We're quiet for a long time. My left hip is numb and my shirt is damp with her tears. But I don't move. "I've been thinking. About things. My mom died a slow, painful death." I breathe past the tightness in my chest. "Drew lost his parents overnight. Truth is, life ebbs and flows no matter what we do. All these years, I've been trying to get some control over that by not giving a s.h.i.t about anything. What kind of life is that?"

Ivy's fingers play with mine as she leans more of her weight on me, sinking into my strength for support. I'm glad I'm strong, that my body can be used for more than s.e.x or football. That it can be used in service of her, to protect.

"Bad things happen, Mac," I whisper thickly. "And this? It tears my heart apart." Ivy shudders, a little sniffle coming out. I hold her as secure as I can without squeezing her too hard, and then press my lips to her head. "I hurt for you. For me. For... s.h.i.t."

A choked sound comes out of me. And then it's Ivy holding me tight, her face pressed against the crook of my shoulder. "Gray..."

"I know, honey. I know. h.e.l.l, I'm not saying this right." Gently I cup her cheek, tilting her head back so she meets my gaze. Her dark eyes swim with tears, and it guts me all over again. My thumb glides over her damp skin. "We can't control the bad things, Ivy. But we can be there for each other when they happen. And the good stuff? It's worth everything and anything if I can share the good stuff with you."

Tears spill over Ivy's cheeks as she reaches for me. "Cupcake." Her lips find mine. And I don't want to talk anymore, or to think. I just want to kiss her and hold on. Forever.

Ivy

We go home the next morning. Gray doesn't leave my side. Not for three days. He holds me when I cry; he holds me when I don't. He takes me to the doctor to get a checkup, then takes me home and makes me cream-of-tomato soup with grilled-cheese sandwiches, because I'd once told him that it was a childhood favorite. And when I want to watch a movie, he downloads the entire John Hughes collection.

This morning I a.s.sure him it's fine to leave me alone for a while. He's got more practice and a meeting with his team to start prepping for the National Championship.

It's evening when he comes home, catching me in the act of dancing around the living room to Why Can't I Be You? A tilted smile graces his face as I stumble to a stop, my breath light and panting. Flushed, I push a hand through my sweaty hair. "Hey. Gotta love The Cure, eh?"

"I've never heard them before," Gray says, setting his duffle back down. "Sounds like something would Anna would listen to. She has a thing for Siouxie and the Banshees."

"Oh, they're great too. I used to find a lot of vintage records of theirs in London. Mom has a player..." I pick at the hem of my shirt. "I was restless. Felt like dancing." I don't know why I'm explaining. I wasn't doing anything wrong, but it seems that way.

Only that smile of his is still there. "I can see that. Feel free to carry on." He leans a shoulder against the wall and waggles his brows as if encouraging me.

With a huff of laughter, I turn off the speakers. "Why do I have the feeling you like watching me dance? And not because I'm great at it?" Truth is, I know I'm not great at dancing. But I like doing it, so I don't really care.

His smile grows. "Because you're cute as a bug."

Slowly he strolls over to me. His body is warm and smells of soap. I hum in pleasure as he hugs me close and peppers soft kisses over my face. "I'm glad you felt like dancing, Ivy Mac."

With his arm wrapped around my waist, he guides me over to the couch, his nose nuzzling my hair. "It's okay to let yourself be happy again, honey."

I know he's right. Somehow, his words make me feel free to let myself relax.

We settle down, Gray propping his big feet on the coffee table, and me leaning on his chest. His hand rests on my thigh, and I notice that all his fingers are wrapped in bandages. On both hands.

"What happened?" Alarmed, I pick up one of his hands. "Did you get in a fight?"

"Nah," he says easily. "Nothing like that." Gray shifts around a bit and starts pulling the bandages off his left hand. "Got this done early this morning."

Past the slight puffy redness of his skin, I see that he now has a black number tattooed on each of his four fingers. "One-one-eight-four," I read out loud.

"Yep." Gray unravels the rest of the bandages. He holds his hand out in front of us, his fingers spread wide and displaying the numbers one-two-one-zero, before letting it rest on my leg once more. "I've been wanting another tattoo. I've thought about using an amicable number pair for a while. But after New Orleans, I knew."

"I have no idea what an amicable number is," I tell him.

"It's like this. The sum of all the natural divisors of 1184 is 1210, and vise-versa. It's almost as if the number is the other's soul mate." His deep blue eyes peer down at me. "Like you and me."

I start to smile, then sit up. "Wait, are you trying to say this tattoo is about us?"

"Of course. You probably don't remember, but my room number in New Orleans was 1184. And yours was 1210."

A little jolt of surprise hits me. "You texted about that."

"Yeah," he says gently, because he clearly realizes I've had other things on my mind. "But that's not why I got these tattoos. That was just a sign." Gray's thumb strokes along my knuckles. "When I first met you that day at the airport, you seemed so familiar to me, so right, that I thought we were like a pair of amicable numbers."

Warmth floods my chest. "Gray. That is..." I lean over and kiss his soft lips. "Perfect."

His fingers briefly touch my cheek as he kisses me back. "The fact is, Ivy, for me, there is one absolute truth. The sum of my existence equals you."

Suddenly I want those numbers tattooed on my skin too. My vision blurs as I grab hold of him, claim his mouth with mine, whisper his name against his lips.

Love. I've been surrounded by it my whole life. I know how lucky I am to have that. And yet it's always been a comfortable kind of love, expected in the way of family. What I feel for Gray? It isn't comfortable. It's so intense and so enormous, sometimes I fear my soul can't contain it.

I kiss him deeper, my arms twined around his neck, holding him close. Every time I kiss him, I want more and more. I want to draw him inside of me and keep him there. Safe. Protected. Part of me.

Gray cups my cheek, his hand spanning my jaw, fingers curled around my head. His size makes me feel small and delicate, and yet his words, his actions make me feel strong and invincible, even when my heart has been sliced in two by our loss.

He kisses me back. Not frantic, but slow, steady, melting. As if we have all the time in the world to explore each other. As if he could live right here, wrapped around me, lips seeking and tasting.

"I love you," I say into his mouth. Because he should hear that. Every day.

Gray grunts, skims a path along my cheek with his lips. He kisses my closed lids. Light. Tender. "Love you more, Mac."

"Not possible." I ease back to look at him. Gray's eyes are a little bloodshot and puffy. He hasn't been sleeping well, all his efforts focused on me. I think of the times he cried with me, trying to hide the fact by pressing his face into my hair. I'd noticed, but had been too soul-sick to do much about it.

Tenderness swells in my chest as I trace one bronze brow. "Hey," I whisper. "We're going to be okay."

Because I know this now. In truth, I knew the second he'd walked in that hotel room after the miscarriage, his focus entirely on me. It had felt like a missing piece of me-one I'd never really realized was gone until then-had clicked back into place. No matter how badly I hurt, or how lost I feel, Gray's presence makes everything bearable.

Gray's lids lower a little as he leans into my touch. "Of course we are." Not even a shadow of doubt in his voice.

I give him a soft kiss. I love his mouth. Love the way it feels against mine.

And Gray sighs. He's warm and relaxed and holding me as if he'll never let go.

Love. It's this fierce thing rushing through my veins, making my heart pump harder. I'm twenty-two years old, and I know with every insistent beat of my heart that I love this man. My rock. My lover. My best friend. "Gray?"

"Hmmm?" Eyes closed, he's running his fingers slowly up and down my back.

"I wanted to ask you something." Despite the light tone I use, b.u.t.terflies war in my belly.

"Lay it on me, honey."

"Will you marry me?"

Gray's eyes snap open, his big body going utterly still. Beneath golden lashes, his deep blue gaze narrows as if he's misheard. "What?" It comes out like a croak.

My heart still hurts from sorrow. But I reach for what happiness I can. Because marriage to Gray no longer sounds crazy. It sounds exactly right.

So I smile and ask again, using his words. "Gray Grayson, I want to marry you. I want you to be my family. And I'll be yours." I look up at him with all the hope and fear and longing he'd once shown me. "Say yes?"

A slow, wide smile breaks over his face. "Holy s.h.i.t, you're serious."

"Of course I am- Ack!"

Gray has me on my back in an instant. Leaning over me, he grins, looking so happy that I'm in danger of tearing up. "You gonna put a ring on me, Mac?"

"Let me guess, you want a big, gaudy knuckle-buster covered with diamonds."

His chest rumbles on a chuckle. "Oh, I'll be getting one of those soon enough, honey."

I don't doubt it. "You'll look good wearing a Super Bowl ring."

"Mmm," he agrees, dipping down to nuzzle my ear. "Don't distract me, Ivy Mac. I want a ring. Platinum. Wide band. Engraving optional, but preferred."

I laugh. "Bossy much?"

"Just know what I want." He lifts his head to gaze down at me. His smile is lopsided, bittersweet, but growing. "That would be you, if I wasn't clear."

I thread my fingers through his thick hair. "Me and a ring. Crystal."

"Then, yes, Ivy Jane Mackenzie," he says in a hoa.r.s.e voice, "I will marry you."

Grinning like loons, we stare at each other for one long moment, then he's kissing the h.e.l.l out of me. And I don't mind a bit.

Lounging on the couch, we kiss and talk and pet each other, eventually falling into a lazy comfortable silence. I'm hungry, and I'm sure Gray is too. We probably should have something to eat. But he doesn't leave my side, and I don't want to move.

"You won," I say, thinking about his playoff game. "I never got to congratulate you."

Spooning me from behind, his hand slides up my waist to cup my breast. Not s.e.xual but comforting. "I did. And thank you."

He doesn't sound like he's talking about the game. I smile a little and rest my hand on his forearm, stroking the silky skin along the edge of it. "I'm proud of you, Cupcake."

Gray snuggles closer, and his lips press against the crown of my head. When he speaks, his voice is low and soft. "And that's what makes it all worth it."

Epilogue.

Two years later...

Ivy

GrayG: Big Daddy has landed. Are shenanigans in play tonight?

Looking down at the text I snort but can't hold back a smile. My thumb taps away at my phone as a woman's voice buzzes over the speakers to announce the arrival of Gray's flight from New York City.

IvyMac: There will be no shenanigans if the use of 'Big Daddy' comes into said play. That's a personal foul. 15 yard penalty. Do not pa.s.s Go to collect your prize.

GrayG: Aw, but, baby...

IvyMac: NOPE.

GrayG: Just to clarify, putting the perfectly reasonable and technically correct name aside, shenanigans are a go?

Laughing now, I lean back more comfortably in the ugly plastic airport seat and answer.

IvyMac: All night, Cupcake. I can't wait to taste your frosting.

A couple seconds pa.s.s and then, GrayG: Mac, you sent a dirty text. I just shed a tear of pride. I also have a hard-on. I think the little old lady sitting next to me is checking it out.

IvyMac: *Snicker*

GrayG: Revenge will be mine. Almost out.

Putting my phone away, I haul myself to my feet. Around me, an endless stream of people flow past, all of them either headed somewhere or coming home. For most of my life, I was the one coming or going, drifting without realizing it. Now I'm in California, holding down the home fort. Gray and I have lived here ever since he was drafted to play with the 49ers.

I love the Northern California coast. Wild and rugged, with chilly weather and fog that reminds me of England. Gray isn't so fond of the damp, but he loves soup and deems this the perfect place to make it constantly. Who am I to argue when he's the one cooking it?