The house Adrian and Isabel rented was quiet that evening. The city lights flickered in the distance, but inside, only candlelight glowed. Isabel moved through the space slowly, barefoot on hardwood, her satin robe brushing just above her knees.
Music played softly from an old record Adrian found at a thrift store—jazz with no words, just emotion.
Adrian stepped out from the bedroom, shirt half-buttoned, gaze fixed on her like she was a living poem.
"You're staring," she whispered.
"You're worth staring at."
She walked over, took his hand, and placed it over her heart. "It's calm tonight. Not racing. Not scared."
He leaned in and kissed her collarbone. "Mine too."
They didn't rush. The kisses were slow, like remembering. Their bodies pressed together like puzzle pieces that finally fit—not out of desperation, but devotion.
Clothes fell away. Curtains swayed in the open windows. Skin touched skin like it was a language only they spoke. And for the first time, they didn't make love to escape the world.
They made love because they had finally created one of their own.
---
After, they lay tangled in sheets, Isabel tracing lines across Adrian's chest.
"Did you ever think we'd end up here?" she asked.
"Every night I hoped for it. Even when I tried to push you away."
She smiled. "You were really bad at staying away."
"And thank God for that."
He reached into the drawer and pulled something out. A small velvet box.
She sat up slowly. "Adrian—"
"I know we said no pressure. But I don't want to wait anymore. Not after everything."
He opened the box. Inside was a ring—simple, elegant, a design that looked like her soul in metal form.
"I don't want a ceremony that pleases a family or a headline. I just want you. Every day. In every form. Will you marry me, Isabel?"
Her eyes filled instantly. She didn't even look at the ring again. She looked at him.
"Yes," she said, voice shaking. "Yes, a thousand times."
They kissed again, urgent and soft. A storm that didn't destroy, but made room for something beautiful to grow.