He kept asking me out—always in that teasing, half-serious way. And today, he said it again, like it was the most natural thing in the world:
"So… let's meet this weekend. Your treat."
I said yes.
Too quickly.
I told myself it was harmless. What could really go wrong? Maybe I was the only one reading into it. Maybe, to him, this was nothing—just another casual plan, just another colleague, just another drink. Maybe I was the only one feeling… this.
Our colleagues overheard us. Of course they did. They always do.
"So where are you guys going?" someone asked, smirking.
And before I could even think of an answer, he said—so easily, so casually—
"Oh! She's giving me a treat. She just got engaged."
Engaged.
Yes. I am.
To the man I've loved for five years. The man who knows me, who chose me, who I chose back—again and again.
For a second, I thought that would be it. That he'd laugh it off, cancel the plan, create distance where it suddenly felt necessary.
But he didn't.
And neither did I.
Later, as I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing moisturizer over my skin, I caught my own reflection lingering… longer than it should. My hands moved slower, more deliberate. My heart, louder.
And a question slipped in—quiet, dangerous, impossible to ignore:
Why am I getting ready like this… for him?