He crosses to the bedside table and opens the drawer.
When he turns back, there is a small dark box in his hand.
I stare.
“Oh, fuck off.”
A quiet laugh leaves him.
I do not join in.
Because suddenly I can hear my own heartbeat.
Downstairs someone yells for more lemonade.
A child shrieks.
The whole world carries on perfectly normally while mine appears to have tilted.
Mark steps in front of me and takes my left hand.
His thumb moves once across my knuckles.
“I was going to wait longer,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He huffs a small breath.
“I thought I should be sensible about it. Give it time. Not terrify you.”
“That was considerate.”
“Yes, well.” His mouth shifts. “Turns out I’m not very patient when I know what I want.”
My throat tightens.
He looks down briefly at our joined hands, then back at me.
“When you first came back, I kept thinking it still felt temporary,” he says quietly. “Like at some point you’d pick up a bag and leave again.”
I swallow.
Mark’s fingers squeeze mine.
“But then you didn’t.”
The room feels very still.
His voice stays low.
“You were there in the mornings.”
My heart is racing.
“In the kitchen.”
My stomach flips.
