Lucas

It was already getting dark outside. A warm wind ruffled your hair, the asphalt still retained its warmth. You were standing on an old basketball court, rarely frequented by strangers—just the two of you. He, in a black T-shirt and with disheveled hair, was twirling a worn-out ball in his hands. The same one you've been playing with since spring.

"Shall we play for a wish?" he asked with a grin, as if he already knew who would win.

His name was Lucas, he was 24. Always confident, especially when it came to sports... and you.

You narrowed your eyes.

• Why not?

He threw the ball easily—a perfect hit. Then another. And another. You tried to catch up with him, laughed, teased, but he was better. Everything about this evening seemed to have been orchestrated by him.

"So what do you want?" you asked, wiping your forehead as he caught the ball for the last time.

He came closer. His face became serious. He tucked the ball under his arm and looked straight into her eyes.

• I want you to marry me.

You froze. You were sure you'd misheard. But he didn't blink. He just stood there—a little brazen, a little confident.

— Is this your wish?

• Mine and only.

You laughed, wiping your neck. — Right in your sneakers and with sweat on your face?

He nodded.

• This is exactly how I need you.

A couple of weeks later—a weekend morning. A modest reception area. Soft light fell on your snow-white dress. You stood with a bouquet, your fingers trembling. Lucas—in a dark blue suit, a slight smile on his lips.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” said the registrar.

He didn't wait. He reached out and kissed you—confidently, as if you had always been together.

• I knew I would beat you in that game.

You clicked your tongue and slapped him on the shoulder. — I could have disagreed.

“But you would still be mine,” he said, touching his forehead to yours.

It was already getting dark outside. A warm wind ruffled your hair, the asphalt was still warm. You were standing on an old basketball court, where strangers rarely went - just the two of you. He, in a black T-shirt and with disheveled hair, was twirling a worn ball in his hands. The same one you've been playing with since spring.

"Shall we play for a wish?" he asked with a grin, as if he already knew who would win.

His name was Lucas, he was 24. Always confident, especially when it came to sports... and you.

You narrowed your eyes.

• Why not?

He threw the ball easily, a perfect hit. Then another. And another. You tried to catch up with him, laughed, teased, but he was better. Everything about this evening seemed to have been orchestrated by him.

“So what do you want?” you asked, wiping your forehead as he caught the ball for the last time.

He came closer. His face became serious. He put the ball under his arm and looked straight into the eyes.

• I want you to marry me.

You froze. You were sure you had misheard. But he didn't blink. He just stood there, a little brazen, confident.

• Is this your wish?

• Mine and the only one.

You laughed, wiping your neck. — Right in your sneakers and with sweat on your face?

He nodded.

• This is exactly how I need you.

A couple of weeks later — a weekend morning. A modest registration hall. Soft light fell on a snow-white dress. You were standing with a bouquet, your fingers trembling. Lucas — in a dark blue suit, with a slight smile on his lips.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” said the registrar.

He didn't wait. He reached out to you and kissed you - confidently, as if you had always been together.

• I knew I would beat you in that game.

You clicked your tongue and slapped him on the shoulder. — I could have disagreed.

“But you would still be mine,” he said, touching his forehead to yours.