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Bradley hears the door open before it actually does.
He always kind of knows, really; has developed a sixth sense for his boyfriend’s return home. It spooks Jake to no end, the way every quiet cross of the threshold is met with a shouted “hey, baby.” Bradley’s voice tends to echo through their cozy San Diego craftsman, no matter where in it he is.
Sitting on their sagging couch, his feet up on the coffee table like he can only get away with when Jake’s not home, Bradley hears his usual greeting exit his lips. Jake’s small laugh is almost covered up by the hockey game on the TV. Almost. Bradley grins at the familiar sound, swinging his legs to the floor—as if he could hide his crimes that easily.
“Day?” he calls in the direction of the front door, not looking away from the TV. Not out of indifference, but comfort; knowing that Jake comprehends their shorthand, will answer in kind.
“Boring,” his boyfriend says, apparently still standing at the front door if the sound of him hanging up his keys is anything to go by. “Day?”
“Just as. Worst?” Bradley asks, playing their regular game.
“Cyclone’s neurotic new training directives. But you got that memo. Yours?”
“The Ducks losing to the Leafs. Best?”
“I thought that game was on now,” Jake says, not answering Bradley’s question.
“It might as well be over already. Best?” Bradley asks again.
“Now. Yours?”
“Now.”
He hears Jake open the fridge, now seemingly in the kitchen, and turns down the TV. “I’m taking you out for dinner,” Bradley says. “Don’t spoil your appetite.”
“Where are we going?”
“Mexican. And Japanese. That fancy place with the—“
“Tuna tartare tostadas? Those alliteratively delicious fusion abominations? Why?”
“I don’t know. Wear something nice,” Bradley supplies, deadpan, eyes still glued to the screen.
“Do you want to pop the question now or later, then?” Jake calls from where he’s apparently stopped in the kitchen.
And, really, there’s nothing about the statement that strikes Bradley. Jake poses the question so naturally, so casually, like he’s asking if his boyfriend is jonesing for Chinese or Thai. Maybe that’s why Bradley just calls back “tonight,” happily, mindlessly, a soft grin splitting his face in two.
Jake coughs, audible through the house. “Say that again?” he asks, his voice betraying him, wavering the tiniest amount. So tiny his brain-dead, lovesick boyfriend doesn’t even notice as a goal horn blares on the TV.
“I said I’m proposing tonight, so wear something nice,” Bradley hums, entirely unaware of his boyfriend malfunctioning in the kitchen.
He barely registers Jake calling his name until all six feet of him is towering in front of him; blocking the TV, hands on his hips, incredulous look on his face. Bradley smiles up at him. “What are you doing? Go get dressed and let me watch the game, babe.”
“Did you process a lick of what you just said to me?” Jake asks, all attitude.
“Yes, I’m—”
Bradley furrows his brow.
His jaw hits the floor.
“Oh.”
“Oh,’ is right, you fucking moron,” Jake says, fighting a grin, unsuccessfully. “You couldn’t even wait—“
“I wasn’t—“
“You were just—“
“Shut the fuck up,” Bradley mutters, grabbing Jake by the hips and pulling him onto the couch. His boyfriend yelps and writhes until Bradley wrangles Jake into his lap.
“You’re surprise-proposing to me,” Jake says, a sick, elated smile on his face. “You’re surprise-proposing to me and you ruined the surprise.”
Bradley, ignoring him altogether, uses all his might to flip his boyfriend’s back to the couch. He crushes their mouths together, knees bracketing Jake’s, a massive grin threatening to crack open his face as soon as they make contact.
They’re there, for a while, making out hard and fast and breathless. Jake’s hands scrabble over Bradley’s back as Bradley rucks up the front of Jake’s shirt, keeping it both above the belt and not PG-13 whatsoever. Whatever. They’re adults.
As Bradley finally pulls back, he lets their foreheads rest together. His smile escapes confinement. “So is that a yes to the ruined proposal, or…?”
“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Jake mutters against Bradley’s lips, capturing them with his own again.
Bradley just grins harder. “But you like me,” he says, kissing Jake’s right cheek. “And you’re going to marry me,” he adds, kissing the left. “So maybe we’re both idiots.” The bridge of his nose.
“What-fucking-ever,” Jake says. “I like you. I love you. Can we deal with this now?” he asks, gesturing to the now-massive tent in his pants.
“You’re such a romantic,” Bradley deadpans. Jake clambers off his lap and starts for the stairs in response. Bradley can only sit, still a little dazed.
“Are you coming or what, stud?” Jake calls from the base of the stairs.
“We’d better not miss that dinner reservation!” Bradley returns.
Jake only laughs. And laughs, and laughs, and laughs.