Anna always believed that love showed up in the small, quiet moments—not grand gestures. Mark, it turned out, was fluent in those.
It started with how he always remembered her coffee order—almond milk, no sugar, extra hot. Or how he'd send her random memes in the middle of a work crisis just to make her laugh. He once drove across town just to bring her a charger she'd forgotten before a big presentation.
Their weekends became a routine of unremarkable joy: grocery runs, cooking together, watching terrible reality TV ironically (and then unironically), and letting their new puppy, Benny, take over the bed they swore he wouldn't touch.
One lazy Sunday morning, they were in the kitchen, music playing low, breakfast half-cooked and fully chaotic.
Anna stood at the counter, chopping onions with exaggerated effort. Mark turned from the stove, eyes watering from the onion fumes.
He groaned dramatically. "Why do onions hate me?"
She giggled. "Because you treat them like enemies."
He squinted at her, waving the fumes away. "You know, I think I love you."
Anna paused, the knife mid-air. "You think?"
Mark looked up, eyes still red but smiling. "Okay. Fine. I know I love you."
She set the knife down and turned toward him. "I love you too."
There was no music swelling in the background, no dramatic tension. Just sunlight through the kitchen window, the smell of burning toast, and the look in Mark's eyes like he'd just said the truest thing he'd ever known.
It was a moment they'd both remember—not because it was big, but because it was real.
Later that night, curled up on the couch with Benny snoring between them, Anna whispered, "Do you ever feel like this is too easy?"
Mark looked over. "I think it's supposed to be—when it's right."