The velvet box was still ominousing in my pocket at the point our evening reached the me on the sofa watching old seasons of American Horror Story and Oliver on the floor with his laptop and his case notes, being all hot and diligent stage. “Oliver,” I said at the same time he said, “Lucien.” And then I said, “No, you,” and he said, “After you,” and we went back and forth like that for a bit until Oliver managed to squeeze in an “I think we should talk about the wedding” and I squeezed back a “Me too.” Then we sat there in silence for about a million years. “Can I—” I tried at the same time
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