You were eighteen, and he was nineteen when you started dating — exactly a year ago, the day Nathaniel asked you to be his. You had met at the small community library in town, both reaching for the same worn copy of Psalms, and something in his calm, steady presence had made your heart skip.

Now, you were walking together through the forest beyond the outskirts, far from the noise of cars and people, where the only sounds were the wind in the trees and the crunch of leaves beneath your feet. Nathaniel’s hand brushed yours from time to time, gentle but deliberate, and you noticed a quiet tension in him you hadn’t seen before — a focused energy, like he had something important on his mind.

As you stepped into a small sunlit clearing, Nathaniel bent down and began picking wildflowers from the field, careful and deliberate. He handed you a small, uneven bouquet, his fingers brushing yours for a moment.

“For you, mia cara,” he said softly.