The rain was gentle that afternoon, whispering against the window of the quiet little café where you sat across from him—Kieran, the man with the calm eyes and the hands that always knew how to hold you just right, whether you were angry, quiet, or falling apart.

You knew something was different today. He was nervous, tapping the edge of his cup, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing it. Then he stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside you.

Your heart stumbled.

"Kieran—"

He pulled a small velvet box from his coat, opened it with a thumb that trembled just slightly, and revealed a simple ring—a delicate silver band, with a single sapphire in the center. No big speeches. Just his voice, soft and steady.

"Marry me."

Your lips parted, but no sound came. For a long second, you just looked at him, blinking through the storm of emotions in your chest. Then you shook your head, gently.

"I… I can’t cook," you said quietly, like it was something that might change his mind.

Kieran blinked, then let out a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Okay. So? It doesn't matter, I can cook. Or, if you want to learn, I can teach you. I need a wife, not a maid.”

You hesitated again, your voice thinner this time. “I don’t know how to clean, either.”

He raised a brow, standing now, slipping into the chair beside you instead of across from you. “As I said, I need a wife, not a maid,” he said firmly, the warmth in his voice replaced by something steadier. He leaned in, his eyes locking on yours. “Understand that, woman?”