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where the lights burn low and you're only mine

"Axelle Celine Muse, will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

The beautiful backdrop of Musée Rodin faded into the background; the candles that danced along the sculptures, the delicate white rose petals scattered on the floor, the statues of lovers forever locked in a kiss, mirroring their own love. All of it was gone in an instant when he dropped to one knee before her.

His question stole her breath, but it was his eyes that made her heart stop and then thunder in her chest wildly, unraveling her.

The eyes that she'd painted endlessly, each brushstroke an attempt to capture the galaxies within the depths of his swirling brown irises. Eyes that were stars in her own personal sky, eyes that saw right into her soul from the very first moment, hungry to discover every nook and cranny, every light and shadow. Eyes that spoke a thousand words.

Eyes of the man who loved her - and whom she loved back irrevocably.

Their love bloomed beyond the limits of the arrangement, shattering their carefully arranged little worlds that they'd curated so meticulously all their lives.

They'd endured every obstacle. They'd walked into a storm, and came out of it with their fingers intertwined. That relentless storm now seemed like a journey worth every thorn that pricked her skin and every shard that pierced her heart, for it was him who'd gathered every broken piece to help her rise anew.

Now the hands that had held her together when everything was falling apart, held a ring meant for her finger, a symbol to tell the world the undeniable truth: she was his, and he was hers.

No decision had been easier.

"Yes," she spoke as her hands cradled his face.

She loved him desperately, violently, tenderly, completely. That was the only truth she'd be sure of for the rest of her life.