The morning melted into afternoon, and the world outside their apartment glowed with soft golden light.
After cleaning up breakfast—mostly Mark trying to convince Emily that he could handle the dishes—he disappeared into the bedroom for a moment and returned with his own small, carefully wrapped box.
Emily raised her brows, pleasantly surprised. "Another one? Are we competing now?"
He gave her a sly smile. "Not competing. Just returning the favor."
She opened the gift slowly, tugging the string ribbon free like she was unwrapping a sacred relic.
Inside was a custom sketchbook, its cover wrapped in deep blue faux leather with her name elegantly embossed in silver: Emily Hayward. Tucked inside the first page was a photo of them—one from their honeymoon, wind-blown and laughing, standing by a cliffside.
She traced her fingers over it softly.
"I know you've been needing somewhere for your new designs," he said, a bit awkwardly. "This one's for the next big collection."
Emily looked up at him, eyes shining. "I love it."
He leaned closer, voice low. "There's something else in the back."
She flipped through the pages—blank, waiting to be filled—until she reached the back pocket. Nestled inside was a slim card.
Paris Fashion Week – Guest Designer Invitation
Her lips parted.
"You pulled strings?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.
Mark shrugged like it was nothing, though he'd spent two weeks emailing and calling connections just to make it happen. "They'd be lucky to have you."
Emily stood there for a second, holding the card, the book, her breath—and then wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.
"God, I love you," she whispered against his chest.
"I know," he chuckled, kissing the top of her head. "I'm amazing."
By early evening, the two had set out for the city, hand in hand. Mark had planned a simple but thoughtful date: dinner at the place they'd had their first "official" outing—a small Italian bistro tucked between two bookshops downtown.
Nothing had changed in the three years. The menu still misspelled carbonara, the owner still wore a red scarf no matter the season, and the tiny fairy lights overhead still flickered like distant stars.
They sat at their usual table near the window.
Emily ordered her favorite creamy pasta, and Mark insisted on the wood-fired pizza. They talked about everything: work, dreams, old memories of the orphanage, and the absurdity of how far they'd come.
"Do you remember when we used to pretend the cracked sidewalk tiles were traps?" she said, sipping her wine.
He grinned. "And you pushed me onto one. Said you were testing if I was loyal."
"You passed," she said with a wink. "Barely."
After dinner, they walked slowly down the lamplit sidewalk, their fingers intertwined, warm and easy in each other's grasp.
Emily stopped at a street vendor selling handmade bracelets and picked one with green and silver beads. She looped it around Mark's wrist.
"Now we match."
"You're just marking your territory."
"Obviously."
They strolled past street musicians, took selfies under a flickering neon sign, and paused at a small bridge overlooking the river. The city's lights shimmered on the water, the breeze gentle and perfect.
It was a night carved from dreams—soft, beautiful, ordinary in all the best ways.
They were walking toward the crosswalk near their apartment complex, still laughing about some ridiculous outfit Emily had seen online, when it happened.
The light turned red. Cars slowed.
They stepped off the curb.
And then—
A roar. A flash of movement. Screeching tires. A horn blaring in the distance.
Mark saw it—a truck barreling down the adjacent lane, its driver shouting, arms waving, wheels spinning hopelessly out of control.
Too fast. Too close.
Time seemed to freeze.
Emily had turned her head toward the sound.
Eyes wide.
Mouth parting.
The truck was coming directly for her.
Mark didn't hesitate.
"Emily!"
He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her hard.
She stumbled backward, falling onto the sidewalk with a gasp—just as the truck screamed through the intersection, jumping the curb.
It hit him with a terrible, shattering force.
There was a deafening crack as metal and flesh collided. The sound of breaking glass. A distant voice shouting. A scream—hers.
Mark's body crumpled and rolled, finally hitting the street in a heap, motionless.
Time returned all at once.
Emily scrambled to her feet, scraped hands forgotten. "Mark!"
She rushed to him, her heart hammering in her chest, eyes swimming with tears.
He lay on his side, barely conscious, blood trickling down the side of his face, his chest rising and falling far too slowly.
His phone—shattered. The fencing glove she gave him—torn. The bracelet she'd just looped on him—still intact.
"Hey…" he whispered, his voice cracked and faint. "You okay…?"
"I'm fine," she choked out, gripping his hand. "You're going to be okay too, okay? Mark—stay awake. Please."
He smiled, a weak flicker of love in his green eyes.
"Best… day ever," he murmured.
Then the light in his eyes dimmed.