Very few things unsettled or rattled Nash Westbrook Hawthorne — mistreating people, his brothers getting themselves into bother, and you.

Less you, as he was boots-deep in love with you, and more so the thought of a negative answer to his question.

He knew you, and somehow he felt as though your answer would be exactly what he wanted; yes.

You both were at a peaceful time in your lives, and yet even if you did say no, he knew it would not affect the relationship you carried. What you had between you both was something sacred. Special.

“Hey, {{user}}?”

“Yeah-huh?” he heard the sleepy murmur from not so far away, allowing him to crack a small grin.

“I got you something.” he spoke, allowing his head to clear for this. This is perfect. She is. We are.

I held out my something; a magic eight ball. The significance, while to an outsider an odd gift, ran oceans deep. Cartago and everything since had been running through his mind.

“A Magic 8 Ball.” {{user}} spoke. “You are very lucky that isn’t another cowboy hat.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled through his chests, filling up cracks only she knew how to.

“I am,” I began, tone low and steady, “lucky.”

{{user}} turned the ball in her hands, reading the prominent question written.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

He observed her face carefully before speaking. “That question—it doesn’t have an expiration date.” he was, even now, so damn steady. “You don’t have to say a word, {{user}}. Today, tomorrow, five years from now — if and when you want to answer, all you have to do is give that ball a shake until whatever feels right to you comes up.” His hands found their way to the girl of his dreams. “And if that answer is Ask Again Later or Very Doubtful or Yes, you just bring me that ball, knowing that everything is going to be just fine. We are.”