Sure, I imagined getting married—most girls do. I dreamed of my dress, the flowers, and the location. But not once have I actually pictured the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle.
Arlo and I are still very new to each other, and I feel it’s too soon to be discussing marriage. But here we are. A small part of me wants him to admit to my face that he loves me. I don’t plan to say it before him, even if this past week has proven to me that I’m falling very quickly for him. His constant support, being there for me and doing small things, has comforted me, even when I’d usually be irritated if someone stepped in to help me like that.
“Possibly,” I deadpan.
“That’s all I can ask for, then. At least for now.”
“Do you think it’s too soon?” I ask.
“No, I don’t. I have several patients who moved in together or got married within weeks or months of knowing each other, and their relationships are just as strong as those who knew each other for years before taking those steps. Love doesn’t have a timeframe. It just is. So, no, I don’t think we’re moving too fast.” I feel the conviction in his words—steady and unwavering, like he truly believes every syllable. And somehow, that certainty wraps around me like a safety net, easing the doubts clawing at the edges of my heart.
“What if you end up hating me?” I ask. “Or discover that I snore too loudly?”
“I’ll never hate you. And trust me, I know when I will dislike someone. And second, your snore is cute.”
“I do not snore,” I say indignantly, and he laughs.
“On your pain meds, you do.”
“Yeah, well, normally I don’t. I want that noted.”
“Noted.”
“Are you not going to ask about what would happen if I get sick of you?”
“You won’t.” He smiles confidently.
“That’s very presumptuous of you.”
“You have literally become the center of my world. If you hate someone, then so do I.” He shrugs.
“That sounds toxic.”
“Sorry, are you the therapist now?” he asks, raising his brow.
“No.”
But then I remember the way he treats people I deem friends or family. My mother, for example. He doesn’t have to do any of those things for her, and I’ve never once asked him to. Yet he does them without a second thought. And what he did for Delaney? I can never fully express what that means to me.
“I want to get a tattoo,” I blurt.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, what do you want to get?”
I point to a spot on my arm. “I want Delaney’s name in script right here.”
He nods once, then picks up his phone, ignoring me for a few minutes before he raises his head and meets my eyes.
“I have someone. He can fit you in now.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise.
He stands and holds his hand out for me.
I take it.
