“He comes to her. Sometimes, in their arguments, words no longer reach her. What she needs are his hands. And his attention. And his eyes looking into hers. It slows time to a manageable pace. Makes her feel less like a careening top on the verge of falling.
“I am proposing,” he says “because I love you. I love your mind. I love your body. I love your infuriating skepticism and your need for space. I love the way you throw your head back when you laugh. And I don’t want to ever be without you.”
She blinks. “Right,” she says, “well, I could certainly get behind that.”