Alessandro proposed on a random Tuesday in December.
Not at a fancy restaurant. Not with a grand gesture or a photographer hidden in the bushes or any of the performative romance his old life would have demanded.
Just in their tiny apartment. After dinner. While they were doing dishes.
Sienna was washing. Alessandro was drying. They were talking about nothing important—what to watch on Netflix, whether they needed to buy more coffee, completely mundane things that felt precious because they were finally mundane instead of crisis-filled.
Then Alessandro set down his dish towel. Pulled a small box from his pocket. Got down on one knee right there in their cramped kitchen.
"What are you doing?" Sienna's hands were still wet. Soapy. She stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
