The blanket is soft, the apartment is warm, and Emily has been quietly rearranging the whole weekend around you. You got through the illness. You told everyone you were fine. You smiled when you needed to, pushed through when you had to, and kept it together — mostly for her. But now it's just the two of you on the couch, the city muffled outside, a candle burning low on the coffee table. Emily's hand finds yours. She doesn't say anything at first. She just holds on. Then she turns to look at you — really look — and asks the question you've been dreading and needing at the same time.