too. I think it matters more there."

She muses, now: "My brother and I didn't really care, even when we were old enough to realize that our parents weren't legally married. I think by then we thought everyone who was shocked by it or uncomfortable with it were just... stupid," she ends, with a faint laugh. It falters, because she remembers, as he might, the message she and her brother were told from childhood.

You are better than them.

Danicka does not talk about the Silver Fangs she knew, insisting on marriage as well as mateship, always. She doesn't bring up the fact that Vladislav married Emilie anyway, or the fact that she knows that was political. She doesn't mention her father coming to America to be claimed by a young Ahroun, proposing as formality, being rejected, and then living for a couple of decades with a woman who regularly and remorselessly brutalized him. The truth is, Lukas probably considered before bringing this up what Danicka's perspective on marriage has been, but that's why there was no ring in a Christmas box today,

surprise!

The laugh fades, but her smile is still gentle. "I think our children would only care one way or the other if they were taught to, somehow," she admits. "To be proud or ashamed or nervous or comforted, either way." Her eyes find his. "Besides, they don't exist," Danicka points out, ever the pragmatist, ever the scientist, "so speculation on how they may or may not feel really has no bearing on the question. Or the asking."

A beat. "Not that you're asking," she says, teasing. "You just sort of kinda maybe wanna marry me if I want to." By the end of that she's half-grinning, and it's fond. So fond.

She shifts on the bed slightly, relenting on that train of thought. Her hand goes to the fist he's using to prop up his face, and her fingertips rest in between his knuckles. Her eyes have softened. So has her voice. "I don't care," she confesses, shaking her head a little. "I guess never considered it that important. For me it wouldn't make much difference. There's a lot of documents we could exchange that would do the same job, at least in the eyes of the legal system, but marriage is an efficient and automatically recognizable way to accomplish it all in one fell swoop. We could wear rings and some people would hit on us less... others might just hit on us more. My accountant would probably be excited for a new project," she comments, the humor in it very dry but very real.

Danicka's hand flexes then, holding his more warmly. "You wouldn't have mentioned this at all if you didn't really want it," she says, her voice quiet now, but not hesitant, not reluctant. "And I don't think wanting it has all that much to do with our imaginary children or your parents or my parents or the rest of the world knowing anything.

"It would make you happy," she says, barely more than breath, as though the words themselves have a sweet ache to them, as though the words make her feel a certain powerful longing for exactly that: Lukas. Happy. "And I'd never deny you something so simple that would make you so happy."

She leans up before he can answer any of that, all of it, and kisses him again. It's firmer than the last one, a warm, solid press of her mouth to his. She pulls back from it, looking into his eyes. Her voice is decisive, as though well that's that, then: "The county clerk's office is obviously closed today, so we should do it tomorrow. Or at least apply for the license then. I have no idea if there's waiting periods or anything like that in Illinois."

[Lukas] There are other couples for whom that little square box would have contained a diamond rings. Other couples for whom the proposal would have come after an expensive dinner at a fancy restaurant, with a few hundred strangers exerting social pressure for a yes. Other couples who would have gone to great lengths to make proposing on Christmas Day a big deal, a moment to cherish, the logical and necessary outcome of all the time they've spent together. There are people, Garou and kin, even, for whom this would be the ultimate goal. The destination, after which all of life -- with the possible exception of children -- becomes simply an afterword.

That's not them. He thought about getting her a ring; he didn't. He didn't even think of dressing up, getting down on one knee ... any of that. Even if that little box had been a little smaller, and a little more cubical, he would've given it to her the exact same way.

In bed. Rumpled in the sheets. Lazily, smilingly. Asking her if she wanted it, or minded.


So he listens to her as she speaks of marriage, parents, old worlds and new. She teases him -- his smile is a little crooked. "I want to marry you," he says, surer this time, and that's the smile she kisses off his lips when she leans up to him.

When she lays back, he combs his fingers gently through her hair, over and over. She speaks of accountants and projects and that's the only time he frowns a little, shaking his head --

"I don't want you to put my name on your accounts. That's one thing I don't want."


She's quieter after that, a little more serious. She speaks of what he wants, and what makes him happy. There's a sort of answering ache in his eyes, and here -- for the first time -- she can sense him looking at her carefully, watching to be sure that -- even if this isn't something she wants like he does -- this is not something she abhors.

There's no worry, even now. There's no inward panic, no intent and intense attempt to mine truth from her eyes. Just -- watching. Looking just long enough to be sure, when he already knows. Danicka wouldn't agree to something if she hated the thought of it. He knows that much.

And his eyes close when she kisses him. He pushes himself up on his elbow to meet her, and it's firm on his end, too. Warm. Solid. When she draws back his eyes open; her tone is all business, and his smile breaks slow and thorough.

"Okay," he says quietly.

There's no discussion of a white wedding. Invitations and guests. Champagne and flowers and priests. They're Shadow Lords, after all. His fingers open under hers, let hers thread between. He turns his head and kisses her knuckles gently; then:

"But do you mind if we do it in New York?" he asks quietly, his smile going a little crooked. "If I don't let my mother at least stand witness in front of the city clerk, I think she'll disown me."

[Danicka] There's a dismissive little shake of her head when he makes a point of saying he doesn't want -- definitely doesn't want -- his name on her accounts. She doesn't seem to care much one way or the other, or that isn't what she meant, or just: they can talk about that later. So they go on.

More importantly, there's no bitter edge to anything she says. No derision for the institution of marriage or those who choose it. In the end, and all practical matters aside, she seems to see it... well, almost like a gift. Something seen over and over, something possessed by others, something that would inexplicably satisfy some desire in him. She sees the way he looks, telling her

I just want to marry you

and decides to get it for him, like a watch or a shirt or any other things she might think would make him smile. There is so little she can give him, really. Trinkets are so inconsequential in the end. He seems happy if she is safe and fed and happy, herself, but there's so few opportunities where she can gain her own joy by seeing him ... happy.

No, she doesn't abhor it. She wants it because he does. She wants it for him.

Danicka shakes her head, though, when he asks about New York. "No. Our den is here," she says, as though this makes perfect, irrefutable sense and didn't even deserve being questioned. "We can fly her out and put her up in a hotel," she says simply, but with an almost businesslike decisiveness. "And our fathers, too, if yours insists and mine can. But I absolutely draw the line there," she goes on, rather adamantly. "We can send your sister a picture and she'll just have to be satisfied. I have seen romantic comedies and I am not having this snowball into a clamor of interloping family members and packmates and random strangers invited just because they're Shadow Lords or because they go to class with me or what about the dentist around the corner and then I'm hitting finals week and planning some ridiculous circus until it's May or something and we're still not married yet."

A beat. Her eyebrows are up, as though in warning. "Are we clear?"

[Lukas] The irony is that he so often feels the same way. That there's so little he can get her, in the end. Trinkets are so inconsequential; there are few material things she can't simply buy for herself if she wants them. He didn't get her a smartpen because he thought she must surely already have one. He had to think long and hard about the magnolia tree because he wasn't sure if it was silly, if it was dumb, if she'd even like it.

And she did. It was a gift, even if he didn't quite understand why until she told him. Just as this is a gift, even if she didn't even know he wanted it until he said it. Even if he didn't really know, until he said it.

Then she's drawing the line, telling him no, not New York, new york is not where the den is. And no more than parents, because she's seen romantic comedies, and if she lets it it'll snowball and then it'll be May and --

he leans up then and kisses her suddenly, without warning. She'll just have to talk through it. Her eyebrows are up when he draws back; he grins.

"Clear," he says, and then dips his head and bites her shoulder gently, mock-growling in his throat. He turns over then: flips on his back, brings her with him, sudden and athletic, a tumble of bedsheets and limbs and her hair falling over his face.

"Anyway," he says, "I just wanted New York because we met there, and we grew up there. But the den is here," agreement, "so we'll get married here."

[Danicka] There is nothing Lukas can get Danicka -- in terms of wrappable, givable items -- that she could not get for herself. Particularly considering the economy, the woman is ridiculously wealthy. She could afford far better than the apartment she lives in. She could drive an even nicer car. Certainly she does buy clothes and lingerie that cost obscene amounts of money, but then he goes into her kitchen and she's eating store-brand of many staple items and using rather reasonably priced hair products and soap and the like. She will likely never want for anything, especially because she manages her money and lives beneath her means.

Should the day come when they have children, and should the day come when one or both of them are gone, those children will not have to work unless -- and this is probable -- their parents drilled into them a certain stern work ethic. They could be lazy. They won't be.

They'll be Shadow Lords.

What gifts Lukas gives Danicka are things she would never even consider getting for herself, or things that she genuinely could not create or buy. An Awakened oak, growing faster and stronger than any spirit-slumbering tree would. The magnolia sapling. A collar for Kandovany with a little orange-shaped bell. A silver bracelet. Though truthfully, the point of gifts is never how much they cost or the person's ability to buy them for themselves. They are ways of saying, simply

I know you. I understand. And I care.

I like you.

Of course, then there's this: the whole matter of getting married, which will cost them approximately fifteen dollars or so for the license since blood tests aren't required in the state of Illinois and since they won't be hiring a priest or renting out a church or event hall or what-have-you. Chances are that the main cost will be flying in parents and getting them hotel rooms, especially without much advance notice. Danicka will want to pay the judge or other public official who performs the brief and rather brusque ceremony, of course. They may go to a dinner. She might buy a new dress, but that's not much different than what she might do after flipping through a magazine and seeing a designer she likes.

That's all later, though. Right now Lukas is so fucking happy that he's snarling and snuggling and rolling Danicka around in the bed, making her laugh. She holds onto his shoulders as he tumbles back into the covers, wriggling a bit as he slips out of her and readjusting her underwear, even as she's kissing him. Her hair falls over his face. He can smell her, smell their sex, smell himself on her, everything. And she tilts her head, nuzzing him just under his jaw, wrinkling her nose as his beard scratches her softer skin.

"We met there," she agrees softly, putting her hand on his cheek, breathing in the scent of him from his neck, "but I knew you here. And loved you here."

so we'll get married here.

So they will.

Danicka lays languidly on him, ready to just rest there a bit before their stomachs start growling. Then she says: "Would you be disappointed if I just wanted a plain band?" And a beat. "Or mind, if I bought you a ring, too?"

[Lukas] Humans might be running for the shower already. Airing out the room. Lukas likes that he can smell himself on his mate. Smell his mate on himself. He likes that her sexy new lingerie is half-ruined with slick, with cum, with sweat. He likes that she's still wearing it; likes the idle thought of turning her on her stomach and seeing that lacy backside he felt with his fingers before fucking her good and firm again before getting out of bed

and getting something to eat

and coming back to bed to do it all over again until five pm rolls around and they have to get ready for Katherine's dinner party.

He's thinking about this, nipping gently at the soft skin of her temple while she nuzzles him under the jaw, when she settles over him and asks him about wedding bands. Lukas lets out a surprised laugh, opening his eyes.

"Baby, why would I mind? I was going to suggest the same thing. Matching plain gold bands. Maybe brushed. I don't like the polished, mirror-finish look much." He thinks a moment. "If you buy my ring, I'm buying you an engagement ring."

Another moment.

"No, I'm lying. I was going to buy you one anyway. So if you have a preference, you better speak up now or forever hold your peace."

[Danicka] She makes a face, half disgruntled, half ...well, actually bothered. "I just want a plain band," she repeats, as though he didn't hear her. As though it would upset her if, having heard her, he's teasing her about it anyway. Danicka props herself up a little on top of him, frowning at Lukas slightly. It isn't anger, at least.

[Lukas] She props herself up. He tips his head down to look at her, his attention a little more focused now. "You don't want an engagement ring? Or you don't want a brushed-gold band?"

[Danicka] Danicka peers at him, less frowning in vague hurt now and more squinting in bewilderment. "An engagement ring is the one with diamonds," she clarifies for him. "And I don't want that, because it's just going to get in the way. I don't care, other than that." She gets closer to him again, laying her head on his chest. "I was going to pick one out for you myself. But if you really want a brushed-gold band, that's what I'll get."

[Lukas] "No, I know that -- "

and he laughs suddenly, because it's a silly thing to be confused over, and because she's closer to him again. His arm settles comfortably around her, holding her to his heartbeat.

"I know what an engagement ring is, baby. I was just going to get you two rings, one wedding, one engagement. But if you don't want the engagement ring, you can just have a wedding ring.

"And no. I want you to pick one out for me. I don't even care if it's really ugly and made of green copper. I want you to pick. But I'd like our rings to match."

[Danicka] She swats his bicep where her hand is already lying, but it's light. It's the sort of swat she gives Kandovany. "Then you weren't listening when I said the first time I just wanted a pla-- ohhh."

Because he was listening. And Danicka smiles, huffing a small laugh at herself. "You thought I meant that for the band, I just wanted a plain one. Not that I don't want the engagement ring at all."

She turns her head, nuzzling his chest once or twice, swiping her face back and forth against him. She presses a kiss to his sternum, and lays down again. "I don't care if they match," she says, thus qualifying this -- however mild -- as their first argument about The Wedding. Or something.

[Lukas] "No -- I wasn't sure if you meant you didn't want an engagement ring, or if you meant a brushed gold wedding ring wasn't a plain gold wedding ring. I know you don't want an engagement ring now. I'm still not quite sure whether or not a brushed gold wedding band would have been okay, but it's a moot point now. I want you to pick one out for me, and then I'll pick one for you that matches."

He's frowning a little now, shifting to tuck his free hand behind his head.

"Anyway," he says, "I don't want to disagree over this anymore, Danička. I want to marry you, but I don't want us to obsess over details. I don't care what the wedding band looks like. I just want you to pick one out for me, and I want one that matches yours."

[Danicka] Danicka, lying down as she is atop him, doesn't see him frowning, but she can hear it in his voice. She frowns, too, her eyes opening, and lifts her head so she can look at him. "I wasn't really arguing," Danicka says softly. "And if it matters to you, then do it the way you want. I don't know how or why that turned the way it did -- I thought you didn't care that I said I didn't want an engagement ring, and that wasn't what happened."

She slides off of him, mostly because lying prone on his chest while trying to see his face makes her neck ache, and she doesn't want to lie back down and try to interpret all of him by voice alone, by heartbeat. She lies beside him, her legs still draped and tangled over his, her hand on his chest, her body propped up on her elbow.

"Lukáš... I honestly don't care," she says, more gently now, her brow furrowed as though the repetition of this phrase is going to hurt him. And truthfully, it might. "I was... I don't know." She sighs, but there's little frustration in it. "I thought it might be ...neat, to pick rings out for each other, even if they didn't match. But if it matters to you that they're the same, then that's what I want, too."

She aches a bit, moving her hand up to his face again, as though she just can't stop touching him there today, contacting him like that. "Baby, I wasn't really picking a fight with you over this. I was just talking. I'm not sure what about all this is important to you, or that you don't care much about. I feel like I've already shot down one thing that might have mattered to you, getting married in New York instead of here, and I don't want you to end up feeling like I'm stomping all over everything you want."

Danicka's voice lowers. "Lukášek, if you want brushed gold wedding bands, then I'm going to feel the same way every time I look at that as I would if it were platinum or pewter." She moves her thumb across the hardness of his cheekbone. "I want that feeling," she admits, like a secret.

[Lukas] Lukas is quiet and still for a while, afterward. Then his hand comes to cover hers over his cheek. He kisses her palm, turns to look at her eyes.

"To tell you the truth, I want you to want to marry me too," he says. Softly. Like a secret. "I know being married or not doesn't mean much to you. Truth be told, it doesn't mean much to me, either. But marrying you means something to me. It means a lot to me, even if I can't really explain why or how. Everything else -- the where, the how, the who, the what -- they matter much, much less. So you shouldn't worry about trampling on details that are important to me.

"But I do want you to want to marry me. Marry me, even if you don't really care about being married or not, period."

He's repeating himself. He frowns, dark eyebrows drawing together over lightning-clear eyes, puzzling over his words as he turns on his side to face her more fully.

"I don't want you to just do everything I want because it's what I want. Because I don't want to feel like you're ... doing me a favor, marrying me. Or just doing it to indulge me.

"So no, I don't mind that you want to be married here and not in New York. I'm glad you said that. I don't mind that you don't want an engagement ring, and I don't mind that you want to pick out a ring for me. I want to pick a ring for you that matches in some way, or complements in some way, because I want to feel like our rings are connected somehow. But what I don't want is for you to pick out a brushed gold wedding band that's identical to a smaller brushed gold wedding band for yourself -- simply because that's what I want, and you want to cater to me. I don't want you to marry me at all, if you're just doing it to cater to my wishes."

[Danicka] Danicka reaches past his cheek, putting his palm against her wrist, and her fingers touch his hair. "Is that how you feel?" she asks. "That I'm doing this as a favor to you?"

She isn't waiting for him to answer, though. She leans over, kissing his mouth softly. Slow, but draws back before it deepens, resting her brow to his. "I want to look at my hand sometimes and know I'm married to you. I want to look at your hand and know you're married to me. I don't know if that's the same thing as what you mean, or what you want, or what you want me to want. But I know I want that feeling."

[Lukas] "I'm -- " he begins, but she doesn't wait for it. She leans over. She kisses his mouth and he relaxes into it, primitive and thoughtless as any animal. When she continues, he listens, quieter now.

"I was beginning to feel like you were doing it as a favor to me," he says, after. "But I don't feel that way anymore."

His own hand comes up, covers her cheek. Strokes the arch of her cheekbone, smoother than his own, the cut of it not so sharp. Still somehow similar. Reminding him without words of their shared roots, their shared people.

"I want to marry you." It's the third, or fourth, or sixth time he's said it. No longer qualified, no longer sort of maybe, but plainly put. "I want to look at my hand and know I'm married to you. Just like I can see you, or smell you, or feel you and know I'm mated to you.

"Let's go get a license tomorrow. And start flying parents in. And pick out rings. And make an appointment with the judge. And all that."

[Danicka] All Danicka does now is nod, and she's still nodding when she leans over and kisses him again. She doesn't agree that yes, tomorrow they should get on that, get these things done as soon as possible.

Tonight they'll probably not mention that they're getting married while they have dinner with his pack at Katherine's house. Danicka wouldn't want to, doesn't want flowery congratulations or questions about 'the wedding' or, honestly, to tell anyone about this strange little proposal of theirs. She doesn't want to share it. This isn't about that. It's not about that for either of them. The show. The pomp. Even the witnesses. Even if they can't say exactly what it is about.

And tomorrow they'll learn that their marriage license will be valid for sixty days, but that the waiting period is one day. There will be some interesting phone calls with family members, primarily conducted Czech, quite possibly conducted at the same time. Mr. Musil will have no sudden need to sit Lukas down and give him a talking-to, or be disgruntled that his permission was not asked. He may worry about her brother's reaction, about displeasing him by going, and Lukas -- perhaps on the phone with his own parents at the time -- will hear her snap

Vládík can hang.

Reservations will have to be made at nearby hotels. A conversation about whether or not to invite their parents to their house. Danicka, perhaps surprisingly, saying yes. Saying she wants to show her father the oak. Saying, without prompting or mention of Marjeta at all, that she wants to show Lukas's mother the study beside their bedroom and tell her how when they have children she'll move the study downstairs to the currently unused den and turn the little room into a nursery. That she wants all of them to see the home Lukas found, and bought, and prepared for her.

Tomorrow, though, a trip to the county clerk's office. Tomorrow, Danicka showing Lukas pictures of black tungsten rings that she found online, and looking at brushed gold bands in jewelry stores because she doesn't like the mirrored finish much, either. Finding some interesting things called tension rings that hold a small diamond and dismissing them because of a gut reaction, an instinctive rejection of a symbol that is literally held together by tension and pressure.

Now, Danicka kisses him, her hand in his hair moving, her arms wrapping around him, her body folding around him again, pushing against him until he moves onto his back. Now, Lukas's hands on her ass, pulling her firmly and entirely onto him, and Danicka gasping away from his mouth, muttering against his lips

Chci tě.

Which, from the first time she told him, hasn't changed in meaning.