Viggo stares at me, eyes turning wet. “I’m . . . not your husband, Lu.” “No,” I whisper, fighting my own tears. “But I want you to be.” He exhales roughly, face crumpling. “Lula—” “I love you, Viggo.” I clasp his hand tight, my heart pounding. “I want to believe and dream and hope and build a life with you, from what we already have to even more. I want kids and chaos and joy that always gets the last say, even when sorrow comes. I want that with you, only you. Will you marry me?” He nods frantically, tugging me into his arms, kissing me hard and deep. “God, you have a way with words, Lula.” I
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