The truck bed creaks as we settle into the blanket I keep in the back seat, a second one draped over our laps. Cold air nips at our cheeks, but I hardly notice. Ivy leans against me, quiet. Still.
And I don’t want to be the one to break the silence, but my chest is so full I don’t know if I can keep it in much longer.
She beats me to it.
“It’s beautiful up here,” she says softly, voice like a prayer in the quiet.
I glance down at her, the faint golden light from thebuzz of downtown Dallas reflecting in her eyes. “Not half as beautiful as what I saw tonight.”
She blushes, but doesn’t look away.
“Ivy…when I saw you…” My voice breaks. I clear my throat and try again. “When I saw your hand raised, I thought my heart might stop.”
“I didn’t mean to look up,” she says, her smile small, almost shy. “I was crying and needed a tissue, and when I did…there you were.”
“And there you were,” I echo, my hand brushing hers. “Choosing Jesus.”
She nods slowly. “I meant it. Every word of that prayer. Every tear. I meant it all.”
I don’t realize how tightly I’ve been gripping the edge of the blanket until I feel my knuckles ache. I release it and reach for her hand instead.
“I’ve never stopped praying for you,” I whisper. “Even when you asked for space. Even when it broke me not to reach out more than I did.”
Her eyes lift to mine, glassy but steady. “I know. I felt it. In the silence. In the stillness. Somehow…I still felt you.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I didn’t know how to stop loving you. And I didn’t want to.”
“You didn’t,” she says quietly. “You just loved me from a distance. And it gave me the room to finally see God for who He is—not just through your eyes, but through mine.”
We fall quiet again, the sounds of the wind rustling in the trees around us.
“I’ve never wanted to get this part wrong,” I admit. “Not with you.”
Ivy leans her head on my shoulder. “So let’s get it right. Together.”
The stars above us are scattered like promises—some already fulfilled, others waiting to be.
Ivy shifts beside me, her voice soft but sure. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
She pulls the blanket a little tighter around us. “Were you really thinking about marriage? Before I asked for space?”
I pause. Not because I don’t know the answer—but because the truth is heavier than I expected.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “I was.”
Her breath catches, and I glance at her. She’s not pulling away. If anything, she’s leaning in.
“I was praying about it. A lot.”
She bites her lip, then looks down. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“I was scared. Not just of faith. But of you.”
That stings, but I wait.
