Chosen
The future doesn't arrive with fireworks.
It shows up quietly—on a Tuesday afternoon, in the middle of a conversation about nothing important.
We're in Elliot's kitchen. Not the penthouse one—the smaller place he bought after stepping back, the one with imperfect light and too little counter space.
I'm chopping vegetables. He's pretending not to micromanage.
"You're doing it wrong," he says.
I don't look up. "I didn't ask for feedback."
A pause.
Then, softer: "May I offer a suggestion?"
I smile despite myself. "You may."
That's when it hits me.
Not the joke—the shift.
The way he asked.
Later that night, we sit on the couch, legs tangled, the city humming beyond the windows.
"I got an offer today," he says.
My chest tightens instinctively. "From where?"
"Myself," he replies.
I blink. "That sounds concerning."
He smiles faintly. "I'm starting something new. Smaller. Ethical. No empire."
"That's… big," I say.
"Yes," he agrees. "And I don't want to design it alone."
I turn toward him. "Are you asking me to work with you?"
"No," he says immediately. "I'm asking if you want to build a life that intersects with it."
The distinction matters.
I study him. The man who once spoke in ultimatums now chooses his words like they might break if handled carelessly.
"And if I say no?" I ask.
"Then I build it anyway," he says. "And I love you anyway."
The words settle deep.
Not dramatic. Not urgent.
Certain.
I swallow. "You're really doing this differently."
"I'm doing it honestly," he says. "Finally."
We don't move in together right away.
We choose each other in increments.
A toothbrush left behind.
A key exchanged.
A calendar slowly shared.
Commitment, without spectacle.
One evening, months later, he takes my hand as we walk through a park.
"I don't want to own you," he says.
I arch a brow. "Good start."
"I want to choose you," he continues. "Every day. And I want you to be free enough to choose me back."
I stop walking.
This—this is the proposal.
No ring. No knee.
Just truth.
I squeeze his hand. "I already am."