Disclaimer in chapter one.
29. Could This Be The Day?
Every year is the same.
A single red rose on her bed on Valentine's Day.
Every year is the same.
She scoffs and throws it away (or gives it to one of her swooning roommates).
Every year is not this year.
He walks straight up to her, rose in hand, his eyes dark, intense, watching. Watching her. Only her. The looks from their peers go unnoticed; the rest of the world fades to grey.
He leans close and whispers in her ear.
Marry me.
