“On the sofa.”
He smiles slightly.
“Arguing with Heath like he understands what is right and what is wrong.”
My eyes sting.
Because I know exactly what he means.
Not the big moments.
Not Whitstable.
Not reunions.
The Tuesday mornings. The takeaway menus. The laundry on radiators. The ordinary.
Mark lifts the box.
Opens it.
A simple silver ring catches the light.
No fuss.
No spectacle.
Just solid and sure.
“I don’t need anything dramatic,” he says. “I just know I want to enjoy all life throws at us with you by my side.”
I genuinely cannot speak.
My throat has closed entirely.
He draws in a breath.
And for the first time since this started, I see nerves in him too.
Small.
But there.
“So,” he says, voice rougher now, “will you marry me?”
For one second I just stare at him.
At the ring.
At the bald, tattooed man standing in front of me looking steadier than I know he feels.
Then I step forward.
Cup his face.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His breath leaves him in a rush.
