I'm shivering when I get home. I can barely get my key in the lock, fingers numb with cold. It is a bitterly cold winter this year, unlike anything I've ever known. Already, I can almost taste the mug of hot chocolate I'm going to make when I get in.
When I open the door, a wave of heat envelopes me and I sigh with relief. Even more than usual, it's good to be home. Especially when you emerge from the kitchen, carrying two mugs. They're the ones decorated with hundreds of tiny stars, a moving in gift from Josie.
I feel my lips twitch into a smile as you ask how my day was.
"Day from hell," I reply. "Until now."
After unwinding my scarf from around my neck and shrugging off my coat, I take one of the mugs from you. You grab it back from me and hand me the one from your other hand.
"This one's yours," you say. "With cinnamon. Mine's plain."
My smile widens as I take a sip. "God, I love you."
"Good?" you ask with a grin, as if you don't already know the answer.
By the time we make it to the sofa, curled up in a tangle of limbs under a blanket, so close that I can barely tell where one of us ends and the other ends, I have finally warmed up. The television flickers in front of us. When I kiss you, you taste like the toffee popcorn we're sharing.
I open my mouth to speak but you get in before me. "Let me guess, you're reminded of our first kiss?"
"How did you know?" I say, rolling my eyes.
"My love," you reply. "You say it every time we have popcorn. After five years, I've come to expect it."
"Sorry for being predictable."
At this, you lift your hand to tenderly touch my face, thumb grazing my bottom lip.
"Not predictable," you say softly. "Familiar. Like home."
I tilt my head towards you but before I can kiss you, you turn your head away. You twist around, nearly spilling our bowl of popcorn, and grab something from behind you. When you turn back to me, I see that it is a small black box.
"Oh my God," I breathe. My head starts spinning. Is this what I think it is?
"I would make an elaborate speech, throw in a few cliché romantic gestures, but I know you'd tell me off for being too dramatic, so I'll leave it at this. I love you. It has been a privilege being loved by you and now I am asking for the even greater privilege of being your husband. So, please, will you marry me?"
You open the box, revealing a silver ring adorned with a single diamond. I look from the ring to your face, seeing your eyes wide, hopeful, loving. In some way, I have always known that it would come to this. No matter what, we were always going to end up here. I don't have to think twice as I answer: "Yes! I love you. Yes, of course I'll marry you."
I'm smiling so wide my cheeks ache as you slip the ring onto my finger. When I throw my arms around you, burying my face in the crook of your neck, I start to cry. You hold me, and I think maybe you're crying too, because when you pull away to look at me, your eyes are red-rimmed.
"Happy tears?" you ask with a smile mirroring mine.
"The happiest tears," I answer. "I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you."
