117

117


The first morning Ben moved in, Isabel woke to the soft sound of someone humming in the kitchen. She rubbed her eyes, sunlight spilling through the blinds, and for a moment, the world didn’t make sense—until she remembered. Ben was here. In her home. With her. Not as a title, not as a crown, just him.

She padded down the stairs in her slippers, hair tousled, still half-asleep. Ben looked up from the frying pan he was holding, and smiled. That smile—the one that had made her heart stop in quiet rooms and crowded halls alike—was softer now, more private. It was theirs.

“Morning,” he said, voice low but full of warmth.

“Morning,” she replied, leaning against the doorframe. “You cook breakfast now?”

“Every morning,” he said, shrugging. “You feed me, I feed you. Fair trade.”

Isabel laughed, the sound light and easy, and stepped into the kitchen. He handed her a plate of scrambled eggs with just the right amount of seasoning. It was ordinary. It was perfect.

Days turned into weeks. They settled into a rhythm, a life made entirely of quiet moments that felt monumental simply because they shared them. They shopped for groceries together, arguing good-naturedly over the merits of fresh basil versus dried. They cooked side by side, sharing spoons, stealing tastes, laughing when one burnt something or the other forgot to turn off the stove.

At night, when the apartment was empty and the world felt far away, they danced. Not with music blaring, not with anyone watching, but with soft songs they played on their phones. Ben would pull her close in the living room, and they’d sway, barefoot, laughing when one of them stumbled or twirled too fast.

It was ordinary, and Isabel loved it fiercely.

Sometimes, though, the past crept back in, in dreams. Crowns. Swords. Cold corridors that stretched forever. Isabel would wake in a sweat, her chest tight, her fingers clutching the sheets as though holding onto some fragile life line. And Ben—Ben would be there, always. Arms wrapped around her, warm and steady. He would hum softly until her breathing evened, lips pressing kisses to her temple, fingers threading through hers.

“You’re safe,” he would whisper. “I’m here. No crowns, no swords, no cold. Just us.”

She would close her eyes again and let him hold her, because it felt like finally, after so many lifetimes, she had a place to breathe.

And he had his own moments of quiet obsession. Isabel found him one afternoon with a pencil and sketchbook, sitting on the balcony, sun slanting over his shoulder. She leaned against the doorframe, curious.

“What are you drawing?” she asked softly.

He jumped slightly, turning the page to hide the sketch. She peeked anyway. It was her wedding veil. Her lilac, snowflake-pinned veil, soft in its folds, almost as if it could float off the page.

“I was… remembering,” he said, voice sheepish, not meeting her eyes.

“You drew my veil?” Isabel laughed, walking over. “You’ve always been hopelessly romantic, you know that?”

“I—maybe,” he admitted. “I just… I like remembering the things I love.”

She kissed his cheek, warm and teasing. “Well, I love that you remember me.”

It was in these quiet, domestic moments that they chose each other again, over and over. No titles. No pressure. No expectation. Just two people, two hearts, learning each other anew.

One random Tuesday morning, Isabel found herself brushing her teeth and staring at him from the bathroom doorway. Ben was making coffee in nothing but an old t-shirt and pajama bottoms, his hair sticking up in messy spikes. He looked utterly ordinary. And utterly perfect.

She grinned, toothpaste foam threatening to spill. She swallowed, rinsed, and took a deep breath.

“Ben,” she said softly.

He looked up from the counter. “Hmm?”

She took a step closer, heart thumping like it had the first time he had kissed her. “Will you… marry me?”

He blinked, as though he hadn’t heard her, and then his face broke into the easiest, most complete smile she had ever seen. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t question, didn’t stall. He just walked over, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her forehead.

“Yes,” he said simply, firmly, warmly. “Of course.”

Isabel laughed, relief and happiness bubbling up so fast it made her dizzy. “Even if it’s… teeth-brushing, morning, mess-of-a-hair kind of proposal?”

“Especially then,” he said. “Because it’s real. Because it’s us.”

They spent the rest of that morning wrapped in each other, talking in whispers, laughing softly at their own ridiculousness. And when they finally made coffee and sat at the small table by the window, hands entwined, it felt like a promise all over again—not forced, not grandiose, but simple and utterly theirs.

Weeks stretched into months, each day a small celebration of ordinary love. They held hands while grocery shopping. They argued over the thermostat. They left little notes for each other on the fridge, reminders that they were here, together, alive in each other’s lives.

One night, Ben tried to teach her how to cook pasta the way his mother had taught him. It ended in sauce on the floor and laughter echoing through the apartment. He chased her around the kitchen, holding a spoon like a sword, while she dodged with a towel as her shield. When they finally collapsed on the floor, breathless, they stared at the ceiling, leaning against each other, hearts still racing.

“This,” Isabel said softly, voice catching, “is better than anything I’ve ever dreamed.”

Ben kissed her temple, his arm tightening around her shoulders. “Better than anything I could’ve imagined too.”

It wasn’t just the small gestures. It was the way he held her when she cried quietly in the night. The way she pressed little notes into his pockets before he left for work. The way their laughter filled spaces that had once been hollow, the way they built something new out of old pain.

And when the next Tuesday came, she woke with a thought she couldn’t shake. She slipped out of bed before him, brushing her hair back, and found him sitting on the balcony with his sketchbook. She watched him, heart swelling, before speaking softly:

“Will you marry me again?”

He looked up, startled. And then he laughed, the kind of laugh that made her heart swell, and took her hand. “Again? Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

They kissed as the sun rose, warm and soft, painting their apartment in gold light. No crowns, no swords, no cold. Just them. Just love.

They were choosing each other, every day. And this time, they had all the time in the world.