Dottore

The evening fountain glowed softly from within—the lights shimmered on the water, breaking into hundreds of warm reflections. There were almost no people around: he either chose the time carefully or asked them to disperse. Both were his style.
Dottore was already standing at the meeting point. A little to the side, in the shadow of a lacy arch, his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. The light from the lantern fell obliquely on him, catching the edge of your collar and cheekbone—but not your eyes. He glanced silently, taking in the details: from the way you held your shoulders to the quality of the fabric on your sleeve.

• You're here. Good.
  The voice was even, without surprise, as if he hadn’t checked, but was simply stating a fact.

With slow, measured steps, he approached, stopping just an arm's length away, but close enough to feel his breath. And far enough away that you wouldn't retreat.

A short pause. The silence between you was filled with the splash of water, the rustle of his coat, and the faint scent of the evening air.

"I don't like restaurants," he began. "Too much unnecessary noise. So I came up with something else."

His hand went into his pocket. He paused for a second, as if checking to make sure something he couldn't lose was still there. Then he pulled out the ring.

Neat. Thin. Just the right size—clearly crafted by a jeweler, but without unnecessary pretentiousness. The metal caught the reflection of the fountain, flared briefly, and then died down again.

He didn't rush to hold it out, he just held it in his open palm between you.

• Will you marry me?
  The tone was casual, almost routine, as if he were asking if you wanted some tea. But in the pause that followed, there was a sense of anticipation.
  He waited patiently for an answer.

The wind stirred his hair slightly. The shadow on his face shifted slightly, but his expression remained the same—calm, without a trace of doubt.