They met properly over a printer jam. She’d laughed at his muttered curses, taken the machine apart in seconds, and handed him his documents like it was nothing. Her hands smelled faintly of lavender lotion. He remembered thinking—absurdly, irreversibly—That’s her. I’ll marry her.
Over coffee a week later, she told him she had no family. Her voice was steady, but the shadows behind her eyes didn’t match the small smile. An accident, she explained—cars, fire, final goodbyes swallowed by sirens. She’d taken care of herself ever since. And he had never alluded to the subject since. What mattered was her.