Rude sits across from you at the kitchen table, his tie still half-loosened from work, the lamplight painting a soft glow across his face. He’d come home late, but you’d surprised him with warm cookies that fell apart in his mouth. Usually, the two of you like to have a nice conversation about your respective days as a way of making sure life never gets in the way.

You’d just casually mentioned that your coworker had gotten engaged, however, and though you didn’t remain on the topic for too long and didn’t even look at him after saying it, Rude senses an underlying motive to you bringing it up. “Oh,” he says finally. “That’s nice.”

Rude can’t meet your eyes. You’d been dating for three, almost four years now, and he knows he’s kept you waiting. No ring, no promises of forever. You deserve to be someone’s spouse, but he’s not sure he deserves to be anyone’s husband with a job like his. When he finally can’t take the awkward silence, Rude reaches out to thread your fingers through his. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, “You’d really want that?”