Blaze’s POV
I've been restless for days.
My thoughts keep drifting where they shouldn't—to ice-blue eyes that looked at me with something dangerously close to tenderness.
To gentle hands dabbing at my wound like I was something precious instead of broken. To a laugh that slipped out before I could stop it, warm and familiar and achingly nostalgic.
I need to silence the noise in my head. I need to make a decision. I need to stop living in this limbo where I'm not fully present with Sophie because part of me is still somewhere else entirely.
It's not fair to her. It's not fair to either of us.
"You look handsome," Sophie says as I adjust my tie in the hallway mirror. She's stunning in a navy dress that brings out her eyes, hair swept back in an elegant twist that makes her look like she stepped out of a magazine.
"Thank you." I turn to face her, drinking in the sight. She deserves so much more than someone whose mind wanders to places it shouldn't. "You're beautiful. Always beautiful."
She smiles, but there's something tentative about it. Like she can sense the weight I've been carrying, the decision I've been avoiding.
"So where are we going? You've been very mysterious about tonight."
"Somewhere special. You deserve something special."
And she does. Sophie has done so much for me over these past months—caring for me through recovery, listening to my doubts without judgment, staying steady when everything else felt like it was shifting beneath my feet.
She deserves romance and attention and a man who isn't haunted by ghosts.
The restaurant is intimate and elegant, exactly what I was hoping for. Soft lighting, white tablecloths, the kind of atmosphere that makes even difficult conversations feel civilized.
We're seated at a corner table with a view of the harbor, far enough from other diners to have privacy for whatever needs to be said.
"This is lovely," Sophie says, settling into her chair. "What's the occasion?"
"Do I need an occasion to take my girlfriend somewhere nice?"
"Of course not. It's just..." She studies my face with quiet concern. "You seem different tonight. More intense than usual."
I reach across the table to take her hand. "Good different or bad different?"
"I'm not sure yet."
The waiter arrives before I can respond, saving me from having to fill the silence. We order, having a small talk while waiting—normal conversation between two people sharing a meal.
Except nothing about this feels normal, and the longer I delay, the heavier the silence beneath our words becomes.
We pick at our food later, while I struggle with how to begin. How do you tell someone who's given you everything that it might not be enough? How do you explain that sometimes love isn't sufficient to silence the noise in your head?
We order wine and appetizers, falling into easy conversation about her work, my recovery, and plans for the upcoming week. Surface-level things that don't require too much emotional excavation. But I can feel Sophie watching me throughout dinner, like she's trying to solve a puzzle.
"Are you okay?" she asks finally, over dessert. "You seem... I don't know. Like you're working up to something."
"Maybe I am." I set down my fork and meet her gaze directly. "Would that worry you?"
"Depends what you're working up to."
Her smile is teasing, but I catch the flicker of nervousness underneath. Sophie's always been good at reading people, at sensing when conversations are about to take serious turns.
"Let's go for a walk," I suggest. "The embankment is beautiful at sunset."
We stroll along the waterfront as golden hour paints the city in warm light. Sophie's hand is warm in mine, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. Other couples walk past us—some young and giddy, others older and comfortable in their silence. All of them look like they belong together.
"It's gorgeous out here," she says, pausing to lean against the railing. But her voice lacks its usual warmth.
"Sophie," I say, and something in my voice makes her turn to face me fully. "We should talk."
"About what?"
"About us. About where this is going." I take a breath, choosing my words carefully. "These past few months have been... challenging. My injury, the uncertainty about hockey, trying to figure out who I am when I'm not defined by what I do on the ice."
"You're more than hockey, Blaze. You've always been more than that."
"Have I? Because sometimes I'm not sure. Sometimes I think I've spent so long being a hockey player that I forgot how to be anything else."
Sophie's quiet for a moment, watching a boat drift across the water below us. "What does this have to do with us?"
"Everything. Because you've been there through all of it. You've seen me at my worst, frustrated, angry, lost, and you stayed anyway."
"Of course I stayed. I care about you."
"But should you have? I think we both deserve something that feels inevitable instead of convenient."
I take her hand again, leading her toward the pedestrian bridge that spans the narrowest part of the harbor. My heart is hammering against my ribs, but not from nervousness anymore. From certainty.
"Come on. There's something I need to show you."
The bridge offers a perfect view of the sunset bleeding gold and crimson across the water. Other people lean against the railings, couples and tourists and evening joggers, all drawn to the same spectacular view.
I chose this place deliberately, no matter how much I told myself it was for the romance of the setting. Deep down, I know the truth: the crowd is insurance. Not against rejection—against myself.
Against the part of me that might change my mind if given the chance to think too hard about what I'm doing.
"Blaze," Sophie says, and her voice is thick with unshed tears. "Please, just say what you need to say."
"I need you to know that everything I said tonight was true. About deserving someone who's completely present, about not settling for convenient." I turn to face her fully. "But I also need you to know that I've made my choice."
Sophie stares at the water, tension radiating from her shoulders. "Blaze, you're getting to the point where we need to—"
She doesn't finish.
Because I'm already moving, reaching into my back pocket for the velvet box I've been carrying around for days. My heart hammers against my ribs as I drop to one knee on the bridge, ignoring the gasps from nearby strangers.
The world narrows to this single moment—Sophie's widening eyes, the murmur of voices around us as people realize what's happening, the sunset painting everything in shades of ending and beginning all at once.
"Sophie Chen," I say, my voice steady despite the chaos inside my chest. "Will you marry me?"