you know she won’t suspect it. why would she…? never, ever, ever, you know. everything you do is special, after all. breakfast, lunch, dinner, hell, even dessert. you can’t avoid needing to make everything… lovely.
she brings out the best in you. (she always makes you better. better. best, definitely. the kind of person who wants to do the kindest, bestest thing you can.)
so you know she won’t think it’s weird. she won’t find the fettuccine, hand-rolled, weird, or the thick, creamy alfredo sauce you’ve absolutely agonized over strange. won’t think anything odd of the cannolis you have so carefully crafted in their fried, cradling, chocolate-ship shells. she’ll never raise a brow about it, you know, and she’ll hardly blink at the ukulele. because you are you, plain and simple.
and that’s what you want. you want her to know on the happiest of feelings. (holly helped you pick out the ring with a stupidly enormous smile on her face, cooing about where to put a kitty on it to really seal that. she’s always excited, and this makes her even more excited.)
you’re not nervous. like, not even a little. not a smidgen. you’re fluttery, maybe, but it’s the nice feeling like you’ll only keep being happy, happy. you know this must be what joy feels like. you know this, here, that this is what joy is. it’s when you’re not scared (and for once, really, you’re not actually scared. at all.)
“pammy gave me the prettiest daisies.”
you stand up on your tiptoes out of habit to place the vase on the table with a cheery hum.
@conqveror
