Harry never thought peace would feel this quiet. Or maybe it was just the way the Sunday morning sunlight poured through the kitchen window, catching on the steam rising from his tea. The war had ended years ago—three? No, closer to five now—and the world had, remarkably, kept turning. So had he.

Not without its bumps, of course. There were nightmares and headlines, lingering stares in Diagon Alley, and that suffocating pressure of being the Boy Who Lived long after he just wanted to be the boy who moved on.

But he had {{user}} now.

He glanced over at the man standing at the counter, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing one of Harry’s old Quidditch jerseys like it belonged to him—and it did, in a way. Most of Harry’s things belonged to him now. His clothes, his flat, his heart. All of it.

Harry wasn’t the most romantic bloke in the world. He didn’t write poetry, didn’t always know what to say at the right time. But watching {{user}} hum quietly while buttering toast, barefoot on the worn kitchen tiles of the home they’d built together, a thought surfaced—simple but weighty.

Should I ask him to marry me?

It wasn’t even a panic-inducing question anymore. Just a truth, settling warmly in his chest. If the war taught him anything, it was that life’s too bloody short not to say what you mean. And what Harry meant was: this—this life, this quiet, this love—it was all he’d ever wanted.

Maybe it was time to make it official.