"Is there any problem. Wait are you secretly married to someone? Or maybe you have a secret family stashed away somewhere?" I asked, half-joking, half-serious. Mark's eyes flashed with amusement, but there was a hint of something else behind them - a shadow of concern perhaps? "No, nothing quite so dramatic," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "But there are things about me, about my past, that you don't know. Things that might change how you feel about... all this." He gestured vaguely towards the ring box on the coffee table. I reached out, taking his hand in mine. His fingers were long and strong, calloused from years of playing the guitar, a hobby he'd picked up in college and never quite let go of. I traced the lines of his palm, feeling the rough texture beneath my fingertips. "Mark," I said, my voice steady and sure, "I've known you for six months. I've seen you at your best, and I've seen you at your worst. I've seen you drunk off your ass after a particularly grueling week at work, and I've seen you sobbing like a baby over a goddamn puppy movie. I've seen you naked, Mark. Not just physically, but emotionally bare, laid out before me like a map of your soul. And I've loved every inch of it. So whatever it is you think might scare me off, whatever skeletons you have lurking in your closet, I can handle it. I want to handle it. Because that's what this is about, isn't it? Us, together, through thick and thin, come hell or high water." My thumb brushed against the pulse point at his wrist, feeling the steady beat of his heart. His eyes searched mine, looking for any sign of doubt, of hesitation. But he wouldn't find any. "Its not that easy Em. This is the decision of lifetime. And after marraiges, there are no break up, just divorces," Mark said, his voice heavy with a gravity that made my stomach twist into knots. I squeezed his hand, my grip firm and reassuring. "Then let's make sure we get it right the first time," I replied, my voice steady despite the butterflies dancing in my stomach. Mark's gaze softened, and he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of my ear, the line of my jaw, as if committing every detail to memory. "Alright then," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "But you should know, Emily, I'm not... vanilla," Mark continued, his voice dropping to a low, almost hesitant timbre. His eyes held mine captive, searching for any flicker of uncertainty or fear. But I met his gaze steadily, my curiosity piqued rather than deterred.