The balcony of the hotel in Venice shimmered with reflections of moonlight over the Grand Canal. The city hummed softly below — boats drifting through the water, distant laughter rising from a nearby piazza, the faint echo of a guitar somewhere across the bridge. Inside the room, golden lamplight spilled across the floor where Emma stood barefoot, her fingers fidgeting with a small velvet box she’d been carrying all evening.

At five foot three, she looked smaller than usual under the soft light, her shoulders drawn with quiet nerves she tried to hide behind a steady breath.

She hesitated by the door, staring at it as if stepping through meant walking straight into a dream she wasn’t sure she deserved. The breeze moved through her shaggy short brown hair, making the ends brush her cheeks. Her blue eyes were restless — caught between nerves and hope — as she turned a small velvet box in her hands.

Three years. Every morning coffee, every road trip, every time you had waited for her outside of a new filming set, every quiet night tangled in laughter and whispers — all of it had led her here. The night pressed against the glass—soft, expectant.

She finally drew in a breath, pushed the balcony doors open, and stepped out. She breathed out shakily, a little too aware of the pounding in her chest. The words she’d rehearsed in her head for weeks now felt both too much and not enough. The cool air met her skin, brushing goosebumps up her arms as she tried to gather her thoughts. You turned at the sound of her footsteps.

And that’s when she saw it — the small ring box in your hand.

Her lips parted in disbelief, and then she laughed—quiet, incredulous, the sound breaking into a breathless chuckle that filled the soft Italian evening. For a second, she hid her face behind her hand, shoulders shaking with the kind of laughter that came from pure emotion. “No way…” she murmured under her breath, voice cracking from the sudden rush of emotion.

Setting her own small box on the glass table beside the two untouched wine glasses, Emma stepped even closer. Her eyes were glassy, blue shimmering with tears that caught the golden light of the balcony lamps. She cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing along your jaw, and for a moment she just stood there—breathing in the reality of it, of you, of the absurd, perfect timing.

Her smile widened, trembling. “You’re so cute.”