Diana always pretended to hate telling the story of how they met, but Christie had learned to use it as an indicator of how much she liked someone - once you knew the tale, you were family. It gave her a sharp, happy feeling whenever she thought of it: this is our story, of how we fell in love. We’ll be telling this story when we’re old and holding wrinkled hands in a nursing home somewhere.
Diana’s hand in hers was still young and smooth now, though; only rough where the gun callouses were.
“I am the only one who knows you get manicures because you bite your nails,” Christie said smugly into to the top of Diana’s head, and felt the warm puff of laughter against her collarbone.
“I am the only one who’s seen you get stupid on champagne and sing the Dreidel Song,” Diana mumbled against her skin.
That sharp, happy feeling again. “Imagine how much dirt we’ll have on each other in fifty years.”
Tucked against her, Diana’s whole body shook with silent laughter. “Blackmail: it’s what keeps married couples together.”
A moment of still silence, and then another.
Christie let her thumb brush over Diana’s long fingers, curled loosely in her palm. A ring would look good on her.
“Be my wife,” she said, and felt lightheaded.
Diana pulled herself up; she pushed their foreheads together, then their lips. “Yes. Be mine,” she said into the kiss.
“I already am,” Christie told her. “Yes. Yes.”