You’d been with Lewis Pullman for four years — the kind of quiet, steady love that didn’t need grand gestures to feel real. It was the kind of love found in forehead kisses, late-night grocery runs, stolen glances from across the room. A kind of love that felt like home. That night was simple — just the two of you, barefoot in the kitchen, your favorite playlist humming in the background. You were finishing up dinner, humming along as you stirred something on the stove. Lewis had insisted on doing the dishes, sleeves rolled up, water running, his back to you. You were mid-sentence, telling him about your day, when you turned around with a smile — and froze. Lewis was down on one knee, dish towel forgotten on the floor. In his hand was a delicate gold band with an emerald green diamond that shimmered like a secret. Your breath caught. “Lewis—” He smiled, a little nervous, but his eyes never left yours. “I thought I’d do it some fancy way. Maybe on a mountain or under fireworks. But then I looked at you in this kitchen, barefoot, making dinner like you always do… and I just knew.” You didn’t speak — couldn’t. He held the ring a little higher. “I don’t want some big moment, not really. I want this. You and me, standing in our kitchen. Making dinner. Cleaning dishes. Fighting over what movie to watch. I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life and think, ‘damn, I still get to love her.’” His voice was soft — sure. “So… will you marry me?”