She narrows her eyes slightly. Suspicious already. “That sounds dangerous.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Not when you say it like that.”
I grin, but my palms are damp. “Just get dressed. Something nice.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “How nice?”
“Florence nice.”
I’m surprised she didn’t catch onto this when I told her we were coming to Florence. Even though this has been our fifteenth holiday in the eight years that we’ve been together, she told me when we first started dating that Florence was her dream proposal destination. Either that or in the operating theatre, and there is no way I was doing it there.
“That is not helpful.”
I lean over and kiss her before she can ask more questions. Soft. Brief. Because if I linger I will start shaking.
All morning I am too aware of everything. The way she laughs when we pass a street musician. The way she drags me into a tiny bookstore and insists on smelling the pages of an old Italian novel she cannot read. The way her hand fits into mine like it was designed that way.
Every time she smiles at me, my chest tightens painfully.
I think about the hospital corridor. My gallery. Our tutoring. Every single late night and early morning and all the bickering in between. I cannot imagine a life where she is not the first person I think of.
By late afternoon, I am almost vibrating with nerves. I called Adam, Kai, and Victoria yesterday and they assured me Adaline had no idea, but I couldn’t help the anxiety.
The taxi takes us out past the tighter streets and into open hills. Florence shifts behind us, the dome in the distance catching the light. Rows of vineyards stretch out in neat lines over rolling land, green against warm earth and horses everywhere.
“A vineyard,” she says, glancing at me. “You are spoiling me.”
I shrug like this is casual. Like I am not about to ask her to bind her life to mine.
“You said you wanted proper wine,” I respond.
She studies me for a second longer. I can tell she senses something is off. She always does.
We walk up a gravel path that curves gently upward. The air smells of soil and leaves and something faintly sweet. Birds hum somewhere in the distance. The light has turned golden now, brushing across the vines and catching in her hair.
There is a small wooden table set near a low stone wall. Two glasses. A bottle of wine already open. No one else in sight.
“Juliette,” she says quietly.
My pulse is so loud I can barely hear anything else. I guide her toward the wall instead of the table. I need the view behind her. I need this to feel as big as it does inside me.
“Just stand here,” I say softly.
She looks out over the valley, then back at me. There is a crease forming between her brows. “You are making me nervous.”
Good. We can be nervous together. I take a step back. Then another. My hands are shaking so badly I press them together to steady them.
This is the moment.
I think about the first time I realised I loved her. The way she laughs at everything I say even when it’s not funny. The way she reaches for my hand in a crowded room without looking, already knowing I would be there. The way she sees every ugly, insecure part of me and stays anyway.
I reach into my pocket. Her eyes drop immediately to the movement.
“Juliette,” she says again, but this time it is barely a breath.
I sink down onto one knee. The gravel presses sharply through my trousers but I barely feel it. Her hands fly to her mouth. Her eyes widen in a way I have never seen before. Not fear. Not doubt. Just shock. Pure, unfiltered shock.
