BECKETT
I always knew I’d ask Ashley Brooke to marry me someday. I just didn’t think I’d do it in a f*****g hospital gown, with gauze on my ribs and a bruise the size of Ontario blooming across my hip.
As much as this whole set-up is f*****g with my mind—her in the doorway, soft and real, her sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder like she belongs here—I can’t stop wanting it. Wanting her.
My heart’s been clawing toward this moment for years, but now that I’m here, lying on her bed with stitches and nothing to offer but a busted season and a half-dead career— I feel f*****g useless.
She keeps taking care of me.
And I keep letting her.
Which makes me worse.
I want to be the provider. The one carrying her when s**t goes wrong. The guy who fixes things. Lifts things. Handles it.
Not thi
