Morse thought about that night for weeks, turning it over in his mind. What he'd caught himself thinking, and what Tuesday had said to him. He never thought he'd want to get married, really; it didn't seem like his lot in life. But here she was, this fantastic, impossible woman, and what other option did he have? He loved her more than he thought he'd ever love another person. He wanted to be with her, if not forever, then indefinitely. He couldn't see an end, and he didn't want to.
Those were the reasons people got married, weren't they?
And then, when he thought he'd pieced it all together, made solid, logical steps, he looked down at his hands. He imagined a band on his left hand, and his stomach did a flip.
Well, he thought. That decides it.
So he started thinking about how to do it.
Tuesday wouldn't want anything showy; he knew that much. No bended knee. She'd want to choose her own ring, if she wanted one at all, so no black box. No diamond, he guessed. Something smaller, dearer for Tuesday. And what was he, a schoolgirl dreaming about his wedding day? He shook his head and smiled at his own small joke.
He was sitting at his desk, twirling a pen between his right forefinger and thumb. His chin rested on his left hand as he leaned forward lazily, lost in the thought.
God, he couldn't think about her in a white dress. That would kill him.
Morse prided himself on being a patient man. But in this matter, he proved to be quite brash. He hadn't been this nervous since his days as a student, when he could sense he didn't belong, and still cared. In the years since, he'd lost the desire to fit in, the sense of shame he used to carry for being a bit odd. But it had returned, in a way. It was the anxiety of waiting for the perfect moment.
He wasn't worried, though. He knew she loved him as much as he loved her; he knew she'd say yes.