Time, when kind, doesn't come crashing in. It drifts softly — like sunlight filtered through curtains, like laughter shared in quiet bookstores, or fingers brushing lightly when reaching for the same pen.
Daniel and Ira had fallen into something like that. Not the jarring, heart-racing love of grand gestures, but the steady, comforting kind that grew in everyday things — in shared playlists, coffee runs, and warm silences.
They held hands more easily now, rested heads on shoulders without thinking twice. There were no labels exchanged, but their hearts had made the declaration long before their lips did.
Two months passed in this gentle rhythm.
One Saturday, Daniel messaged her:
"Wear something comfortable. And maybe a little pretty — if you want. I have plans."
Ira, curious and amused, sent back:
"You trying to kidnap me or impress me?"
"Both."
She wore a navy blue dress that swayed with the wind. He arrived in a button-down shirt and jeans, hair messily brushed and eyes sparkling with something he wasn't saying.
They drove to a quiet little restaurant — not expensive, not fancy. The kind of place where the napkins were mismatched and the music too loud.
And yet, they laughed more there than they had in a long time.
Daniel slurped noodles. Ira stole fries off his plate. At one point, he laughed so hard he nearly dropped his spoon. She giggled with sauce on the corner of her lips.
It wasn't elegant — it was them.
It was real.
After dinner, Daniel didn't drive home.
Instead, they went uphill, winding through narrow roads lit only by the car's headlights. Ira peeked out the window, confused but curious.
"Where are we going? You better not be taking me to a haunted forest," she joked.
Daniel smiled. "You'll see."
They stopped at a clearing on a quiet hill, where the city lights looked like faded lanterns far below. Above them, the stars sparkled — bright and bold.
Ira stepped out and gasped.
"Oh my god…" she whispered, turning in slow circles. "This is beautiful."
Daniel watched her — not the stars.
She turned back to him. "How did you find this place?"
"I used to come here when I needed to breathe," he said softly. "And now… I want to breathe with you."
She stared at him.
And then, slowly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.
"Ira…"
Her breath hitched.
Daniel got on one knee.
"I don't have the perfect words, or the perfect plan. I just know that when I'm with you, I feel whole. You make life soft again. You make me want to believe in beginnings, not just endings."
He opened the box.
"Ira Heart, will you marry me?"
For a second, she froze.
Then she burst out laughing — through tears — and dropped to her knees in front of him, hugging him tightly.
"You idiot," she whispered, voice cracking. "Of course I will."
Daniel laughed against her shoulder, teary-eyed himself.
They stayed like that, kneeling under the stars, holding each other in a moment too perfect to ever recreate.
Then, gently, he took the ring and slid it onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
She looked down at it, then up at him — the man who had seen her at her most vulnerable, loved her without expectation, and offered her a future not built on past pain, but present love.
They kissed — slow, soft, sure.
And the stars, as if they too were celebrating, seemed to shine just a little brighter.