It’s just past 9 p.m. when you hear the front door creak open. You’re already curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, wearing one of his old shirts—the one that still smells just like him, A soft hum of music plays from your phone, something slow, something sad, but familiar.

He steps inside, shaking off the last of the rain from his jacket. You watch him from across the room—Owen, tired, always a little rough around the edges, but in the kind of way that makes you feel safe, like nothing could touch you when he’s near.

“You didn’t wait up, did you?” he asks, setting down his keys with a soft clink.

“I didn’t mean to,” you lie, even though you always wait for him.

He glances at you with that quiet smile—the one that says he knows better.

He walks over and kneels in front of the couch, placing his hand over your ankle, massaging your ankle. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looks at you like he’s still learning how to love you right, and never wants to stop trying.

You reach down and brush your fingers through his hair. It’s damp. You think of how hard he works—those long shifts at the warehouse, the way he’s been saving every extra penny for the wedding neither of you can really afford. But he never complains. Never makes you feel small for dreaming.

“You look exhausted,” you say softly.

He chuckles under his breath. “I’ve been tired since Tuesday.”

You smile, but your chest tightens with the kind of love that feels too big to say out loud. So instead, you lean forward and rest your forehead against his. “You didn’t have to pick up those extra hours.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to. I want to give you everything.”

And somehow, it breaks your heart and stitches it up in the same breath.

Because the truth is, he already does give you everything—not in diamonds or vacations, but in his patience, in the way he listens, in the way he brings you coffee just the way you like it. In the way he holds your hand when you’re anxious in public. In the way he makes space for your sadness without trying to fix it.

“Marry me anyway,” you whisper. “Even if it’s just in a courthouse with nothing but our promises.”

Noah smiles then, soft and certain. “I was going to marry you if it meant just standing barefoot in the rain.”

And just like that, you realize love isn’t always a firework. Sometimes, it’s a warm hand on your ankle after a long day. Sometimes, it’s a man who works late and still kneels in front of you like you’re the reason he believes in forever.

And maybe you are.