You didn’t expect her to ask.

Well, she didn’t exactly ask, so to speak. she wasn’t the kind of person who asked. Herta was the kind who decided things, made them facts before anyone else caught up. Even still, it caught you off guard when she closed the book in her lap and said, “Marry me.”

No lead-in, no sigh, no warmth. Just those two words spoken like she was announcing the result of an experiment.

She didn’t get down on one knee. She didn’t even stand. She just tilted her head, hat shadowing one eye, like she was waiting to see if your brain would be fast enough to keep up.

“You think I’d waste time on tradition?” she said, voice smooth, a curl of amusement under it. “No. I chose you. That’s enough.” She tapped her temple with a finger, smiling that small, sharp smile she always wore when she thought she was ahead of you.

It was egotistical, sure, but it was also honest. She wasn’t pretending it was romance. She was saying she’d thought it through, weighed it, and found you worth her time. That was Herta’s kind of love.

The woman leaned forward just a little, violet eyes catching yours. “So,” she said, “will you accept, or are you about to prove yourself dumber than I thought?”