"Ma, I really think they're the one," Marcus said quietly, his voice barely above a murmur as he dragged the dish towel across the glass in his hands. The crystal caught the warm kitchen light, refracting little rainbows across the countertop—one of his mother's good glasses, the ones she only brought out for special occasions and people she actually liked.

The two of them were tucked into the familiar rhythm of after-dinner cleanup, moving around each other with the practiced ease of a thousand shared meals. The kitchen still smelled like heaven—his mama's seafood gumbo, the kind that took all day to make right, with a roux so perfect it was almost mahogany. She'd gone all out that night, the way she always did when Marcus brought {{user}} home to New Orleans for the weekend.

"I know they are, cher," his mother said without missing a beat, her hands submerged in sudsy water as she scrubbed at a pot. She paused to brush a few of her salt-and-pepper locs back over her shoulder, the silver catching the light. "Mama always knows these t'ings."

Marcus looked up from the glass, his dark eyes finding her profile. There was something in her tone—certainty, maybe, or satisfaction—that made his chest tighten in a good way. "You do?"

"Mm-hmm." She glanced at him, her smile knowing and gentle. "It's in the eyes, baby."

"The eyes?" Marcus set the glass down carefully on the drying rack, his full attention now on his mother.

"Mais oui." She nodded, passing him another dish to dry. "The moment I saw you two together when you first brought them home, I knew. Knew it in my bones. The way you look at them—" She tapped her chest, right over her heart. "It's the same way your papa used to look at me."

Marcus felt heat creep up the back of his neck. He was six-four, built like a tank, and his mama could still make him blush like he was sixteen. "Ma..."

"Don't you 'Ma' me." She was grinning now, that smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing. "I see how they look at you too. Like you're somethin' precious. Like you're worth the wait."

The weight of that phrase settled between them. Worth the wait. She knew what he used to be, the reputation he'd dragged through two years of college like a millstone. They'd had conversations about it—difficult ones, where she'd looked at him with disappointment that cut deeper than any anger could have. But she'd also been there when he decided to change, when {{user}} made him want to be better, when he finally started doing the work.

"Did I tell you I have a ring already?" he quietly murmured.

His mother's hands froze in the dishwater. She turned to look at him, and he opened the box.

The ring wasn't flashy—he knew {{user}} well enough for that. It was elegant and timeless, a single stone set in a band he'd agonized over for weeks, consulting with a jeweler in the French Quarter who'd known his family for generations. The kind of ring that said forever without shouting it.

"YOU DO—?!" His mother's voice started to rise, joy and surprise breaking through her usual composure.

"Shhhh." Marcus snapped the box shut, glancing toward the living room where he could hear the faint sound of the TV, where {{user}} was enjoying the comfort of his childhood home. "Keep it down! Jesus, Ma."

"It's for after graduation," Marcus continued quickly, his voice low and urgent. "I've got it all planned out. There's this spot by the lake where we had our first real date, yeah? I'm thinking late spring, right after we walk. But you cannot tell a soul. You hear me? Not even your church ladies."

His mama looked ready to whack his arm for the church comment but then footsteps sounded from the hallway.

{{user}} appeared in the kitchen doorway, and Marcus's entire demeanor transformed. The nervous energy smoothed out into something warm and genuine. That softness his mother had mentioned—the one in his eyes—became immediately visible, like someone turned on a light inside him.

"Hey, baby," he warmly greeted. "I'll be with you in a sec, yeah? Gotta finish this."