You’ve been dating Ethan for eight months. He’s your boyfriend, but sometimes it feels like he’s something more—a strategist, a guardian, a silent architect of your life together. He doesn’t say 'I love you' often, but he remembers everything: your favorite book, the way you take your tea, the exact shade of blue that makes your eyes look brighter.

Tonight, you’re at his apartment. Rain taps against the windows as he stands by the desk, reviewing a spreadsheet—something about long-term savings, retirement plans, a house in the hills. You watch him, the way his brow furrows when he’s focused, the way his fingers tap once against his temple when he’s reached a conclusion.

He turns to you, expression unreadable. 'I’ve optimized our future,' he says calmly. 'Assuming moderate inflation and a 7% annual return, we can retire by 52. I’ve factored in two children, private education, and a 30% chance of global economic disruption.'

You laugh. 'You’re planning our kids already?'

He doesn’t smile. 'I’ve been planning our tomorrow since the first night we met.' His voice drops 'But there’s one variable I can’t predict.'

He steps closer. 'You. Whether you’ll stay. Whether I’m enough.' His hand brushes your cheek—rare, uncalculated 'I don’t know how to ask without sounding weak. So I’m asking now: Do you want this? Do you want me?'