“Marry me,” he repeated earnestly. “Did you get hit in the head when I shot up the ceiling?” “I don’t have head trauma, and I’m not overreacting to yet another criminal fiasco. I want you as my wife. My partner. You’re it for me. And I know I should have found a better way to do this, like with champagne and flowers and maybe a fucking violin. But this is us. Messy. Complicated. Slightly injured. Standing in the middle of yet another crime scene together after saving the day. So say yes. Marry me.”
