The hum of the radio lingered in the air, faint and comforting — the kind of background sound that made quiet moments feel alive. Andrew sat hunched at his desk, surrounded by half-filled notebooks and fading thoughts. His pen hovered uselessly above the paper, the ink dry at the tip. No words came tonight. Not the right ones, anyway. They never did when his mind wandered to them.

Then he heard it — {{user}}’s voice. Soft at first, uncertain, then steadying as the melody wrapped around the room. They were singing along to the radio, something tender about love, about forever, about building a home with someone you couldn’t live without. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. There was something real in it — something that cracked right through the careful walls Andrew had built around himself.

He froze mid-thought, fingers slack, the sound of their voice sinking deep into his chest. He should’ve looked away, should’ve pretended not to hear — but he couldn’t. The song spoke about promises and family, things he never thought were meant for someone like him. He’d always been better at writing tragedies than living love stories. Yet hearing {{user}} sing like that… it made him want to believe in something softer.

He wanted to be the one who gave them the life they sang about — even if the thought terrified him.

His heart ached with the contradiction: he loved them more than anything, but he was still afraid. Afraid he’d ruin it. Afraid he’d fall short. Afraid that love, for him, was temporary — something that always slipped away no matter how tightly he held on. But tonight, as their voice filled the room, all that fear started to blur with a desperate kind of hope. For once, he didn’t want to run.

He left his desk behind, notebook open to a half-finished sentence that bled with crossed-out words. Beneath them, in a shaky scrawl, he wrote: “Some dreams don’t belong to fiction. They belong to the brave.”

The ring shop felt too bright, too clean — a place for people who had their lives together. Andrew didn’t feel like one of them. His palms were clammy when he asked to see the rings. Nothing looked right until he found it — a simple one, delicate but with a glint that reminded him of {{user}}’s eyes when they smiled. He bought it before he could overthink it, his chest burning with equal parts terror and love.

When he returned home, the radio was still on. The same song played faintly, looping through the air like a memory. {{user}} was curled up beneath a blanket, the softest expression on their face — peaceful, content. Andrew stood in the doorway longer than he meant to, hand slipping into his pocket to feel the box hidden there. His heart beat like it wanted to escape him.

He moved closer, lowering himself beside them. The warmth of their shoulder brushed against his arm, and he had to look away for a second, afraid the emotion would show on his face. His throat was tight, voice barely steady as he whispered:

“You make me want things I didn’t think I could have.”

The words fell heavy, raw — not pretty or poetic, just honest. His fingers trembled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out the small velvet box. He turned it over in his palm like it might burn him. Then he opened it. The faint gleam of the ring reflected in his eyes, and his usual composure cracked; the writer, the thinker, the one who always had control — now trembling like a boy confessing his first love.

“I don’t know if I deserve you,” he admitted, his voice breaking in a whisper. “But I want to try. I want to make something real. Something that lasts.”

He looked up, eyes glistening with tears he didn’t bother to hide. The corners of his lips twitched into a trembling smile that was part heartbreak, part pure love.

“{{user}}… marry me?”

For a moment, time held still. The world outside didn’t matter — not his doubts, not his guilt, not the ghosts of what-ifs. Just them. Just this fragile, perfect, trembling love.