Offer from the price

You and Price were partners. You'd been working together for a couple of years now—you'd been through so much that sometimes it felt like you could read each other's minds. In battle, he'd have your back, and you'd always find a way out of the most perplexing situations. After challenging missions, you'd stop by that same coffee shop near the office—he'd always get an Americano, you'd get a cinnamon latte.

The relationship between you was... calm, so to speak. No drama, no unnecessary words—just a reliable shoulder to lean on. You'd grown accustomed to his pen-clicking habit during meetings, the way he winced when tasting your coffee, his signature smirk when a plan worked. And he seemed to no longer notice how you straightened his shirt collar before important meetings or saved him the last croissant from the bakery.

Everything was going as usual, until one day...

It was a typical Thursday. Rain pounded the office windows, reports piled high on the desk, and you were arguing over who'd forgotten to close the window in the conference room. Price suddenly stopped mid-sentence and looked at you—and his gaze was somehow unfamiliar, as if he were truly seeing you for the first time.

A couple of minutes later, he returned, holding a slightly disheveled bouquet. Simple wildflowers, tied with a thin ribbon. It was clear he had chosen them not in a fancy salon, but somewhere at a small market on his way to work.

He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, cleared his throat and blurted out:

• Listen... Will you be my girlfriend?

Price asked you out.