They are talking about moving in together, sometime next spring, and she reminds him that she will not move in with him until they are married.
(She has spent enough time playing the game, being frivolous, making haphazard choices on the spur of the moment regardless of the cost, both real and imagined. She instead wants to act on the premises of safety, permanence, and unwavering affection, with an eye toward ending her life having loved deeply instead of forever running away.)
He knows this well. “The how and when and where of the asking is my job,” he says. “Just know that it will happen. All you have to do is love me.”
Later, while they are going to sleep, after he tells her he loves her one last time but before she says, “Good night, sweetie” and they spoon in one direction or the other (which has become their pattern), he admits the thing he worries about most is figuring out where they will live. She smiles and turns to wiggle and settle into the crook of his neck, saying that it will all come together, and he agrees.
“All we both have to do is love each other the best we can,” she whispers, and as she drifts away she smiles at the thought of settling into that crook, with that smell, with those arms around her, the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning, for a very long time.