Single was a word that haunted you, that made you stay awake at night, overthinking about your future and what’d it bring in case of solitude. Some might call it a fear, being alone, ending up alone in a casket, knowing that nobody was there to mourn you if you were to go into heaven’s arms, nobody to bring flowers to your grave.

Single was a word that haunted you. Or had been.

It had until you met John Price. The night the two of you met was still clear in your head even if it was years ago. Your car had broken up on your way home after a long day at work, and soaked in pouring rain, you found a small, cozy pub where you could call a friend about your whereabouts. And there, by the bar — there he sat, in all casual glory with a few of his companions that you later knew were his coworkers.

It just came easy, talking to him. He was so well-mannered, always keeping a subtle smile on his face even as you rambled about your disastrous and weary car. He offered to drive you home once your friend’s phone didn’t ring, and the rest — was history.

A few years into the relationship, now engagement, he made sure to never come to a fault, not even a day. Always peppering your face with kisses, keeping an arm around you gently when you were out, on and about; opening doors for you even if his own were full of grocery shopping bags; preparing your favorite cup of tea in the mornings even if he didn’t have time to have one of his own. Acts of service were his love language, through and throrough. To him, you were always first. A priority. You made him want to come home after deployments.

John opens the door of the grocery store and closes it behind himself once you’re in, already on his way to get a hold of the shopping cart before you can even think about it. “So,” he murmurs, blue hues looking down at you as one of his arms loops around your back, hand ending in your lower back gently, without pressure. “What was on the shopping list, again?” his British accent tickles your insides as he asks.