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You two have had the conversation before, as pillow talk, over candlelit dinners, at red lights. Angel counted the days, she etched tally marks over her heart. When the blessed day neared, she had planned it like an assassination. She was careful, attentive, her eye for detail made it that much more special.
Angel had a ring – custom cut, vintage, whispered over in a private Zurich boutique. She had a setting, a rooftop, a sunset, even the music she hated but you absolutely adored. It was no Sabrina Carpenter, but today was about you, your shitty bedroom pop you loved so much, and the promise of a future together.
To add fuel to the fire, she even had a backup ring in case the first one felt “too sentimental” mid-proposal and she panicked.
Maria de la Rosa, fashion's most composed creature, was spiraling, to say the least.
“Ma’am...” Her assistant muttered, watching her pace, “...you’ve rehearsed this fifty-seven times.”
Angel froze in her tracks.
“This is someone who knows your knife drawer, and still loves you. You’re fine.”
The blonde only blinked. Once. Twice.
Then grabbed the champagne bottle like it was holy.
You thought it was a date night. To say you were painfully unaware of her agony would be an understatement.
Nothing unusual – you knew how Angel had a thing for “surprise elegance”. It was in her veins, she just adored them, and you knew that all too well. Rooftop dinners. Private viewings. A yacht once, where she’d punched a paparazzi drone. You were sure you’ve fallen in love with her completely anew that time.
Tonight? It was a rooftop garden strung with fairy lights.
She greeted you in ivory silk, like a painting you weren’t allowed to touch. Her lipstick was faint, subtle, natural. Her hands were ice.
“You okay...?” You asked, kissing her cheek adoringly.
“Perfect.”
She was lying.
Dinner was candlelit, of course. You laughed about her chef’s over-designed appetizers (“This carrot is wearing couture...” you whispered). She smiled, but her hands kept twitching under the table. Angel refused to tell you why.
You reached for her.
“What’s going on with you tonight?”
She looked like a kid you’d caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“Nothing.” She lied.
Pause.
“Fuck. No, I’m sorry...Everything.”
You just blinked at her, confused. Her icy blue eyes were glassy, her lips parted like a breath caught mid-confession. It tugged at your heartstrings in the worst ways possible, you just wanted to reach within your chest and rip them clean off.
“I need to tell you something...” She started, pulling a velvet box from her pocket slowly, like it might just detonate. “...I love you. I love you in ways I’m not supposed to. I feel you in places I thought were dead. You make me feel…”
Her voice cracked, and you could swear your heart did too.
You sat frozen, mouth agape. She just shut the box.
“I can’t do this.” She whispered, her eyes darting around wildly, like a cornered, wounded animal, looking for an exit.
Then, all of a sudden, she just stood up and bolted.
Oh, what the fuck?
She ran.
Maria de la Rosa ran, and she ran like no tomorrow. You silently cursed at yourself for skipping P.E. all of those years in highschool, you could barely keep up with that force of a woman.
Your lungs were threatening to implode, but she kept on running. Down the stairs, heels clicking like gunfire, hair flying like silk smoke behind her.
But what else could you do, if not chase her?
“Angel!”
She didn’t stop.
“Maria de la fucking Rosa! Wait!”
You caught her at the loading dock, half-lit in the orange glow of the alley lights, chest heaving like she’d just survived a shootout.
You inched closer, every step felt like death, and you could barely speak through gasped breaths.
She turned away.
“You weren’t supposed to chase me.” She said, voice shaking.
You blinked, hands on your knees as you slowly regained your composure. “Did you want me to let you run off god knows where?”
She didn’t answer.
So you tried again. Softer. “Why’d you run? Talk to me, my love.”
“Because if you say no,” She breathed, “I won’t kill you, but I might never recover.”
You stepped close enough to touch her.
“Angel. Look at me. Angel?”
She didn’t look up.
So you cupped her face, gently, like she was glass and rage and fear all at once.
“I’m not going to say no.”
“You might.”
“I will not.”
She hesitated.
Then pulled the ring box out again.
She didn’t kneel. She didn’t even hold it out properly. Angel just opened it, hand trembling, eyes wet with unspoken fears.
“I don’t know how to be soft without bleeding, but I also don’t know how to be without you.”
You swallowed.
“Are you proposing?”
“I’m fucking panicking.” She hissed.
“Same thing, in your case.”
You reached down.
Took the ring.
Slid it on.
“Then… won’t you marry me too?” You whispered.
She stared.
Then laughed.
A sound like champagne flutes breaking, like waves crashing over rocks, like everything you’ve ever wanted in this life. You couldn’t do without hearing that laugh every day for the rest of your life, now that you’ve heard it once.
“You’re unbelievable.” She cooed, sniffling.
“And yet, you’re stuck with me.”
Then she kissed you like she was drowning. And maybe she was.
But at least now, you were both underwater.
Together.
The ring glittered in the dark like a secret you both chose to tell. And later, wrapped in a blanket on her couch, she stared at your joined hands.
“You’re sure?” She whispered.
You just kissed her temple.
“You love me like you’re ready to die for it, Mrs. de la Rosa.”
“I do.”
“Then yes.”
She looked up. “Yes?”
You smiled. “Yes to everything. To you. To your weird ass taxidermy falcon. To the weird alarms and murder-girl skincare line.”
She closed her eyes, then whispered:
“…I love you so much it makes me stupid.”
“Good.” You said. “Because you’re marrying stupid.”
She smiled.
And for once, Angel looked completely, terrifyingly, incandescently happy.