Ink and Heartstrings

62. A Tender Yes

The ring still sat on the table between them.

Not because Maria hadn't accepted it she had, with shaking hands and tears that startled even her but because she kept looking at it as if it were a question she hadn't finished answering yet.

Alan noticed.

He always did.

She was curled up beside him on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, absentmindedly tracing circles on his sleeve. Her expression wasn't distant exactly just... busy. Like her thoughts were pacing.

Finally, she sighed. Loudly. Deliberately.

Alan smiled without looking up.
"That sounded important."

Maria groaned and dropped her head back against the cushion.

"I feel cheated."

He turned to her, amused. "Cheated?"

"Yes," she said, sitting up suddenly. "You proposed. You did the kneeling. The ring. The whole moment. Everyone saw it. Everyone cried. It was perfect." She paused, then frowned. "Which is the problem."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "Ah. Of course."

She pointed at him. "You always do this. You make grand gestures and then expect me to just... accept them like a normal person."

"I thought accepting meant saying yes," he said gently.

"I did say yes," she replied quickly. "Obviously. I'd say yes even if you proposed with a sticky note and a borrowed pen."

"That's reassuring."

"But," she continued, voice softening, "marriage is not just being chosen. It's choosing back. And I don't want my choosing to be silent."

That made him still.

Maria rarely spoke like this unless it mattered deeply.

Alan leaned closer. "So what are you saying?"

She hesitated, then smiled nervous, thoughtful, unmistakably Maria.

"I want to propose to you too."

He blinked.

"You... already did," he said carefully. "By saying yes."

She shook her head. "That was consent. Not intention."

He laughed quietly, but there was something tender behind it. "You've been thinking about this."

"For days," she admitted. "And I hate every idea I come up with."

Alan chuckled. "That tracks."

"I don't want a crowd," she said. "Or a ring. Or a speech that sounds like it came from a movie." She gestured vaguely. "I don't want symbolism that feels borrowed."

She looked at him now, really looked.

"I want it to sound like me."

Alan's smile faded into something softer. "Then complain to me. That's usually where your best ideas come from."

She huffed. "Fine. I'm annoyed because every proposal feels like a performance. Like love has to be proved instead of lived. And after everything after hiding, after fear, after almost losing myself I don't want to promise you forever in a way that ignores who I actually am."

Her voice dropped.

"I want to promise you honestly."

Alan reached for her hand.

"Maria," he said quietly, "you already do that. Every day."

She squeezed his fingers.

"Yes. Exactly." Her eyes lit up. "That's it."

He frowned slightly. "What's it?"

"My proposal," she said. "It's not an event. It's a moment. A sentence. Something that doesn't trap us into who we think we'll be, but holds space for who we'll become."

She stood up suddenly, pacing the room, words tumbling out faster now.

"I don't want to say 'forever' like it's a guarantee. I want to say 'again.' As in....I choose you again. Even when it's hard. Even when I'm scared. Even when I don't recognize myself."

Alan felt his chest tighten.

She stopped pacing and faced him.

"So when I propose," she said, "I don't want you kneeling. I want you sitting. With me. On the floor. Or the couch. Or the kitchen counter at 2 a.m."

She smiled faintly.

"And I'll say:
Will you keep choosing me, even on the days I forget how to choose myself?
And will you let me choose you .....not because I'm afraid of losing you, but because I want to walk toward you, every time?"

The room went quiet.

Alan swallowed.

"That's... unfair," he said hoarsely.

She blinked. "Why?"

"Because now," he said, standing and pulling her into his arms, "I'm already saying yes......and you haven't even officially proposed yet."

She laughed against his chest, the sound light and real.

"Good," she murmured. "Then I'm doing it right."

They stayed like that for a while no ring, no audience, no script.

Just two people sitting in the truth of what they were choosing.

Again.