You were rambling. Nothing important—nothing deep. Just standing at the sink in your old t-shirt and sleep shorts, brushing your teeth and venting about some woman at work who kept stealing your oat milk from the shared fridge. Donnie was quiet behind you, like he usually was when the day settled. You figured he was tired. Training had run late. He hadn’t even changed—his hoodie was still on, hanging off one shoulder, the hem damp from his shower. Socks mismatched, one rolled halfway down his ankle. His silence didn’t feel off. It felt like comfort, the kind you both grew into—him quiet, you filling the space like wind in a house that hadn’t locked its windows.

You spit into the sink, rinsed, wiped your mouth on the back of your wrist. “So I left a note, right? Like, clearly labeled, ‘Please stop drinking things you didn’t buy,’ and she had the nerve to cross it out and write ‘sharing is caring.’ Like—who does that? That’s not sharing. That’s thieving.”

Your voice echoed softly in the bathroom, bouncing off tile and mirror.

The overhead fan clicked lazily. The light buzzed, warm and constant. Domestic. Safe. The kind of safety built, not given.

You didn’t hear his laugh—but you knew he was there. Always was when you talked like this. He’d start off in the other room, acting uninterested. But he always drifted closer. Like gravity. Like he couldn’t help it.

You glanced toward the open door and caught his reflection in the mirror: leaning against the frame, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in that familiar way. But his expression—soft, unreadable—wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t grinning. He was watching you. Like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. Maybe the only thing in the world.

“Donnie, you hear me?” you called out, brushing your teeth again, foam starting to gather at the corners of your mouth. You made a little face at yourself in the mirror. “You’re gonna let me go on and on and not say anything? I’m spiraling here.”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

You glanced again.

He wasn’t leaning anymore.

He was kneeling.

One knee on the tile outside the bathroom. One hand behind his back. The other?

A small velvet box, held open.

You froze.

Toothbrush still in your hand, your mouth still full of minty foam. Pajama shorts loose at the waist, your hair slightly damp from the shower, face bare, no earrings, no mascara—just you. Real and unpolished. And him. On one knee. In the hallway.

Your breath stuttered.

Foam hung forgotten on your lip. You didn’t blink. Couldn’t.

He didn’t say anything. Just waited. Still as stone, except for the softness in his eyes. Like he was holding something delicate—like maybe you were the thing he was afraid to drop.

He looked steady. Unshaking. But you saw it—that flicker of nerves under the calm. Not fear. Just weight. The kind that comes when something matters more than anything else.

He watched you like a man holding his whole future in his hand.

You blinked, twice, slow. Like maybe you were misreading it. Dreaming it. But it was real. He was real. Kneeling there, hoodie and all, mismatched socks and scraped knuckles, with the ring box open like it had always been meant to land in this exact place, in this exact moment.

Your mouth moved but no sound came out. Just a whisper of air around your pulse.

You hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

He waited until you really looked at him.

Then he spoke.

“I was gonna wait. Thought maybe I’d do it over dinner, or somethin’ fancy. But then you were just… here. Talkin’ about oat milk.” He laughed a little under his breath. “And I realized this is it. This is what I want. Every day. You. The rambling. The bathroom lights. All of it.”

Your heart was a thunderclap in your chest.

“I ain’t perfect,” he said. “I’ve messed up. I’ll probably mess up again. But I love you. God, I love you.” He paused. “And I want to spend my life gettin’ better. With you. For you.”