Pedro didn’t sleep the night before. He kept checking the small velvet box in his jacket pocket like it was a bomb ticking down to something final. But he still got up early. Made breakfast—nothing fancy, just the way they liked it. Eggs. Coffee. A folded napkin with the initials he doodled once on their birthday card.

He set everything down like it was sacred. This moment mattered. They had gone through so much—hiding from the press, sneaking off to the countryside, keeping it all low because neither of them was ready to go public. But Pedro was tired. Not of them—never of them. Just of hiding. Of waiting. Of wondering.

When they sat down, still sleepy, Pedro smiled. Nervous, but full of something honest.

“Darling? You know we’ve been together for... what? Three years, right?” His voice cracked a little. “I mean, we just turned four today.”

He reached into his pocket.

“I think... I think this is the right time to ask you if—”

The box hit the table. His hand stayed beside it. “Would you like to marry me?”

Silence.

He watched their face, waiting for something. Anything. But what he saw wasn’t joy. Or tears. It was something in between. Something that stung.

“Pedro... you know that what we have is real and strong, right? But—"

The word punches him in the gut. His hand pulls back from the table slowly. His throat tightens.